Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

A sharp and unpleasant sound rings through the air as metal scrapes across metal, making Thorfinn wince as his second dagger lands with a soft plop in the shallow snow. Askeladd has his sword to the younger's neck in a fluid movement that happens before he can look away from his fallen seax. Thorfinn turns to glare at him and tries not to scowl upon seeing the bored look on his face.

"Why do you keep doing this?" Askeladd mumbles in a flat tone, and twitches the long blade just slightly closer to Thorfinn's face. Then, louder, "Why do I keep doing this? I should just kill you right now."

He twists his sword slowly with a sarcastic smirk and runs his gaze over the boy as if seriously considering it. Thorfinn knows he won't, he's too useful — but his body chooses to betray him again by breaking eye contact first, his gaze landing down by his hands.

The hel is wrong with me today? He is sweaty, unusually so. Surely it had to be the reason his hand slipped. He notices his hand shaking just slightly, and glares at it like it might stop if he willed it hard enough.

Askeladd gives an annoyed huff and sheathes his weapon. "You're lucky I'm hungry, kid. Sheesh, talk about a disappointment. All that talk earlier when you brought the Frank general's head — just empty words, huh?"

Thorfinn can do nothing but pant and hold his glare until he can stand. His breathlessness worries him a bit; he hopes he hasn't fallen ill with something from the cold weather. It was a bad sign to see snowfall this far south already, and getting sick was something he would not tolerate from his body — but he's been through worse.

The men spectating begin to disperse and he picks up his daggers, already far too sore for such a short duel. The outcome of this fight left him feeling devastated, he had worked so hard to earn that chance… But it’s fine. There will be more. That bastard has no choice; he will die by his hands.

As Thorfinn walks back to the sleeping spot he picked earlier, he wonders what Askeladd would do if he was too sick to participate in the raid the day after next. The last — and only — time Thorfinn had been ill with coughs, the asshole had laughed at him when he slept in too late and struggled to catch up. He's fairly certain Bjorn had even given him medicine that time of his own accord, and his face wrinkles at the memory.

Thankfully, the falling snow doesn't reach their heads under the protection of the vast amount of tree branches, naked though they are. He steps over a large root, approaching his spot hastily set up against a thick trunk earlier, and briefly considers finding the sizable man to ask for a medicine herb of some sort. Thorfinn takes a shaky breath in as he crawls inside the tarp–covered space and settles on his little hay pile, then curses inwardly. I wouldn't even know what to ask for. His ankle hurts from earlier, but that makes sense seeing as it was directly stepped on by a certain balding jackass. What does not make sense is the rest of his body that aches so badly for no apparent reason.

Thorfinn is dizzy, had been during the duel too, and even worse — he's still sweating far too much for a winter night. There is no chance he's getting up to find Bjorn now, and he settles for just assuring himself that he’ll feel better after some rest in his makeshift tent. He can't help but feel like he’s fooling himself; but still, the heavy waves of sleep drag him under in just a few deep and unsteady breaths.

The night passes miserably. Thorfinn wakes up multiple times before morning — each time he wills with everything he has to extinguish the illness from his body — until he slips into unconsciousness again. When he joins behind the band in their next day of marching with the boats, his legs scream in agony.

Thorfinn pulls his hood further over his face; to anyone looking, it should only appear as if he’s bitter about his lost duel, or simply cold. Sadly, this is not the case; he knows better. Unfortunately for him, he’s definitely feeling awful. Perhaps it's some stupid sickness, something he's not familiar with, and it's gone from a simple worry to scaring him. It's been a full day and a half since that pathetic duel with Askeladd, and he only feels worse.

He thinks again about finding Bjorn, but finds even that task too daunting and instead just continues to put one foot in front of the other as the group makes its way on through the forest and toward a village they are due to destroy. He sighs, the shakiness of it pissing him off. Maybe he could get away with just killing one family and resting in their home until the whole thing blows over. It'll be a pain in the ass, but he will just have to power through like he always does.

This will blow over soon.

It does not blow over soon. Thorfinn resorts to falling further behind the last wagon and out of sight before pulling his thick jacket off, freeing his sweat–slick shoulders. Trying not to panic, he holds back a gag as he leans against a nearby tree and stares at the muddy ground below, vision blurring.

Had he been poisoned? The last meat he ate had been shared among the men, so it couldn't be, right? Moments later, he was emptying his stomach right where he stood. With dizzying panic, Thorfinn makes his way up into the branches with his remaining strength and finds a safe spot to rest above the dying grass below. His insides are twisting, and it's all he can do not to scream in pain. What did I eat to deserve this?

It takes until the moment before he passes out before Thorfinn remembers that, no, Bjorn would have known if anything were poisonous. This… is something else.

Askeladd scans the camp as he walks through it with his right–hand man. They're discussing final preparations before they charge into the village in a few short hours, but he is also searching for a mop of messy blond hair on a body twice as small as any other warrior here.

He doesn't have anything particularly useful to task Thorfinn with in this raid, so he wants the youth to stay near the wagons along with the other two men standing guard.

Especially since this is a small Frank settlement, and simply a coincidence that they happened upon it on their journey back to the North Sea. Askeladd has no need for a special mercenary or anything of the like for this, so he may as well instruct him to sit this one out. If the kid thinks he has been successfully hiding his poor health over the last few days, then he’s as wrong as he always is.

After a few minutes, he and Bjorn have made their way past the edge of camp and into the darkening forest. A welcoming quiet — the eagerness of so many vikings, mostly alphas, gearing for battle, is not a calm one. Oh well. He can do what he wants. Askeladd nods to the small pouch that sits on his friend's hips.

"Are you still going to try and find some more of those toadstools before we strike? I really don't think you'll be needing them for this raid, it's a rather small village."

"Ah..." Bjorn pulls open his leather bag and shows him the single remaining red and white mushroom within. "It's not for tonight. Forests with these types of trees are a decent place to forage for these, and I've had annoying luck this autumn with locating very many."

Dark hair sways over Bjorn's eyes when he turns to his left suddenly, toward something he must have found in the undergrowth. Askeladd has no clue how the hel Bjorn spots his various herbs and plants so well, but he recognizes the look on the other man's face when he's found something of interest.

The captain walks off, "Well, you have fun with that, I'm going to hunt myself a rabbit or something."

Bjorn snorts as they part ways.

Askeladd had caught a rabbit quite easily and already has it mostly cooked by the time his vice–captain walks back to their camp an hour or so later. Bjorn makes his way to the campfire where the meat is being roasted by their leader, and glances at him with an oddly concerned look before sitting down to warm his hands. A moment passes before Askeladd raises a bushy blond eyebrow in his direction.

"I smelled Thorfinn while I was foraging." Bjorn’s bangs fall in front of his eyes as he leans closer to the fire. "I'm... pretty sure he's about to present. It's probably not a good idea to seek him out until after this raid."

An exaggerated sigh escapes Askeladd's lips. He knew this was coming, in fact it may have even occurred to him a day or so ago, but he was hoping it would maybe happen after they arrived at Gorm's village to lodge for the remainder of the cold season.

"Lovely." The brat would just have to suck it up until tomorrow when their work was done and one of them could be assed to go find if he survived the night.

The moon reflects a bright sheen that sparkles across the snow while Thorfinn spends endless hours vomiting out of a tree, cursing the gods for whatever hellish torture was befalling him. Screams of bloodshed wail in the distance, and smoke blows through the wind.

Bjorn wakes that morning in a proper bed of hay, which is how he instantly remembers their raid the night before. It was a successful one, of course — as Askeladd had said, it was a small village and easy to plunder. He stretches lazily, large limbs spilling over the sides of the bed, and he remembers something. There is a small pang of sympathy, though Bjorn knows better than to pity that kid. Thorfinn is tougher than most of these men that make up the group, including the alphas.

Will the troublesome little man present as an alpha as well? Probably, he's sure that Thorfinn is too aggressive to be a beta. One could never be too sure though, it's not like Bjorn himself wasn't mistaken for an alpha more times than he can count.

He braids his dark beard in the tiny home's shoddy mirror, and reminds himself that it doesn’t matter either way. Not that he’s worried for the teen's sake. He just… silently hopes that it doesn't make him more annoying. If he presents as a beta, maybe it could mellow the rascal out a bit.

With a sigh, Bjorn knows that he may as well just look for Thorfinn instead of wondering this or that about it. Best to do it himself then have one of their men — or worse, Askeladd — find and piss the lad off. If there was one thing the warrior had learned over the years in teaching himself various healer’s tricks, it’s that presenting is always an awful experience, regardless of the outcome.

Bjorn would rather everyone keep their hands attached to their arms. Thorfinn detests him the least — I think, anyway — so the boy would probably let him help. Maybe. Hopefully.

The weary brunet exits his sleeping hut, grabs a leg of meat from one of the campfires, and wanders toward the forest in the direction he smelled Thorfinn the evening before.

Askeladd watches his right–hand man walk into the forest and reminds himself to thank him properly later. A presenting teen is the last thing that he wants to deal with, so Bjorn doing this for him is a massive relief. He gets back to work sorting through their meager loot of the town, as they could use as much food as possible to power them across the waters.

Barely half an hour passes before the corner of his eyes catch the large figure walking briskly in his direction. Some of his men turn as Bjorn passes them, mouths open as they catch smells of something that interests them. Thorfinn, no doubt, which means the berserker was correct in his assessment of the brat before the raid.

The blond opens his mouth to crack some sort of joke about what must be the tiniest alpha to exist, but doing so brings the lingering scent coming off Bjorn straight to his senses and he stops short. He must be mistaken. It has been so long since Askeladd dealt with this kind of shit, maybe he forgot what any of it smelled like.

One look at his friend's serious face as he approaches tells him otherwise, however. Odin fucking dammit.

The two men walk quickly through the trees, and before long Bjorn doesn't even need to lead the way. The stench is strong enough, to an alpha's nose anyway, for Askeladd to easily follow it to the source. He is not in the mood for this, but it cannot be helped — if they leave Thorfinn like this, it would undoubtedly cause a huge problem with the men in their group. Already, he had to order overexcited alphas to keep their stupid asses in the village.

A few moments later, Askeladd finds him. The brat is perched above within a bare tree, eyes squeezed shut and hands shaking as he grips the branches. The smell is sickeningly strong, and it takes the viking leader more effort than he's willing to admit to ignore the effects it has on him. Thorfinn was already more trouble than he’s worth — and this is pushing it.

Askeladd considers giving the order to abandon the ungrateful youth, but something in his stomach twists unpleasantly at the thought. It seems as though his instincts are manipulating him already, and he pinches between his eyes in annoyance.

They don't have much choice however; leaving a newly presented omega like this is just asking for trouble, especially since he knows better than to assume that Thorfinn won't follow them. Just as he has for a fucking decade, already.

Bjorn tenses next to him, and he looks up to see the kid glaring at them — a familiar sight, at least. With a dramatic sigh, Askeladd takes a step forward.

"You look like shit."

Well that was the wrong thing to say, and he knows it even before Thorfinn's eyes narrow. The small frame shifts balance to allow him to drop out of the branches, but he can't seem to brace the landing and ends up buckling his knees upon hitting the ground. To the older blond's surprise, Thorfinn glances at Bjorn as he stumbles back to his feet.

"I... think I'm sick."

Askeladd lets out a short laugh, it escapes him before he can contain it. The brat whips his head up, livid, but his scent betrays him and it's clear that he’s terrified.

"Fuck off baldy, I don't recall you ever giving a damn, and I didn't ask for it." His eyes then land on the darker–haired man once again. "I just... need maybe an herb or uh. Something, anything that will relieve this enough for me to keep up." His voice is pathetic, and an awkward moment passes as Askeladd searches for a response to it. Thankfully, Bjorn thinks of something first.

"You aren't sick, you presented." Thorfinn's tawny eyes widen a second before considering the berserker's words. "I'm afraid the only elixir that can help you now is back at the village, and comes from a bottle."

The young warrior in front of them is dazed and confused; in any other situation it would be hilarious, but Askeladd chooses to have a small shred of pity for him, just this once.

"Whisky, kid. It's all you can do until it's over." He takes a step closer, ready to lift the boy over his shoulder and carry him back — a far quicker solution than reasoning with him. But Thorfinn takes a hasty step backwards in response, the look in his wide eyes are enough to make his heart skip a beat with unease, so he changes his mind with a frustrated huff. "Bjorn, you do the lifting. He is to stay in the wagon with the supplies as we move on, preferably concealed by some of those furs."

We don't have time for this. The kid reacts, but before he can get a word out, Askeladd is making eye contact. Thorfinn freezes in place, and the chief wills him motionless as his friend easily picks him up and carries him under his arm. The angle breaks eye contact, and immediately the brat is yelling at him.

"Dirty tricks! That's just like you, bastard! How dare you use that on me, I'll kill you!" The alpha rubs his goatee in thought and ignores the noises of protest and annoyed grunts as Bjorn struggles mildly to carry the weakened boy, and leads the way back towards their camp.

Askeladd may not be able to fully conceal the kid's scent, but this should be enough to keep the others off of him while they are on the move. For now.

Thorfinn wakes up to darkness and suffocating heat, and he gasps for air. Somewhere in his mind he knows that he isn't truly trapped, and that he should stay under the soft weight where it was safe. But he has never been one to prioritize safety, and habits die hard.

After reaching an arm forward, he lifts the furs off enough to feel some refreshingly cold air blow across his face and neck. He inhales deeply, and slowly exhales as his mind clears a little.

Or tries to. Where the fuck am I? Thorfinn is about to push the rest of the furs off himself when he hears a deep hum of discouragement to his side. A wagon, he realizes — he feels the familiar shakes and bumpy movement of the cart beneath him, and Bjorn's voice is low as he drives the horses.

"I wouldn't come out yet if I were you. I can give you another horn of ale, but you need to stay put." Thorfinn hates how soft the man's voice is, pity drips from each word and he fights back the urge to argue. He remembers the alcohol he consumed earlier, how it was the only thing that came close to numbing his confusing agony, and grunts.

The berserker hands him the horn of bitter–smelling liquid, and he takes it without a word. When he finishes drinking its contents, he covers himself once more and allows sleep to drag him under once again.

The next time the boy wakes, he is not nearly as compliant. Bjorn is only given a single growl of warning before Thorfinn flips the entire pile of furs off his small body.

"Where is that bald bastard? I'll make him pay for messing with my head!"

Bjorn is relieved that the lad seems to have regained some of his strength, but he already misses the peaceful night air. Indeed, a few birds take flight out of a nearby bush with a rustle as the stubborn young warrior raises his voice again in a string of obscenities.

The berserker understands why Askeladd had used his atgørvi on him, but he still wishes he hadn't, because now — a sharp "Oi you! Yes, you!" is screamed — now Thorfinn is going to be that much more difficult to work with. Bjorn has only been on the receiving end of those controlling ice–blue eyes once; a faraway memory from years past, but still he remembers how terrifying it felt. The brunet sighs and grabs Thorfinn from mid–air with one arm as he attempts to leap from the wagon and directly onto the approaching viking leader.

When Askeladd draws close, he looks directly at the boy, who whips his head to the side to avoid eye contact.

"Geez... relax, brat. You and I both know that there was no other way to get you to cooperate, you should just be thankful that we saved your ass." He throws a glance Bjorn's way, "why do I get the feeling that he has no idea what's going on?"

The larger man rolls his eyes and drops the youth at his feet in response. "This is what you get when you let him follow us like this without teaching him anything."

Askeladd huffs dismissively at Bjorn's words and takes a step back as Thorfinn stands. The little warrior seems to hesitate for only a short moment before glaring at the blond man head–on. A silent moment passes, and he is impressed with the young warrior's ability to lock eyes with Askeladd this long. A daring feat that most other men would not try, but what else is new?

Thorfinn is silently taunting the chief to go the cowardly route and hypnotize him again; but when that shows no sign of happening, he breaks the silence instead.

"If you know what's wrong with me, just fucking tell me already."

It takes everything Thorfinn has to repress the shivers and shakes as he holds his eyes stubbornly onto pale blue ones, but Askeladd seems uninterested in playing mind tricks. The man looks vaguely uncomfortable, actually — Thorfinn can tell by the slight pout in his blond facial hair, accompanied by messy eyebrows that furrow subtly. He thinks there is something else in his blue gaze as well, but it's gone before he can find out what it means.

"Thorfinn, do you know what alphas, betas, and omegas are?"

The boy's jaw drops a fraction before he snaps it shut. "What the hel?"

"You know, alphas are the—"

"I know what that shit is, baldy."

"Do you?" Comes the dry response.

Thorfinn is about to argue back before noticing that the question was not sarcastic. It wasn't biting, or even condescending.

"...I know the basics. I'm not interested in details." He lies instead, and he knows Askeladd can tell. Fuck it all.

"You might want to be, for your own sake." Thorfinn looks to find Bjorn leaning casually against the cart. "Being an omega is not easy, and it's important that we know that you can handle it if you plan to keep with our band."

The younger viking bristles at this. "I'm not part of your damned band! I am here for Askeladd's life as penance for my father's, and—" Thorfinn stops, gears turning in his head. He's fairly sure the brunet just said something that wasn't right. He knows what alphas are, since many warriors have boasted proudly about it, strong idiots like Askeladd.

And my father. And himself, he had thought, except now he is not so sure. What was the other term— beta? He's heard that one said a few times by other men, but had never paid attention. He knows nothing about them other than it being the most common type to be, but if Bjorn can be a beta while looking like that, well. What did it all really matter, then?

Wait. Did I know that? Thorfinn tries to remember when he would have heard someone mention that Bjorn was a beta, but can't. He knows that there's no way he could be keeping it a secret with a scent that obvious... which leads to the realization that he can smell it, and that is definitely new. He snaps out of it when he hears Askeladd's irritably teasing tone.

"His mind must be out sailing somewhere deep, don't you think Bjorn? Oh, to be lost at sea..."

Thorfinn wants to engage in familiar bickering, but can't even find it in him to come up with anything, far too distracted with his confusion. He starts with what should be the most simple question.

"So... which one am I?"

The two larger men just blink slowly at him.

"Like, alpha... or beta, right?"

Another pause. Thorfinn's lips begin to curl into a scowl as he recognizes the look in Bjorn's dark eyes as pity, again. He meets Askeladd’s gaze after an unintentional second of hesitation, yet before he can scold himself for it, something in those eyes send a frightening shiver down his spine.

That's not his weird hypnotism. The young man feels unexpectedly self–conscious and moves his eyes to Bjorn once more, waiting for an answer.

"There's a third option, Thorfinn." The berserker explains carefully, trailing off as Thorfinn narrows his eyes at him.

"Yeah? For girls?! This is a shitty–ass joke, and you're stupid for thinking I would fall for it." Omegas. Why even bring those ones up? They’re supposed to be 'perfect women' or whatever, but he's never met one, since they're so supposedly rare.

These dumbasses are fucking with him; except, Bjorn's eyes show nothing to suggest dishonesty. Thorfinn knows that the big bastard must be telling the truth, and he hates that he can sense that, because all he wants to do is scream ‘liar’.

The intensity of his glare seems to cause Bjorn to feel... regret? Thorfinn has no clue why he can tell, but he's certain that he can sense the large healer’s doubt and worry as well.

Thorfinn is altogether overwhelmed. These new smells, his sudden and weird proficiency in reading others around him, feeling sick — and all of this happening at once — is too much. He's already exhausted despite having only just woken up five minutes ago, and he refuses to deal with whatever ridiculous reasons the two men have for torturing him like this.

With a scoff, Thorfinn walks off in a direction adjacent to the rest of the camp, out of sight but not too far away.

He can sense Askeladd's and Bjorn's gazes on his back, and they reek of more pity. Gods, he hates them; he really, really hates them.

That evening, Askeladd sleeps with one eye open. That is to say, he does not sleep at all. He can just barely hear the whispers and furtive glances to the west edge of camp, and that's enough to keep him on guard. He wants to stew more over the situation, to come up with a plan or a solution, but he's annoyed when hours pass and still nothing comes to him.

When morning comes, the viking leader frustratingly remains no closer to figuring out what he should do, and he has a sinking feeling that they're running out of time. The crew pack up and begin their day of marching as usual, but there is still that buzz in the air, one that tells him that every man there knows an omega is in their presence. For Thorfinn's sake, he hopes that he stays far behind the rest of the group.

But since when has the brat done anything convenient? Askeladd bites back an exasperated groan as he catches the boy's strange scent from the back of the convoy. He's hardly the only one who notices, and the alpha hears more than he wants to from where he sits on his horse.

"I'm surprised Askeladd is lettin' him stick around," one hushed voice says.

"Do you think he plans to bring the kid to Gorm's village?" Asks another.

"No chance, I bet he won't even let 'im on the ships," answers Torgrim. Askeladd makes a mental note to keep an eye on the man, he knows from past experience that he doesn't restrain his alpha tendencies well. "If he does, well. I'm sure as hel not waiting for anyone else to snatch him." The other two vikings chuckle, and a small movement draws the blond's eyes on the cart to his right. Bjorn's hands have tightened their grip on his horse's reins, a subtle reaction that the captain almost doesn't catch.

Askeladd tries to focus on the last leg of their journey on land, instead of the troublesome youth. Unfortunately for him, barely another hour passes before he hears a sharp insult from the rear of the band. He doesn't have to turn around to know that Thorfinn was the one barking it.

He does look behind, however, when he hears the sound of a seax being unsheathed.

"Alright! Sheesh, I get it! Hel, kid." A dark–haired alpha steps hastily away from the bristling teen, who has his father's dagger pointed in the man's direction.

"Touch me again, and there will be no warning." Askeladd knows he means it, and almost intervenes. Luckily it stops there, and no one provokes Thorfinn for the remainder of the day's march, but... if he wants his men to survive the sail to Gorm's village, he would need to think of something.

He can feel Bjorn staring at him, so he meets his gaze with a flat glare, and after a moment the larger man looks away, back to the path ahead of them.

His friend doesn't approach him about it again until they're at the ocean's edge, while their men set up camp for the night some meters behind them. The viking leader hopes to the gods that his right–hand man has better ideas than he does, because this is one situation the blond man has never accounted for.

For a long minute, they look out over the water and the colors of sunset that reflect off the waves. Bjorn exhales a low sigh, and Askeladd knows that he is just as confounded as himself.

"Can you think of anyone that he might be safer with?" The brunet finally asks, his eyes still on the sea.

Askeladd scoffs, "You mean dumping him somewhere, here in France?" Bjorn flinches and he almost regrets saying it, but it's the truth. "There is nowhere safe for them." A memory of his mother threatens to resurface, and he carefully represses it.

The pair stay silent through the moments it takes for the sun to dip below the horizon.

"Surely you have overheard some of the gossip of our men?" His friend turns to him then, a stern request for an answer. Bjorn is the only man who has never once hesitated to look Askeladd in the eyes, even after feeling what they could do, and he has no idea why. The older man would never tell him, but he's grateful for it.

"We risk too much if we delay any longer setting sail to Gorm's village; winter has already started." Then he smirks and playfully pats the berserker on the shoulder. "What, are you implying that I can't control my own men?"

Bjorn makes a face. "Askeladd... I'm being serious. If we don't make it to land in time for that, you know, he's stuck on the boats with us." Yes, he knows. "You can't ignore that possibility." Yes, he knows. "So... what would you have us do?"

The viking leader shrugs, because in all his brainstorming there has been only one idea he can think of.

"Tomorrow morning, we put the alphas on two ships, and betas on the third one with the kid." Askeladd usually likes to think that he has a talent for scheming up solutions for any mess, but this is nothing brilliant. It's simply the only feasible way they can bring Thorfinn without risking bloodshed. "There will be women or a nurse at least in the village. We can leave him to their much more capable hands as soon as we dock, if his first heat starts before we arrive."

"So in other words, you're leaving him for me to deal with until we get there."

Askeladd laughs, and they turn to make their way back to one of the fires at camp. He doesn't care what kind of meat is roasting, he just wants to grab a few bites before getting as much sleep as he can.

"Something like that."