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The little fisherman's village had been completely unprepared.
Their fate had been sealed the minute the first Norseman spotted their village on the horizon. Even their last-ditch attempt, fought with sweat and blood and desperation, wasn't enough to turn the tides. Their pitchforks didn't stand a chance against the overwhelming might of the attackers.
Now all that was left of the village were smouldering ruins, the charred remains rising into the evening sky like dark skeletons. Even hours after the last fire had expired, the dim embers bathed the whole village in their glow.
A nameless, insignificant spot somewhere in the middle of nowhere, wiped off the maps as if it meant nothing. Another victim of the Danes, decorating the coastline of England like countless others.
Even here at the other side of the village, Askeladd could still hear the commotion his men were causing. Roaring laughter. Boisterous shouts. They blended together to create a cacophony of voices. The Vikings celebrated their successful raid like there was no tomorrow. What they had plundered in the few intact buildings around the village square now served to enrich their feast.
And just like so many times before, Askeladd didn't feel like he wanted to be among them. He never did, if he was truly honest with himself for a second. Their presence alone repulsed him to the core. With the number of times he had excused himself from these kinds of festivities to enjoy his solitude, you'd think they'd become suspicious of his true feelings over the years.
But of course they didn't. They were nothing but mindless barbarians who only cared about the simplest pleasures – be it in battle, with a beer in hand or in bed.
Not that he really cared.
Something drove him further and further away from the village square, away from his men and their merry-making. The moon had risen some time ago and now stood high in the sky. It provided enough light to illuminate the path before him.
He reached a small alley, but it was blocked by the remains of a burnt house. The building hadn't been able to withstand the fire and had partially collapsed under its own weight.
Instead of turning back, Askeladd stepped over the rubble and ashes, catching a glimpse of the inside of the house for a brief moment. What he discovered were the charred corpses of several villagers who had failed to escape from the house in time.
His men were barbarians no doubt. But well, it was not like he was any better.
Before Askeladd knew it, he had reached the outskirts of the little village.
He uncorked the wine jar he had brought along and took a sip. The taste of alcohol was strong and heavy on his tongue. As he stood there drinking, he took a moment to take in the scenery in front of him. The peaceful view of the river, meandering its way through the landscape, clashed with the smell of ashes and death that the wind carried forth.
It was so quiet here – the ruckus his men made was a faraway noise, faint, only perceptible if he held his breath and listened closely.
The struggle of life and death that took place mere hours ago seemed already forgotten.
Askeladd drank up the rest of his wine and tucked the bottle back into his bag, when suddenly something in the corner of his eye caught his attention.
It was a small body, bruised and battered, lying face first in the grass. Now, that in itself was nothing unusual, there were often corpses scattered around everywhere after a raid. The thing was... Askeladd knew this one. That blond mop of hair was all too familiar to him.
“You already dead, Thorfinn?” he asked into the night and was only met with silence.
He approached the boy and carefully nudged his body with the tip of his foot.
The child still didn't move.
Askeladd stared down at him.
Thorfinn had travelled with him and his band for three years now, but even so, the boy was not part of them. He didn't belong to them. He didn't want to.
He tolerated their presence – and that barely – to get his chance to kill Askeladd and avenge his father. He had quickly learnt to adapt to the battlefield and steeled his heart against the world. He had to if he didn't want to perish. There was no mercy in war, not even for children like him.
All that misguided effort and it might've been in vain.
Askeladd cursed under his breath. Before he continued to stand around like a fool, he decided that the wisest decision was to kneel down next to the boy to check on him. But just before he could touch Thorfinn, he hesitated. His hands hovered uselessly over his body for a long, indecisive moment.
What was he doing? Was sentimentally catching up to him? Why did he care about what happened to the little shit?
He remained motionless for an uncomfortably long moment before he finally pulled himself together and rolled Thorfinn onto his back.
This means absolutely nothing, was what he eventually decided on.
The first thing he saw was that Thorfinn's face was stained with blood.
An uneasy feeling – one only vaguely familiar to him, as if he had last felt it a lifetime ago - spread through him like poison and gnawed at his insides.
Shit.
He quickly brushed Thorfinn's hair aside, and when he touched his forehead, the boy let out a weak gasp.
Askeladd paused.
Thorfinn's chest rose and fell with faint breaths. It was so shallow that he hadn't noticed it at first. The fact that it was in the middle of the night didn't help either.
The blood on the boy's face turned out to come from a shallow cut on his forehead. Really, it looked worse than it actually was. Facial wounds tended to bleed like a bitch. And since Askeladd couldn't find any other, more severe injuries... it must've been pure exhaustion that knocked the little boy off his feet.
It was no surprise. Thorfinn was what? Eight years old? Nine maybe? He hadn't gained the stamina to keep up with grown men yet.
Only now did Askeladd notice that Thorfinn was clutching one of his daggers in his hand. The boy hadn't let go even after losing consciousness.
He found the other one still stuck in the throat of one of the villagers. Askeladd quickly stashed them both in his pocket.
Persistent little brat, I'll give him that.
Askeladd looked around. There was no sign of any of his men. He was no Ear, but he was perceptive enough to hear if someone tried to approach him from afar. As far as he could tell, his band was still merrily celebrating at the village square.
And the corpses scattered around couldn't tell on him any longer.
He turned back to Thorfinn.
“I shouldn't just leave him lying here, I suppose. Would be a waste after everything he's learnt already.”
The fact that he did sound more like he wanted to convince himself didn't escape him, but he swiftly brushed the thought aside.
Before this tiny... something inside of him that miraculously resembled a conscience could make him falter again, Askeladd picked the boy up into his arms as gently and carefully as he could.
Wouldn't want to wake him up now, would he? Thorfinn would probably try and bite his hands off. Or claw his eyes out alternatively. Whatever he'd do, it wouldn't be pleasant, that much was certain.
Though seeing that brat's face when he'd realise that his greatest enemy was carrying him in his arms would be pretty amusing.
For better or worse, Thorfinn didn't wake up. He only mumbled something in his sleep when he was lifted up, but whatever it was, it was completely unintelligible to Askeladd.
The best place for the boy would probably be the longships. His father's ship was the place he commonly escaped to whenever he was in a broody mood and wanted to be left alone. He thought he was sneaky about it, but Askeladd had seen through him long ago.
So, the ships it was. They were moored at the other end of the village at the mouth of the river, and Askeladd was fortunate enough that no clouds blocked out the moon, or he would've stumbled around in pitch-black darkness like an idiot.
He took a quick glance at Thorfinn, who was huddled in his arms.
In all the years the boy had been with them, Askeladd had never seen him sleep so peacefully. Even when he slept he retained that pissed-off scowl of his, looking just as irritated asleep when he was awake. But now no angry furrow creased his brows, his expression was perfectly calm.
He must've been really exhausted then.
***
No one was guarding the ships. It was supposed to be Atli's shift, but judging by the empty beer keg and the footsteps in the sand leading towards the village, the man had decided that joining the festivities was his utmost priority.
Askeladd would have a word with him tomorrow, that much was certain. But right now Atli's carelessness was convenient enough for him.
With nimble feet, he stepped onto the ship and headed towards the stern - Thorfinn's favourite spot, as far away from the prow (and thus Askeladd) as possible.
He made sure to lay Thorfinn down as carefully as possible in order to not wake him up. Then he grabbed a nearby piece of cloth and wiped the blood from the boy's face. It was still dirty, but better than nothing at least. He took the boy's daggers out of his bag and placed them within Thorfinn's reach.
After that, he sat down next to the boy, leaned against the ship's railing, and took in a long breath.
The only thing he heard was the crashing of the waves and Thorfinn's steady, even breaths beside him.
It felt like he had only sat there for a moment, but the next time he opened his eyes, the first rays of sunlight already crept over the horizon. He must've nodded off without noticing.
Thorfinn fortunately was still asleep himself. He was getting restless now however, as he rolled over to his side and mumbled something in his sleep. He'd surely wake up soon, and for Askeladd this was the cue to leave. He didn't want the boy to know that he had kept him company. That was a secret he didn't intend to share.
Before he left for good to return to the village square, he took one last look at the sleeping boy.
Askeladd let out a tired sigh.
“Just... what am I gonna do with you, Thorfinn?”
