Chapter Text
"I want to obviously, so desperately to be loved and to be capable of love."
- Sylvia Plath, The Journals of Sylvia Plath
He always dreamt about his mother. When he was young and foolish, she usually appeared in his dreams in the middle of the raids, watching him with sadness that she never showed him during her life. It was bullshit, of course. The last remains of his conscience taking the form that would hurt him the most.
Back then he was still stupid enough to think that she would want him to live differently. The truth is, she can't care less for what he's doing. It doesn't hurt her anymore.
These new dreams he gets are different. She dances barefoot with her arms outstretched while embers leap from the fireplace of the blacksmith’s workshop. It's a memory of the first signs of her madness. She steps on some of the burning red crumbs without even noticing. People look at her with indignation or confusion, but no one stops her or pulls her away. He knows her feet will be burnt black after her trance ends. She'll be unable to get up for weeks, the embarrassment only enhancing her melancholy. She'll chant prayers and apologies when he'll be trying to take care of her, her thick unstoppable tears drowning all his hopes for her.
“You're such a good boy, Lucius.”
Despite her tears, she's still smiling. But her hands are so weak that they practically can't wrinkle his shirt as she clings to him spasmodically.
“I don't deserve you.”
He never answers her in the dream. He doesn't know if he even said anything back then.
He's seen Thorfinn vomit a few times. These things happen on a ship, especially when the food is running low and the kid insists on eating exclusively scraps no one sane wants. He doesn't want to owe anything to anyone, which Askeladd almost respects. The sounds of puking are not uncommon, as much as the kid tries to hide it, and Askeladd can't care less. But the dry retching is always a bad symptom.
At first it's a cough. So occasional that Thorfinn perhaps doesn't even notice. Askeladd ignores it too, until Bjorn points it out.
"The kid's coughing."
He always had a better eye for disease than Askeladd. Thorfinn, however, is generally a healthy kid, so a cough or two doesn't seem like a problem. And he's always running around somewhere. Askeladd brushes it off, assuming the brat could have just caught a cold, or stayed a bit too long in the water. It's getting warm. The kid would be stupid not to splash in the river with the village girls whenever he could.
"Then he should make sure it's not contagious," he tells Bjorn with a grin. "I'd have to throw him overboard."
Later, though, he makes a point of pestering the kid a bit and ruffles his hair. It gets him some insults and scratches, but he's certain now that Thorfinn doesn't have a fever. He thinks there is no reason to take it too seriously. Perhaps it's summer fatigue or something.
The cough gets worse, though.
Perhaps it's how small Thorfinn is, because by the time the kid is coughing so hard he's almost throwing up, Askeladd’s throat just feels a little sore. What's worse, he recognises the symptoms quite soon.
Well, shit.
In the hysteria of the first moment when it dawns on him – when he watches the boy hunched over, staring in horror at the little blossoms in his hand that he has just coughed up in a violent fit – he thinks to himself that at least it's not contagious. Bjorn will surely like that.
"As far as I know, it's mostly women who have it. Sometimes slaves." Bjorn says grimly, a few weeks or a month later.
Askeladd isn't going to talk about it, frankly. But everything's out of his control lately. How things can go to shit so fast always surprises him. Thorfinn's state seems to get worse quickly and it seems to affect the berserker. Askeladd wouldn't guess he's the type to get attached, but he's been wrong before.
“What a miserable disease.”
Askeladd takes a sip of his mead. But it doesn't help the scratchy feeling inside of his throat at all. He's still not coughing up petals or anything like that himself. His breath is clear. Only the strange itching at the base of his throat and the tightness of his chest, as if he had swallowed a lot of air, indicate the truth of his condition.
"It's a curse. Maybe I sent the wrong seeress to the market after all. Thorfinn just probably took collateral damage.”
The moment he fully realises the extent of her curse, he regrets he didn't cut off her head the moment he saw her. Now it's too late to change that though.
"I thought kids are most likely to survive because they fall in love easily.”
Askeladd grins at the thought. "It doesn't look like anyone told Thorfinn."
"I don't know exactly how it works," Bjorn admits. "Are you okay?"
"I'll be for a few more years." Askeladd says, sincerely meaning it.
Unlike Thorfinn, he clearly has a much slower progression of the disease. Maybe it also depends on what kind of flower is growing in one's organs. He doesn't know when exactly his mother got it, but she lived with it for practically the entire time he'd known her. He never figured out when exactly and how she got infected, though. Perhaps his sire had tormented her so long that she had become more susceptible to illness. Or perhaps he cursed her himself on some whim to secure her affection. Understandably, when it became apparent that the disease was tearing her body apart, she ceased to be entertaining to him and he banished her. Fucking bastard.
At least Askeladd has no shortage of what's closest to love.
"Fucking helps," he tells Bjorn. “As long as village chicks like the gold I bring them, I should be fine.”
If his mother survived a decade with it, he might as well survive two. That's plenty of time. He just can't let it go to his head.
"So you are not gonna try to marry any? Or cure it somehow?"
Even though he's trying to sound neutral, it's clear he's curious. He's a ridiculously romantic soul for a berserker. Or maybe that's why he's one. There aren't many berserkers left, but one of the older ones Askeladd had the honour of killing, was a poet. Fascinating bunch of madmen.
He takes another sip from his horn.
"No," he replies truthfully. “There's no cure for this, Bjorn. Considering it's a curse, she probably threw in some complete bullshit. Maybe I haven't met my beloved yet, or maybe she's already dead."
And that's only if the disease actually works the way the sagas and legends tell, and it can be cured if one falls in love and their affection is reciprocated. Which may be bullshit in itself. Either way, Askeladd never felt anything close to love, so that's an easy win for the witch.
"I thought it would go away if your beloved died?"
"Not at all." Askeladd shakes his head. "I can tell you that for sure."
How wonderful it would be if everything could be solved with a strike of the sword. Or with two strikes, to be precise. One into his father's heart and another into his mistress. But even as a boy, he wasn't so naive as to think this could save his mother.
Bjorn looks strangely gloomy.
“I wouldn't think that you are the type to give up.”
"What do you want me to do? Search for some miracle cure from the sagas like Freya's tears? Wear fucking charms?”
Maybe it comes out too strong, because Bjorn sulks visibly. Great, like Askeladd doesn't have to deal with a real kid. He needs to watch out for a manchild too.
He sighs. "I know you're worried, but I'm fine. It can take a decade to die of this shit. Maybe longer.”
The berserk relaxes his furrowed brow, but it's still obvious he's worried.
“So why's the kid looking that bad?”
Maybe he's just not strong enough after all, the little runt. Askeladd finishes his mead. His throat burns.
“That I wouldn't know.”
He doesn't know when he first realised the nature of his mother's madness. Of course, he knew what was wrong with her. Too many people looked at her with pity and disgust to let it go unaddressed. She explained it to him as kindly as she told all her romantic stories.
It was an ancient sickness.
Once upon a time, the goddess of love punished the king's daughter for her lack of respect. She cast a curse of love and longing on the princess. But not just ordinary unfulfilled love. It was a disease of flowers; a ridiculous and cruel sickness that eats away at a person like ivy at a crawling tree. If the beloved does not reciprocate the love of the sick, the illness is fatal.
The king's daughter, cursed by the goddess, fell in love with her own father. In desire to save her life, she got him drunk and seduced him. But forced love is no cure for the plague of roses. The king, horrified by his daughter's curse and deeds, ordered her to be killed. Disgraced and desperate, the princess fled the palace and ran to the mountain where the disease consumed her. The roots of her unhappy love penetrated her, tore out her heart, and finally transformed her into a tree: the myrtle.
Since then, this disease has existed in the world, infecting hearts of those which don't guard them properly or mock love itself.
It was a good story, although Askeladd always thought the plague of roses is too lofty a name for a harsh reality. The plague of roses, Freya's curse, flower cough, broken heart illness; they were all bullshit names. There was nothing romantic about this disease. It was ugly, dirty, painful both physically and mentally, especially if it forced the infected person to love their abuser.
How terribly tacky that is.
It's still early in the morning when Thorfinn comes to him. Askeladd is sitting on a bench outside some village house, whose previous owners recently tragically passed away. The nice thing about Mercia is that it always has some houses available. But despite that, Askeladd didn't have a good night. Or the previous one.
The hot summer weather and stuffiness aggravates the tight feeling in his chest. He's not sleeping well. If this is the beginning of the disease, he doesn't want to imagine how it will continue. Plus, war-ravaged England doesn't bring much of a living. Maybe it's time to think about retirement, Askeladd thinks. And by retirement, he means easy silver in Sweyn's army.
He would definitely like to continue contemplating how to get good loot in this day and age, unfortunately, one pesky runt won't allow it.
“Fight me.”
Askeladd takes a critical look at Thorfinn, sizing him up from head to toe. The circles under his eyes are telling even under his unruly hair. There are markings on this throat that even his cape can’t hide. Askeladd noticed that he keeps scratching his neck. The skin bears angry red spots where the swelled skin was repeatedly tormented by his nails long after he stopped. It's obvious what's going on. When he's not tearing the tiny veins in his skin, Askeladd often sees Thorfinn massaging his throat - probably hoping for relief from the obstruction inside. An unpleasant sore throat can become too much, depending on what flower is growing inside.
Ridiculous little shit. He can be happy he still breathes.
“You are sick, Thorfinn.”
The lad frowns and stands stubbornly in place.
"Don't make excuses, you owe me."
Maybe he really promised him a duel. Maybe he didn't. It's not worth it for Askeladd to remember, really.
“What do you spit, hm? Forget-me-nots? Something similarly ridiculous?”
It's a bit mean and lazy. He knows very well that the boy's lungs are constricted by the little blue flowers because he's seen them. Poor damn brat can't even get infected with anything original. The way Thorfinn frowns even more, however, doesn't bring him the expected pleasure.
“Duel me, Askeladd.”
Maybe he knows what’s coming for him and that's why he's trying so hard. The last throes of a dying man. Maybe he can't take the pain of his airway blockage anymore. Askeladd heard that some people, when the shoots of the disease began to show in their mouths, tried to pull it out. If they succeeded in pulling the weed and its roots, they usually died. They vomited blood so much that it looked like they were throwing up their own windpipe and lungs. It's definitely not something he could recommend to the kid.
Askeladd takes pity on him.
"Find yourself a girl, it'll help."
It won't save anything, of course. But it will delay the inevitable. Even at the cost of sanity. He remembers how it used to torment his mother. When his father visited her, her body languished less, but her mind was farther away. There was no escape from this suffering. That was the real curse; the part where even the abuse didn't help. No matter if she went willingly or not, she was never cured. It only confirmed what everyone knew. His father never cared for her at all.
Askeladd would understandably not want his mother to take her own life. But if he had been in her place, he would probably have chosen dignity and took his own life with his sword. Well, it might still happen, thanks to that damned witch.
"Why the fuck I'd find some girl? Fight me, Askeladd!"
Annoying, stubborn kid. Askeladd had enough of him, too. He gets up in annoyance, ready to beat the boy to silence. His own throat scratches inside as if it's terribly dry. Maybe the flower that grows in it is as thorny as a thistle.
"Alright. Come, if you think you can do it."
Brown eyes blink in confusion, as if the brat doesn't even believe at first that it worked.
“We need a witness.”
Askeladd growls in annoyance.
“Why do you always insist on a witness? It's not like you can kill me Thorfinn. You don't need a witness to get embarrassed.”
“I will. I'll kill you,” the brat starts his usual mantra. “But properly, in a duel.”
His breathing is intermittent. He's glad to be on his feet. It is frightening how quickly the parasitic plant could have grown in his small body. The rumble in his voice doesn't sing anything good. Askeladd guesses the most he has left is a few months.
It's almost sad, really.
“You don't believe that yourself.” Askeladd sighs. “Let's get Bjorn then.”
The whole fight takes barely five minutes. Or rather, the fight is done in under a minute since the angry kid makes the same mistakes he always does, doesn't think and randomly punches the air. Askeladd disarms him with embarrassing ease. He spends the rest of the time beating the shit out of the kid, because it's downright insulting to him to waste his time like this.
Thorfinn's defence is even worse than his attacks. Pathetic and weak. In his anger, Askeladd punches the kid in the solar plexus with his fist. Breath flies out of the little mouth along with a few blue flowers.
There's one thing he has to give him though. Thorfinn never gives up. Even when it's clear that further resistance will only make his defeat more painful, even with his breath knocked out, he still struggles to get up. It's brave as much as it's idiotic. A good warrior must learn to capitulate. Not that this little shit will ever grow up to be a good warrior. When he catches his breath it's visible how hard it is for him, the plant in his chest already affecting his lungs as well as his bronchial tubes. He won't grow up at all.
Askeladd he has seen a lot of kids die in his life and killed some himself. For some reason, however, he believed for a while that Thorfinn would outlive him. Maybe that's why the torn petals the boy spits make him so angry.
“Pathetic.”
A jab to Thorfinn's jaw lands so hard it turns the brat's head aside. Althought he doesn't cry out, reddish snot erupts from his nose.
Askeladd lands another punch to his stomach.
"This is how you waste my time. It's even worse than usual."
Fucking waste. Of Askeladd's time. Of Thors' sacrifice. Of everything. Sometimes Askeladd’s not sure what he's even waiting for. Thorfinn is not like his father. Can't be reasoned with. He should have just killed him a long time ago because in a couple of years Thorfinn could develop real teeth. And then, after ripping Askeladd’s face off, he could do that to a lot of other people. Of course, now it will probably never happen. Still, Askeladd isn't sure what's stopping him from bashing the boy's head against a rock, as he'd happily do to any Dane.
Thorfinn grits his teeth and starts to say something, but his breath, which was probably meant to be used for an insult, turns into a cough. Pieces of tiny flowers stick to his lips. Blue doesn't suit him. He doesn’t even have the decency to look scared, to start crying as Askeladd beats the remaining breath out of him. Little freak.
"If you want to die, don't drag me into this."
More beating won't help, the little shit is barely conscious. The only thing keeping him up is Askeladd, otherwise he'd have been on the ground and done for long ago. Though his hand is still clawing at Askeladd’s arm, there is no longer any strength in it. It's really pathetic.
Legs buckle. The boy falls to his knees.
Askeladd is ready to throw Thorfinn to the ground and leave him there at the mercy of whatever comes along for the ride. Maybe finish this with a good kick or two. But when he pulls the boy by his dirty hair and slides him to the ground, he suddenly notices something he missed before.
Well, fuck him sideways.
“Shit, kid.”
Damn kind and their hotblooded stupidity. On his back with his legs spread, there's no way Thorfinn can hide a small but obvious tent in his pants. In a moment of sheer surprise, Askeladd blinks.
“You're hard.”
The lad wipes the blood and snot from his nose, smearing it across his face in the process.
“Shut the fuck up.”
There's not that weird rasp in his voice. The one that signalled impending death. Despite being on the ground and beaten up, Thorfinn's breathing is better.
Askeladd kneels on him. He knees his arms to the ground. Thorfinn growls in anger as Askeladd's fingers open his jaw.
"Let me see."
The back of his throat is dark, perhaps still irritated, but no flowers are visible. The kid chokes on his fingers as he tries to pull the little jaw open wider. When he kicks his legs, it's even more obvious that he's both trying and not trying to get away. Askeladd has to pull his fingers out carefully, because he knows that the moment the boy can close his jaw, he will bite. And yet, Thorfinn’s still leaning against Askeladd's body as if seeking the contact. It can be attributed to the boy’s faltering consciousness, but somehow it seems more instinctual. As if Thorfinn’s body seeked relief.
For a moment Askeladd thinks that perhaps even such little misdistributed sexual urges from the heat of battle can help at such a stage of the disease. But then he puts it together.
“Fucking shit, Thorfinn.”
Suddenly, he is glad that only Bjorn is there.
At that moment, Thorfinn probably draws the same conclusions as Askeladd himself. Like a desperate animal that has just realised its plight, he arches up, his fist barely missing Askeladd's jaw. He dodges it instinctively, and trips the brat’s feet. With ease he rolls him over on his stomach, pinning him to the ground, one hand immobilised behind the small back. At least he doesn't have to deal with the kid's erection like this. Under him, the boy coughs. This time no leaves fall out of his mouth. Askeladd suddenly feels a cold sweat on his forehead.
Like this, Thorfinn's tiny ass is touching his thigh. It doesn't matter that they are separated by layers of thick clothes. Askeladd suddenly feels a strange lightness. For the first time in weeks, his throat doesn't tighten and his neck doesn't scratch. For some reason this makes his dislike for the lad even stronger.
He wants to insult him. Say something nasty. But nothing cruel enough comes to his tongue. Irrationally angry, he twists Thorfinn’s arm behind his back even more, simply on a cruel whim, and the kid whimpers. If Askeladd originally intended this to be as a lesson, he failed. Instead, a shiver of excitement runs through his own body.
Well, shit. Askeladd didn't have a woman for a while and it's starting to show.
Distantly he hears Bjorn saying something, but the words are lost to him. He can't concern on anything but the petite body under his. Thorfinn was always a useful little idiot, wasn't he? There is a way to put him into even more use. Askeladd could bend him fully and take away the last piece of innocence he has. Strip him of everything before there is literally nothing left.
It's a hideous thought. Disgusting even. And yet Askeladd thinks about it. It occurs to him that perhaps he's jealous of it – that fragile remain of purity the kid keeps.
He wonders when exactly he has become this old and bitter.
Bjorn’s hand touches his shoulder, but he lets the kid go even before that. As if he knows Askeladd's thoughts, Thorfinn immediately scrambles to his feet. Facing both men, he slowly backs away.
His clothes are a bit crumbled and his nose is bloody. But it's nothing serious. Thorfinn usually wears his clothes strictly tied like any Viking. Not even all the beating he gets can get his tunic loose. He looks like a common thug. Nothing about him is welcoming, or welcoming, or girlish. He's a warrior like any other; disgusting, violent monster. Askeladd would have to be sick in his head if he ever even considered him.
Yet, as he crawls backwards like this, beaten down, crouching in pain and limping, he looks soft. His eyes are wide and lips bitten red. His hand rests for a moment on his broken forearm. The gesture is somehow provocative.
Well. Fuck.
Askeladd suddenly feels the sourness of the gastric juices in his throat.
He watches as the boy runs away with a hiss and insults, and thinks that the disease should finish him off quickly for both of their sakes.
Even a brat as dumb as Thorfinn can connect the dots. Even if he doesn't like it. Askeladd thinks maybe Thorfinn could finally take his advice and find a lover, but apparently that's beneath the young man's standards. Instead, he prefers to trail after Askeladd like a shadow, or a deprived dog, hoping for a kick in the pants that will at least bring some relief from the pain in his chest. Damn masochist.
It's fun at first. Seeing that little lunatic involuntarily tamed. It seems that any physical contact, no matter how harsh, improves his condition. Askeladd considers that the rapid progression of the disease is due to Thorfinn's small body and his determination to tear that body apart instead of calming down and doing something for himself. But well, that's not Askeladd’s problem. He doesn't want to think about how and why the lad imprinted on him, but he sees no reason not to amuse himself, when he can.
In the cooling evening sun, Askeladd is in high spirits. He cuts an apple along the core with his knife. Then across, into four slices.
“Say, lad. Would you like some?”
Thorfinn stares at him hatefully from the shadows of the supply the men have laid out to set up camp for the night.
“Fuck you.”
He acts like he has any say in this. Askeladd grins.
“That’s the wrong answer, I’m afraid.” He gestures with the hand in which he holds a piece of apple. “Come. Take it.”
Thorfinn stays where he is, staring like the little violent freak he is. Askeladd yawns dramatically, stretching his legs out comfortably on the sheepskin on the ground.
"Look, if you don't want to, you don't want to. I'm not going to force you, I'm a civilised man. Civilised people don't force each other to do things they don't want to do. Right, boys?"
The other men within earshot look at Askeladd in confusion. Even Bjorn pauses to clean his weapons with a frown. It looks like they will never really understand his sense of humour. With a shrug and the apple still between his fingers, Askeladd continues.
“But then, you should consider your little… situation. Let's say I don't feel like dragging a sick kid around with me either. Imagine if you start coughing when we're planning a nighttime ambush. Or that someone in Sweyn's army notices that you are sick and will assume it’s dangerous, that could happen too. You're simply too much of a liability for me these days."
Thorfinn's face still darkens, if that's even possible. His blood is obviously boiling. If he gets any more pissed, he'll explode. Askeladd can't remember seeing anything funnier.
"So, Thorfinn," he says casually, holding out a piece of apple casually to the boy. "Do you want the apple?"
The tension in the air between them is almost palpable. At this point their conversation attracted even more men. Askeladd knows that Thorfinn is aware that he is being closely watched by everyone. But in its current state he is not a threat, if it ever was. Maybe he could have earned a place as a warrior within a few years, but now he is nothing but a sick child. To these armed fuckers he's an entertainment, a curiosity, at most. Askeladd would honestly like to know if the boy realises this and that's why he's so mad all the time.
With an expression that could kill, Thorfinn stands up. It doesn't escape Askeladd's notice that his hands tremble with anger. Or perhaps it’s just the urge to pull out his short sword and strike a blow to his chest. When he wordlessly extends his hand to take the piece of fruit, Askeladd pulls it back to himself.
"Sorry, but did you say something? I didn't hear the answer."
It must be terribly tough to have one’s own body fighting against the remains of honour. almost feels sorry for the boy. It's very clear how much this pisses him off. Thorfinn looks like he's just been insulted in the worst possible way. And yet, even now, despite his obvious unwillingness, his body slightly leans toward Askeladd. As if any touch, even if it's just mockingly kind, can bring it a little relief.
“Do you want the apple?”
“...yes.”
It's a silent muttering, full of hatred. Askeladd arches his eyebrows, pretending momentary deafness. It's not fair, no. But he never said he'd play fair.
"What was that? Did anyone hear an answer?"
But his answer is only grave silence. Not even Bjorn bothers to speak up. Thorfinn's lips quiver as he clenches them in anger. Askeladd turns his head towards him, imitating Ear.
“What was it, lad?”
“Yes, give me the fucking apple!”
“Oh you are such an ungrateful child," Askeladd says in the best disappointed parent tone he can manage. Some of the men begin to chuckle softly.
But when the boy reaches out his hand to take a piece of the apple, Askeladd pulls his hand away again.
“What the f-” Thorfinn snaps.
“No, no. Not with your hands.”
The kid's face is absolutely priceless. The fact that Askeladd still doesn’t have a knife in his face indicates that his illness is not getting much better.
“Fuck you, you fucking-!”
"Now, Thorfinn," Askeladd quickly interrupts him. "Let's not get mad, shall we? You said it yourself that you wanted the apple."
Thorfinn throws him a venomous look as Askeladd's fingers approach his mouth, offering the piece of fruit as he would a pet.
"Be a good boy," Askeladd says happily. “What is it you want?”
With a scoff, his face contorting into an even bigger caricature of crankiness than usual, Thorfinn shouts.
“What I want is to fucking kill you!"
The staring men explode. There's a general "Oh, finally!" some clapping and laughter. Askeladd finally allows himself to burst out laughing too.
“Well done, lad!” he says, tears in his eyes. “You never disappoint!”
A piece of apple falls to the ground when Thorfinn knocks it out of his hand. Red with rage, the lad runs away. The men part amusedly, and Askeladd lets out a contented sigh. That was a real theatrical performance. Askeladd would have happily sold the kid to a travelling troupe.
He looks at Bjorn with a grin, but finds that he is not smiling.
Well, if he's having a bad day, it's his problem. Askeladd doesn't let it spoil his fun. He bites into the apple himself and ignores that for once his chest can breathe painlessly, as if it were not gripped by the roots of his disease.
Bjorn returns to cleaning his sword beside him.
"He's really coughing more and more.” he says casually, and Askeladd can almost hear the criticism in it.
"Unless he stops being an idiot and finds someone to fuck, it can't be helped."
In fact, it's going to get worse from here for both of them, but Askeladd isn't going to tell that to Bjorn. He himself begins to feel shortness of breath and chest tightness, as is the annoying scratchy dryness in his throat wasn't enough. No war has willing women around. And although they managed to separate from the king's army for some plundering, Askeladd is the one to strip rich men of their money, not maidens of flowers. At least that's what he likes to think about himself.
"It just regulates the symptoms anyway, maybe destroys the inflorescence,” he says to Bjorn, mostly to keep the talk going. “The moment the roots grow into the organs, there's no going back. Not even the best woman can fix a leaky lung with her cunt.”
“Damn nasty sickness.” The berserk grunts. It seems like it's really giving him the creeps. "If we get him a girl, he won't take her, will he?"
"Don't bother.” Askeladd snorts, chewing on the last piece of his apple. “The brat thinks he’s the maker of his own luck. He refuses to realise it means none.”
“It just doesn't feel right, I don't know.”
Askeladd gives him a raised eyebrow. “He has grown on you, hasn't he?”
Bjorn's denial would have been more convincing if he hadn't pouted during it.
“Don’t you think such deaths are foolish?”
Oh, that's where he's going with this. As if any of them have time for nostalgia or leafiness. Sickness or sword, it doesn't matter. Although the Danish unwavering belief in Valhalla says otherwise. Askeladd throws the rest of the apple core on the ground.
"That's an interesting statement from a man who loves killing."
Bjorn growls. His sword has been cleaned about three times now.
“I just think the kid's death would be unnecessary.”
But if Thorfinn had fallen in battle, he probably wouldn't have minded so much. Or for all Askeladd knows, maybe he would. Maybe the Jomsvikings know why they are getting rid of old men, since the age is apparently prone to hypocrisy.
"We will both meet the same fate in the end," he reminds the taller man. "And there are petitions against my existence. Will my death be unnecessary?"
"It will surely be inconvenient."
The immediacy of the answer surprises Askeladd.
"For who?"
"For me.” Bjorn shrugs. “I'd even go as far as calling myself upset."
The berserker is an outspoken man, that's what Askeladd appreciates about him. One cannot have a second-in-command to keep secrets. Still, his usual eloquence deserts him at this moment. In silence he watches as Bjorn sheaths his sword, now free of blood and guts and polished as good as new. He doesn't know what to think.