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Thorfinn closes his eyes. He curls in on himself, clenching his jaw tightly as Canute’s hands grip his hair and comb through the greasy strands. His body shivers in the water, no longer warm like it had been at the start of the bath. Canute’s mouth is a straight, thin line, occasionally twitching as he cleans Thorfinn.
“You’re disgusted,” Thorfinn points out, his voice low. The bath water has just gotten more murky and brown. Canute has avoided his gaze. He knows he doesn’t like looking at the filth that is Thorfinn. The dirt under his nails. The grime cakes so deeply into his skin that trying to remove it begins to draw blood. The dryness of his lips and the blemishes on his face. Thorfinn is dirty. Thorfinn is ugly. He doesn’t like looking at himself either. He’s glad he can no longer see his reflection.
“That’s not true,” Canute replies, but his actions say all they need. His hands aren’t soft as he sponges Thorfinn. His now small smile is forced.
“Why do you care?”
Canute continues to switch between scrubbing Thorfinn’s body and combing his hair. He’s in a simple tunic. It looks well worn. He probably doesn’t care about it getting dirty. “ Would God not care for one of his children?”
Thorfinn is not a child of God. He’s never going to pretend to be, either. “Would God care if I died?”
Canute pauses, the comb stuck in a tangle. “What do you mean?”
“If I died, would God cry?”
Canute goes back to combing his hair, practically ripping at the tangle. “No.”
“If I died—“
“Death doesn’t matter, Thorfinn. It’s about how you’ve lived your life. Besides, once you die you’re finally able to join God in his kingdom.”
Thorfinn snaps his jaw shut. It’s easy for Canute to say that. To claim that you just have to live well when that’s all he’s done his entire life. Thorfinn does not sleep well. He doesn’t eat well. He consumes scraps like a dog and guards Canute’s bedroom like a hound. He’s killed and he’ll kill again—God knows—and the worst part? What’s he supposed to do about it?
“I’ve lived it horribly,” he says. “I’m ugly.”
“God loves you despite.”
“But I am still ugly.” He still can’t face his reflection. He can’t bring himself to sleep long hours. He can’t stand having a dream of his father. What would he say now? Could someone like his father even clean him at this point? Is he too far gone?
“I’m cleaning you. You won’t always be dirty. One day you’ll be beautiful.”
There’s no way Canute believes such a statement. He knows Thorfinn. He knows there’s not a spot of his skin not either caked with dirt, blood, or pimples. He knows that Thorfinn is rancid. If he were to be perfectly honest with both Thorfinn and himself, he would pinch his nose and close his eyes at the sight of him.
“If I were an animal,” Canute asks, ignoring the silence, “which one do you think I would be?”
His face comes into view for Thorfinn as he grabs his chin, tilting his head and scrubbing at his neck. His features are soft, his eyes pure blue. His hair is silky and shiny, no possibility of flakes or globs on his scalp. His skin is clear. His lips are soft and wet, clearly not chapped like Thorfinn’s.
“A dove,” Thorfinn answers honestly. “Or maybe a swan.” Something larger than life. Graceful and beautiful. Everything Thorfinn isn’t.
“You think so?” Canute asks, a small smile playing on his lips.
Thorfinn’s eyes crease.
“You would be a..hm.”
Thorfinn waits for Canute’s answer. He already knows what it is. He would be a hound dog. Thin and starving. Biting the hand that feeds him.
“A fox.”
Thorfinn’s thoughts pause in confusion.
“Yes, that suits you quite well. You’re a fox!” Canute laughs, now pointing at Thorfinn’s face. “Your eyes, Thorfinn. They’re just like a fox’s!”
Thorfinn blinks, shaking his head.
“Yes, I’m right. You’re a fox. Look at how they crease—like a fox hunting its prey. Plus, you’re nimble like one too!”
Thorfinn tries to look at his eyes in the reflection of the bath water, but it’s grown too murky.
“Do you really not see it, Thorfinn? I thought I hit the nail on the head with that one..”
“Are we done here?”
Canute sets down his cloth in disappointment. “Yes, I guess this is the best we can do for now. Though there’s something I want to do now.”
Thorfinn sighs, accepting the new task. He shivers as he steps out of the tub, locking his jaw as Canute begins to dry him off. It reminds him of a far off memory. Maybe his mom. He doesn’t fully remember her face, but as Canute roughly drags the towel over him, Thorfinn can almost unfocus and believe that the man helping him is his mother.
“Come on,” Canute says, now just patting Thorfinn’s hair dry. He leads him out the door, walking outside. Thorfinn sniffles, the cold air making his wet hair feel even heavier.
Canute weaves through a few different pathways ‘til they’re by a field. He sits down in the grass, patting beside him. Thorfinn stares at him for a moment before following the order, sitting down.
“What do you want?” Thorfinn asks, wrapping his hand around his knees.
Canute doesn’t respond for a moment, glancing around the field. Thorfinn’s getting sick of him and how perfect he always has to look.
“I just wanted to go outside,” he decides, turning away. “It’s nice outside.”
Canute can feel Thorfinn’s gaze on him, intense as always. He glances back at him. “Don’t you agree?”
He sighs after a moment, realizing that he’ll only get an answer if he looks at Thorfinn. When he turns, Thorfinn is still, as always, staring. His soggy hair sticks to his skull, and his eyes are framed with deep bags. Canute notices a clump of dead skin he forgot to pick out of Thorfinn’s hair.
“Stay still,” he says, feeling a light breeze hit the both of them. He reaches his hand out to Thorfinn, ignoring as he flinches and picking the clump out. “That’s better.”
Thorfinn’s gaze lowers, making Canute belatedly realize that he’s embarrassed him.
“I don’t mean to make a fool of you. I’m only trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help for anything.”
Canute cocks his head. “I don’t get you.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
Thorfinn turns away, resting his head on his knees.