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“can i ask you a question?”
the prince’s voice breaks the silence of the room, yet thorfinn doesn’t stir from his spot next to the fire where he seems content with studying his blades. he’s still injured from the duel with thorkell, arm slung up, and there’s been something more predatory than usual about him since his latest failed duel with askeladd—yet thorfinn hasn’t left canute’s side a day here in york, and even if he wanders, or sulks, or spends hours at a time beating an old bucket with his blades, at the end of it all, he always comes back.
they ought to be sleeping—both of them. playing the part of the king he’s so desperately trying to become is exhausting; all of the politics and schemes and attempts at besting his father leave canute weary by nightfall, and yet he often finds himself lying awake in his bed of furs, watching thorfinn’s back. thorfinn doesn’t sleep much, either. at first, when thorfinn was given the position of canute’s personal guard, it unnerved him, left him feeling restless and frightened at night as though thorfinn would turn on him at dusk and slit his throat himself.
now, it makes canute curious. he’s propped himself against a mountain of furs, one pulled tightly around his back, as he notes the way thorfinn’s shoulders have yet to untense from the day of viewing the world as his enemy, the way his ragged hair hangs in his eyes to mask whatever emotion they might otherwise betray.
canute can’t see those eyes from here, but if thorfinn is surprised that canute is awake—or trying to start a conversation at a time like this—he doesn’t show it. instead, he makes a grunting noise to show he’s heard canute, and then mutters, “you just asked one.”
“don’t be a smartass,” says canute. thorfinn doesn’t respond. they’ve not had many productive conversations in their time together, although canute would venture to call them something closer to friends then acquaintances. it’s the first time in his entire life that he’s spent any amount of time with someone his own age, despite the differences in their upbringings and interests and general goals in life. but the truth is there’s something exhaustingly intriguing about thorfinn, and canute… well. canute likes him.
with the way thorfinn allows canute to tease him and even, on occasion, returns the sentiment—canute likes to believe thorfinn might reciprocate that feeling. or, in any case, he hopes thorfinn feels comfortable enough around canute to admit that they might yet find common ground.
hence, the question—“what was it like?” canute asks, leaning forward and studying thorfinn’s profile. “growing up with askeladd’s band, i mean?”
now, thorfinn does react; his lips twitch downward in a clear show of displeasure, and his hand stills where it was turning his blade over. canute knows it’s a sensitive subject—any mention of the past ten years of thorfinn’s life, and how it came about, is sure to set thorfinn off with threats at best. even canute knows little of it, only picking up bits and pieces here and there. but he knows enough.
at first, when the silence drags on, canute thinks thorfinn won’t answer. he has yet to press that pretty blade of his against canute’s throat, but it seems he’ll be ignoring the question altogether. and then, when canute is on the verge of pushing a little more, testing the limits that thorfinn has surely adjusted for canute and canute alone, thorfinn says, “i don’t really remember.”
canute’s brows furrow.
“i’ve blocked most of it out,” continues thorfinn, returning to studying his blade. “or perhaps—it’s all blurred together, in the end. it’s been a lot of killing, but never of the right person.”
“i know that much,” says canute. “that’s not what i want to know.”
thorfinn finally looks at him, eyes dark under the ends of his hair. “is this an interrogation?”
“i know you’ve killed many people, thorfinn,” says canute, watching thorfinn curiously. “you can tell me about the blood on your hands and the fires you’ve set and everything you’ve done in pursuit of vengeance, but it sounds like a war story. i didn’t ask about what it was like to be a warrior with askeladd. i asked what it was like to be a child.”
perhaps it’s a trick of the fire reflected in thorfinn’s eyes, but canute sees something shift in his gaze, something… open. they watch each other for a beat, and then two, and then more—the silence stretching on once more. canute has said too much, has pushed too far. he knows this. but he no longer cares for boundaries where he can overrun them. since returning to his father, canute has done nothing but tiptoe, watch his words, careful, careful. even long before, when becoming king was the furthest thing from his mind, canute was all too aware of being careful.
he’s sick of being careful. and he knows if he pushes thorfinn, thorfinn will push right back.
eventually, thorfinn breaks his stare, gaze turning to the fire. he must be exhausted too, canute thinks—both in body and mind. his arm is still broken, not to mention the various new injuries he sustained from his latest duel with askeladd. then there’s the matter of that duel, another failed attempt that canute doesn’t quite understand. but that’s only the beginning of it all. canute knows little of the true struggles and horrors that thorfinn has faced, their lives only intertwining in recent months, but thorfinn has been doing this for ten years. there’s history in those eyes of his, and the scars, and the way his body is poised to attack even now despite never once having pegged canute as a threat to his life.
he’s not sure how he was ever truly afraid of thorfinn. these days, he looks at thorfinn and he just feels… sad.
“hunger,” says thorfinn. his voice is low and rough, but not irritated. “growing up with askeladd’s band always felt like hunger. physically, yes. they never treated me like one of their own, even when i was barely more than a toddler. i ate the scraps they left behind until i learned how to hunt and prepare my own food.” canute never considered it. perhaps that’s why he’s so protective over his own food, and why he’s always stared at canute’s offer to share as though he doesn’t understand the meaning of the word.
“but more than that,” continues thorfinn, and it’s probably the most he’s ever said to canute at one time—“hunger in another sense. i hunger for vengeance, for my father. i hunger for answers, for truth. but no matter how much i eat my fill, that hunger never goes away. no matter how many people i kill, how many times i duel askeladd, how many steps closer i get to ending this—i only hunger more.”
“will that hunger cease if you finally kill askeladd?”
thorfinn’s mouth twitches again, and canute realizes he hasn’t considered it. he’s considered nothing of what his life will be like after his mission is finally complete, after he finally avenges his father. canute considers this, and then chooses to ask another question instead: “you never had any other children around, did you?”
“i thought you said one question.”
“i made no such indication.”
thorfinn’s eyes snap toward his, irritation now visible in them. something about that look, one so often directed toward canute when he decides to tease, brings a grin to canute’s face. “answer it, won’t you?”
“why should i?” sighs thorfinn, finally lowering his blade and turning toward canute fully. he does look exhausted, but as tense as ever. “why do you even care? i’m here to keep someone from trying to assassinate you again, not to make friends.”
“too late, thorfinn. we’re already friends.”
thorfinn’s glower is nothing short of hilariously expected, and the familiar sight makes canute laugh. “we are not friends, princess,” scowls thorfinn.
“the pet name suggests otherwise.”
“it’s meant to be an insult—”
“you’re the only one who uses it anymore, you know.” canute tilts his head, noting the slight redness to thorfinn’s cheeks that may well be from sitting so close to the fire for this long—“the rest of them have acknowledged my capacity to be king.”
“the rest of them don’t spend an inordinate amount of time having to suffer through these kinds of unbearable conversations with you,” mutters thorfinn, but he doesn’t seem as annoyed as he ought to. if he really wanted, he could get out of his conversation—could simply leave, out into the bitter cold, could just not answer. the fact that he’s choosing to engage canute in any sort of conversation, even one of banter, tells canute all he needs to know.
so canute reaches over and pats the end of his bed, where he knows thorfinn likes to sit in the dead of night when he can’t sleep but he thinks canute is—”so, did you? have other children around?”
thorfinn seems to consider the implications of answering, and then finally gives in. he pushes himself up with only a slight wince from the pain to his injuries, and then sits on the opposite side of the bed from where canute was patting, just to spite him. canute rolls his eyes almost fondly, but at least thorfinn is closer. he picks at his sleeve as he says, “you already know the answer to that. obviously not.”
“so it was all just men.”
“obviously.”
“and you never had the chance to do things a child should, like make friends and learn of the world at your own pace and fumble through life’s firsts as any normal boy ought to?”
“where is this going, princess?” thorfinn asks. “you already know.”
“i’ve just been thinking,” canute finally hums, propping his elbow upon his knee and resting his cheek on his palm as he studies thorfinn. “we’re not so different, you and i.”
thorfinn meets his gaze head-on, surprise evident in his eyes. it’s quickly replaced by that same irritation, however. “don’t insult me,” he says. “you’re a prince. pampered and spoiled and given everything you want without needing to lift a finger. didn’t you hear me say i had to eat scraps as a six-year-old?”
“not that,” canute sighs. “although i can’t deny the pampered bit… i mean the other part.”
“what part?”
“the hunger.” thorfinn’s eyes narrow. “the hunger for something more and never feeling satisfied no matter how much you eat. the unconventional bit—the being forced to grow up too soon bit, the surrounded by people without your best interest in mind bit.”
still, thorfinn bristles. “it’s different.”
“of course it’s different. i’ve never killed someone. ragnar—” canute stills at the very thought of him. “ragnar gave me everything i could want and then some. but ragnar wasn’t my father. and even as he tried to give me some semblance of a normal childhood, it didn’t matter. i was still a prince. and all around me—death, blood, men gnashing their teeth while they hungered for something they would never get their fill of. how many boys do you think have lived for seventeen summers and have yet to even kiss someone?”
thorfinn visibly tenses at that, opening his mouth to argue, but canute pushes on, adrenaline beginning to fill his veins. “yet i’ve seen men rise and fall before me, and war, and innocent people slaughtered for little more than a bed to rest in at night. so many envy me for my rank and title, and i don’t blame them, but when i close my eyes at night, do you think i dream of jewels and love and happiness?”
he’s clutching at the furs over his lap now, knuckles white with the pressure, and thorfinn is staring at him, unable to hide the shock at his strange outburst. when thorfinn doesn’t respond, canute takes a deep breath to calm the racing of his heart, and then adds, “neither of us had real childhoods. i can never compare myself to you, thorfinn—not in your struggles or losing your father so young or anything you’ve done to avenge him. but i think of you out there on a ship built for men that thirst for blood, small and young and alone, and i see myself in the midst of this war, passed from hand to hand as nothing more than a pawn with which to sway the king.”
he sees thorfinn’s throat bob as he swallows, and for a time, only the crackling of the fire and canute’s heavy breathing fill the space between them. and then thorfinn whispers, leaning toward him, “we’re not the same.”
“this whole time, askeladd has only been using you.”
“we’re not the same.”
“you’ve been surrounded by so many people this entire time, but never once have they understood you or wanted what’s best for you or—or loved you.”
“we’re not the same—”
“but thorfinn,” whispers canute, “aren’t you lonely?”
canute has spent much of his life pondering over that word—loneliness. he’s wondered what it means to feel alone in a crowded room, to feel unseen and unheard despite factions of people claiming they want him to lead them. he’s wondered about the things ragnar tried to provide him with—and the things he failed to, like someone to call a true friend, or someone to take his hand through the darkest of nights, or perhaps even—someone to love the way they do in the fairy tales.
of course, this isn’t a fairy tale. this is canute’s life, and it is filled with blood and death and war and men who reach for him with grimy hands that want to take only for themselves. but for years, he prayed to god for someone to make him feel like any of this is worth it. for years, he prayed for someone to calm the ache deep within him, the burden of loneliness that has long weighed on his fragile bones and left him feeling more like a chasm than a person.
when he was a young boy, someone told him to be king is to be alone, is to obey the crown and the crown only, to do all he can for his subjects yet always come away feeling a little emptier at the end of it all—when he removes the crown from his proud head, sheds the royal garments meant to display his regality, and returns to a bedchamber void of every last voice praising his name.
canute has been lonely for so much of his life. and the only thing he can truly fathom moving forward—whether he is to become king or not—is the promise of that loneliness. his closest companion, his most trusted confidante.
and yet—here he is. here thorfinn is, less a human, more a knife. less a boy, more a lightning strike waiting to happen, but canute has decided to stand out in the storm with his arms reaching toward the sky, because among the evergreen scars, he might just find what it means to feel at home—
thorfinn is on him in an instant, hardly a breath of silence before canute finds himself shoved back against the bed with a forearm digging into his throat. thorfinn looms over him, breathing heavily; his ribs expand and contract against canute’s own chest, their faces mere inches apart, and despite the sudden and threatening movement, canute is only keenly aware of the fact that thorfinn is straddling him now, and canute isn’t altogether overly clothed beneath the furs.
still. he trembles as thorfinn presses his arm into canute’s throat a little harder, just enough to make it difficult to catch his breath. but—it’s not a knife. not yet.
“don’t act like you know the first thing about me, you spoiled brat,” hisses thorfinn, but his expression betrays just how affected he is by canute’s words. “i told you we’re not the same.”
canute forces his breathing to even out, choosing not to be afraid of thorfinn in this moment. instead, he reaches up and fists his hand in thorfinn’s loose shirt, tugging him even closer. “did you ever wish askeladd would love you the way your father did?”
“don’t ever mention his name in the same sentence as my father,” thorfinn all but snarls.
“did you ever wish for anyone to love you the way your father did? i can see it in your eyes, thorfinn.” canute’s breath rattles in his lungs as he reaches up gingerly, pale hand hesitating an inch from thorfinn’s cheek. but when thorfinn doesn’t bat him away, canute takes his chances, letting his hand come to rest against thorfinn’s warm, battle-hewn skin. “you pretend not to care about anything but killing askeladd, but i can see it. you yearn for the same things i do.”
“you know nothing,” whispers thorfinn, but his voice has lost some of its bite, and he allows canute to trace his thumb over his sharp cheekbone. “you speak of love as if it has any place in this world. don’t you see what it’s like out there, princess? men who choose this path have no right to dream of such trivial things.”
“perhaps,” says canute. “but you didn’t exactly choose this, did you?” he exhales slowly, and then sits up, surprised to find thorfinn is no longer pressing into him so hard. instead, thorfinn moves with him. “don’t you ever wonder what your life could have been like, had you not ended up with askeladd? don’t you ever wonder what it might have been like to have someone, anyone, who could understand you and love you and look at you without seeing a weapon?”
“what does it matter?” asks thorfinn. “what does it fucking matter? i didn’t have that. and i don’t wish for it, either. what’s the point in dwelling on what-ifs if they’re only going to hurt me?”
canute almost grins, letting his hand trace thorfinn’s eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, his cupid’s bow. he can feel thorfinn’s warm breath on his hand, still too heavy for him to have relaxed. “i suppose you have a point,” he says. “i don’t dwell on it either. the future king has no time to wish for silly things like companionship.”
there’s an unspoken but in the sentence, and thorfinn’s eyes narrow as canute’s thumb comes to rest against his bottom lip. “you know,” says canute shortly, watching thorfinn’s mouth rather than his eyes. “you’re the first person i’ve ever met who makes me feel like maybe i don’t have to be so lonely all the fucking time.”
he swears thorfinn’s breath hitches, but then he pushes his arm into canute’s throat again, like a reminder that he still has the upper hand. “i could kill you right now, you know.”
“go ahead,” says canute. “what more could i expect from a boy who’s held nothing but weapons for ten years? you wouldn’t know a tender thing if it stabbed you in the face.”
thorfinn narrow his eyes, finally grabbing canute’s hand with his injured one to pull it away. “you don’t make me feel any less lonely,” he says.
canute closes his eyes. “okay.”
“it’s not love.”
“i didn’t say it was.”
but—but. he thinks perhaps it could be. he thinks perhaps it has the potential to be, if they spend any more nights like this, pretending at what it means to be men in the midst of war. if he trudges though the snow to look for thorfinn hiding in the trees one more time, if he offers his food and thorfinn accepts one more time, if he dares to think of this room as a momentary escape from what’s to come one more time—it could be.
it could be love.
with his eyes closed, canute can’t be sure. but he feels thorfinn shift, feels the weight of this livewire being come closer. he feels warm breath against his face, like thorfinn is taking his time to study each and every pale eyelash on canute’s pretty face—and then thorfinn makes a strangled sound, like he’s lost some argument with himself, and the weight is gone.
canute keeps his eyes closed even as he hears the door open and close, and a gust of chilly winter air disturbs the peace of his lodgings. he keeps his eyes closed long after thorfinn is gone, and only once he’s sure that thorfinn isn’t coming back, he lets himself tremble. with fear, perhaps—or want, or some unnamed thing that only thorfinn is able to stir up within him.
when canute finally does open his eyes, long minutes later, he can still see the imprint of thorfinn’s body on the furs covering him. canute throws them off even if it can’t erase the lingering touch of thorfinn’s weight on him, the phantom feeling of his arm digging into canute’s throat.
it’s not love, thorfinn had said. maybe so—but for the first time in seventeen years, canute wonders not about loneliness, but its opposite.
/
later, once canute has succumbed to the alure of sleep and nestled deep within his furs, he’s pulled back from his subconscious by first the dip of the bed next to his body, the weight distinctly human—and then the tender touch of fingers against his hair, drawing it away from his eyes. at first, when canute wakes enough to understand, he keeps his eyes closed, feeling as though something will be broken should he open them now and admit that he’s aware at all.
this feels—otherwordly. feels like it can only exist here, in the waning hours of dawn, a time and place that exists neither here nor there. he fears the consequences should he voice his own thoughts.
but then the weight shifts again, and an arm brushes against his chest, and rough fingers touch his mouth the way he touched another just hours ago. one snags on his bottom lip, tugging it down just slightly. canute’s very breath trembles in his lungs, both terrified and entirely expectant of what’s to come, and then a quiet voice says, “yes.”
canute opens his eyes, gaze meeting thorfinn’s in the shadows of the room.
“what?” he asks, voice barely more than a breath.
“i didn’t answer your questions,” says thorfinn. “but they’re all yes.”
canute can hardly remember everything he threw at thorfinn in their argument, only that thorfinn’s return means more than any answer he could give. it’s not the first time they’ve argued, and it won’t be the last. but it’s the only time thorfinn has ever come back after storming away in a childish petulance.
it isn’t love, he’d said. and no, it isn’t. but for the first time, canute wonders if thorfinn hopes it could be.
rather than reply or dig for further answers, canute just shifts over on the bed, lifting the furs in a clear invitation that thorfinn takes after a brief hesitation. it feels like crossing a divide, like stepping over an aching chasm that oughtn’t be breached—but canute has made many ill-advised decisions in the eyes of others since this war started. what’s one more? what’s one more that might, for once, not be for the sake of politics or his country or winning a war, but instead—simply—the happiness of a boy on the verge of becoming a man with hands so bloodied that he could drown in it?
or perhaps, even, if canute could tear to hope in a world that has forgotten the meaning of the word—the happiness of a boy who became that bloodstained warrior ten years ago?
despite neither of them having a proclivity for sharing beds with another, there’s little tension as thorfinn settles next to him, their bodies pressed limb to limb. it’s the cold. perhaps, as canute feels himself relax against a warm body for the first time in a very long time, it’s the loneliness. it’s thorfinn’s arm winding its way around canute’s middle, keeping him snug; it’s thorfinn’s forehead gently resting against the back of his neck, his breath tickling the fine hairs on canute’s skin.
mentally, canute amends an earlier statement; perhaps thorfinn does know a thing or two about tenderness.
when they settle, they stay that way for so long that canute begins to think thorfinn has fallen asleep. even canute feels boneless now, their bodies molding together. then, that same rough, quiet voice: “i’ve forgotten what their voices sound like.” thorfinn presses his forehead into canute’s skin a little harder, like he’s trying to burrow under and build a home there. “i’ve begun to forget what their faces look like. my family—my father. i’ve been with askeladd for almost twice as long as i was ever with him, and i abhor the very idea that i was raised in any part by that man, but—” he hesitates, fingers pressing into canute’s skin.
gingerly, canute finishes for him: “but you can’t help it. you’re human.”
“i don’t know what loneliness is,” says thorfinn, “or how to distinguish it from any other dark feeling i have—anger, resentment, hate. they all feel the same to me these days. what’s one more thrown in there? but i left you here. and even though i was angry at you, all i wanted was to do in the end was come back. and i think that’s close enough.”
ah. there it is.
gingerly, canute slides his hand over thorfinn’s where it rests against his middle, not quite threading their fingers together. “okay,” he breathes. what else is there to say? it’s the first time he’s ever seen thorfinn allow himself to be vulnerable, and now canute holds such a fragile thing as thorfinn’s broken, battered heart in the palms of his hands.
“so i suppose…” thorfinn trails off, huffing out a breath against canute’s back. “i suppose it’s the same for me. about you… making me feel like i don’t have to be lonely.”
canute swallows tightly, throat constricting with an unnameable emotion.
and then—“but we’re still not the same.”
“asshole,” canute says, but his lips quirk upward. “you’ve just said as much yourself.”
“you’re still a prince,” says thorfinn, “and i’m still a weapon.”
“but we’re neither of those things right now.” canute closes his eyes again, pressing back into the warmth of thorfinn’s steadfast body. “right now, we’re just… two boys. lonely, broken, missing something so vital that we daren’t be called human at all.”
thorfinn makes a noise that could be mistaken for a laugh. “it almost sounds like you’re trying to be romantic.”
“no, this is nothing like that.”
“then what is it?”
canute considers it. it’s not as though their positions or personalities mesh very well; there’s no reason other than circumstance for them to be close at all. canute is acutely aware of this. he is all too aware that if any other similarly aged boy had been in askeladd’s band and forced to guard the prince, canute would find solace in him instead. and if any other similarly aged boy had been placed under thorfinn’s watch and care, thorfinn would come back to him instead. canute knows this. canute knows this isn’t fate, and it isn’t destined by god, and it isn’t even some happy accident that has brought them together.
they are using each other, just as askeladd has used thorfinn and countless political leaders have used canute. but it feels different, and it feels better, and canute—
canute is so goddamn sick of being alone.
so he doesn’t say anything. he doesn’t dissect the disgusting truth behind any of this, just as he knows thorfinn won’t. even if it only allows them some momentarily relief from the aching loneliness of their childhoods and now even their adulthoods, canute won’t say a fucking thing, and neither will thorfinn.
and like this—
like this, he can almost pretend he doesn’t mind this life at all.
“i’m tired,” says canute rather than answering, knowing that thorfinn will let it go—because talking about anything dangerously close to feelings is low on his list of tolerances with canute, and the truth is that he doesn’t think he could give an answer that would satisfy either of them, anyway. perhaps there are no words for it. perhaps he just wants thorfinn to hold him like this, to feel a little less lonely and pretend there’s nothing more and nothing less to it.
as expected, thorfinn doesn’t push. instead, he mutters, “then go to sleep, brat.”
“don’t let anyone kill me in my sleep.”
“if anyone tries it, it’ll be me.”
canute snorts with laughter at the very idea—because thorfinn called himself a weapon but these small moments together have shown otherwise, and the truth is that canute does trust thorfinn with his life despite the scowls and arguments and threats. he could only fall asleep if he trusted thorfinn, if he felt safe and warm and almost cared for—more so than he has for a long time, at least.
it’s not love. it’s not even comfort, or joy, or compassion. there’s no name for it, really—this thing that overtakes them both as they fall into silence and then into a world of sleep and dreams pressed limb to limb and sharing the same air.
to canute, it feels like the opposite of loneliness. and he thinks that’s close enough.