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thorfinn looks like shit, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall of a cell built for little more than one. his eyes are distant, his expression unnaturally blank; it’s somehow more unnerving than if he had been smiling. there’s an uneaten plate of food just inside the door, thorfinn’s cage otherwise unperturbed. the air is cold. everything is cold.
canute stands just shy of the orange light provided by the torches hung next to the cell, watching thorfinn through the wooden bars this warrior has called home for almost a week now. canute can feel two heavy gazes on him, those of the guards stationed outside of thorfinn’s cell, as though they fear he could rip through the bars with his bare hands.
but—he tried to kill the prince (the king), and nearly succeeded in leaving him blind in one eye. as canute touches the long, thin wound under his left eye that’s beginning to heal, he knows he doesn’t blame the security. he also doesn’t think anyone quite understands the danger thorfinn has posed for the past ten years—or how, given askeladd’s death, canute doubts he’s any more terrifying than a meager flea right now.
canute can tell. he’s seen thorfinn angry, violent, murderous. he’s seen thorfinn calm, though never at peace. he’s seen thorfinn calculating, lying in wait, preparing for his moment to strike. but thorfinn doesn’t look like any of those things now.
now, he just looks… empty.
it takes almost five full minutes of canute simply standing there and watching thorfinn for him to realize he’s waiting for thorfinn to notice him. for all the time they’ve known each other, thorfinn has appeared more like a hunter than anything, his prime target the man who took his father’s life. but as canute’s bodyguard, he had to hunt much more; he was always watching those around him, eyes skirting back and forth in search of either predator or prey. always waiting, always prepared to pounce or retreat should the situation call for it. thorfinn has honed his senses for the war he grew up in, seeing and hearing things that always passed canute by. many a night in canute’s lodgings on the long trek to the throne, canute would wake in the middle of the night to see thorfinn at the door, peering out into the perilous night, woken by some unseen and unheard thing in the wild that canute could never hope to protect himself from.
this is all to say—thorfinn knows when someone is watching him. certainly knows when someone is watching him from ten fucking feet away, hardly doing anything to mask his presence, breathing, or attention.
yet thorfinn doesn’t acknowledge canute. doesn’t turn his head, even to throw a glare or indifferent sneer in the prince’s direction—as canute honestly expected. he came here fully prepared for anger and snarling and gnashing of teeth. he came prepared to order the guards to pin thorfinn to the ground again, lest he succeed this time in taking canute’s life.
somehow, the lack of acknowledgment burns canute more than any nasty word or fist thorfinn could have thrown his way. or perhaps… it’s not that thorfinn is trying to scorn him by not even acknowledging him.
maybe thorfinn doesn’t even realize he’s there—so wrapped up in his own darkening thoughts, the emptiness and numbness that must have overwhelmed him in the past week. askeladd is dead. the man he’s spent the past ten years vowing to kill, following to kill, waiting to kill—askeladd was thorfinn’s to kill. and canute killed him first.
he was thorfinn’s to kill, and canute killed him anyway.
once, before killing askeladd for his own political gain ever crossed either of their minds, canute asked what thorfinn would do once he had exacted his revenge. he remembers the almost startled look on thorfinn’s face, and the somewhat harrowing realization that thorfinn had never thought about it. he has devoted ten years of his life to avenging his father by killing askeladd, and now askeladd is dead by another’s hand, and there’s—nothing.
there’s just nothing.
eventually, canute, without turning his attention from thorfinn, says, “leave us.”
the two guards hesitate before asking, “your highness?”
“i said, leave us.”
“but—”
“he’s locked in a cage with no weapons and, from the looks of that measly uneaten meal you’ve given him, no strength to fight. what’s he going to do through the bars of that cell, anyway?” canute is surprised by how authoritative his voice sounds, deeper and rougher than it was just a week ago, but he’s acting as king now. for years, he was running from that possibility, terrified of the responsibility and agony of the crown. now he realizes he’s slipped into that role with more ease than he thought possible. “i can take care of myself for ten minutes,” he adds, finally turning a harsh gaze on the nearest guard. “should i need assistance, i’ll shout.”
the guards are reluctant to leave the prince with the man currently locked up for trying to murder him, but canute’s word is absolute. he watches them shuffle out of sight, and then, from his pocket, procures a key to thorfinn’s cell—swiped when no one was looking, and he’s sure he’ll get an earful from an array of people about putting himself in danger, but he doesn’t care.
it’s thorfinn.
thorfinn, who has been locked up for a week pending some action that can either make everything much worse or set him free. thorfinn, who tried to kill him. thorfinn, who probably still wants to kill him, yes, but—thorfinn, nonetheless.
thorfinn, whom canute has spent months of his life with. thorfinn, who guarded and protected him through the worst of those months. thorfinn, whose half-crooked, teasing lilt of his lips when he teased canute and called him princess made and might still make canute’s chest do something strange, something he’s never felt before thorfinn.
he’s only seventeen. the heart is a fickle thing.
thorfinn still hasn’t acknowledged him by the time the guards’ footsteps fade, and still hasn’t when canute unlocks and opens the door. he was prepared for thorfinn to try escaping, but his eyes never stray for their distant spot on the opposite wall, and he doesn’t move a single muscle even as canute steps inside the cell and closes it behind him again, now closer than they’ve been for a week. he can still feel the jarring sting of thorfinn’s blade against his skin, and the equally as jarring realization of what he had done. what they had both done.
(they’d wanted to use all sorts of remedies on it—the wound—in attempts to keep it from scarring on canute’s face. he refused them all, not fearful but welcoming of the scar that will form under his eye. it’s a reminder. a promise.)
he takes some time to glance around the cell, little more than some stale hay on the dirty floor, and makes a face. “nice place you got here,” he says, the first thing he’s said to thorfinn since—since. canute kicks at the nearest bit of hay. “beats having to share lodgings with a brat like me, though, i’m sure.”
thorfinn doesn’t move.
canute narrows his eyes, taking a breath. “they got rid of askeladd’s body,” he tries again. “not the noble viking way, of course, because he committed treason for killing the king. do you suppose he’ll go to valhalla anyway?”
thorfinn still doesn’t move.
it’s infuriating. canute thought surely mentioning askeladd would have awarded him with a reaction, but it seems thorfinn is either resolute about ignoring canute or he’s so far gone that he’s not even aware of what is going on around him.
on his third try, canute says, “so i suppose you’ll never be able to avenge your father now.”
this time—ah, this time. it’s quick and subtle, but thorfinn’s hand twitches on his knee, as though he wants to curl it into a fist and smash his knuckles into canute’s face for the comment. it’s a low blow. canute will regret saying it later, but at least he knows thorfinn is hearing him now.
“i didn’t think—”
“why are you here?” thorfinn’s voice is rough from disuse, tone hovering somewhere between anger and indifference, like he can’t decide.
it’s a small, albeit important, victory that thorfinn is talking to him at all.
before canute can respond—although he’s not even sure what he would say, because why is he here?—thorfinn’s eyes finally snap to his, hollow and golden in their hue. but even then, canute sees it, the thing that kept him alive and fighting all these years in askeladd’s band: the desire to kill. the need for revenge, although this time—not for his father, but for himself.
that look is so haunting yet familiar that canute’s mouth shuts of its own accord.
“what do you want?” thorfinn continues. “are you here to apologize to me and pretend nothing’s the matter?”
“no,” says canute, because he knows that much. he swallows. “i won’t apologize. because i’m not sorry.”
thorfinn’s nostrils flare. “you killed askeladd.”
“and i’d do it again, given another chance,” says canute, and he realizes, even as thorfinn’s gaze turns heavy and angry and so like what canute is used to, that it’s the truth. and that he’s not afraid. he straightens his back, drawing himself up to his full height and staring down at thorfinn. “he provided me with the perfect opportunity to seize the crown and assert myself as the head of this army, and if i hadn’t taken it, all of our efforts for the past months would have been for naught.”
“you can’t be serious—”
“not to mention, he killed the fucking king. if i hadn’t done it, someone else would have. thorkell, or floki, or any number of warriors there that day. he was on a murderous rampage. he was never going to make it out of that room alive, thorfinn.”
“but he was mine,” growls thorfinn, pushing himself into a standing position, hands in fists at his sides. “you knew he was mine, and you killed him, anyway. you used me. you liked to act so innocent and unsure of what to do, but you’re a liar. you’re a fucking monster.”
“oh, get a grip,” canute snaps back. “you think your grudge from ten years ago serves a greater purpose than askeladd’s plan to get me on the throne?”
“i spent my whole life waiting to kill him.”
“and who decided to do that? who decided you should spend ten fucking years trailing him like a lost puppy, never strong enough to kill him despite having countless opportunities, and then throw a hissy fit the first time someone else manages to do what you never could?” thorfinn looks on the verge of physically attacking him, but canute stands his ground, keeping his head held high, like a prince. like a king. “just because you staked a claim on him that no one else bothered to recognize doesn’t make it any kind of wrong that i killed him for murdering the king. this is war, thorfinn. people get killed. it’s not my fault that you wasted your life on a man fucked up enough to sacrifice himself for the crown.”
canute tenses, steeling himself for the inevitable—but it never comes. thorfinn doesn’t tackle him to the ground and beat his pretty face into a bloody pulp. he doesn’t produce a knife from some hidden pocket and stab canute in the heart like he wanted to the first time.
instead, thorfinn takes a step forward, and then another, until the two of them are almost standing toe to toe. like this, canute is all too aware of their slight height difference, although the way thorfinn is looking at him, eyes pulled into angry slits and mouth set in an angry frown, makes him want to tremble. and yet—he refuses. he killed askeladd and he picked up that bloody crown and put it on his own goddamn head. he stood before his army and called himself king. he will not bend for an army. he will not bend for a different king.
he will not bend for a boy, even if that boy is thorfinn.
“you’re a fool if you think askeladd killed your father so you could be king,” whispers thorfinn. “you’re a fool if you think he ever did anything other than for his own gain. don’t delude yourself into thinking that bastard was on your side.”
“was he on yours?” canute counters, cocking a single eyebrow.
“you got your fucking revenge,” thorfinn hisses. “an eye for an eye. a life for a life. you killed askeladd for killing your father, and i bet it feels so good, doesn’t it?”
canute swallows. “you want me to tell you what it was like, thorfinn?” he asks. “you want to know how satisfying it was to plunge that sword into his chest? you want to know the power i felt radiating through me seeing the blood drain from his face and out of the hole i made in him?” he leans down until their faces are a mere inch apart, making sure thorfinn can hear him loud and clear when he says, “it was the best goddamn thing i’ve ever done. and i don’t regret it, not for a second.”
the truth is—canute does regret it, but only marginally. it needed to be done, he knows. there was no other way to put him on the throne, although he never imagined that the plan would be put into action as quickly as it did. askeladd was wise and clever, manipulative and a damn good warrior. it’s a loss not to have him at canute’s side anymore, but there are necessary sacrifices in war, and it was only by using askeladd’s corpse as a stepping stone that canute was able to reach the throne. he’ll never regret the choices he’s made to put that crown on his head.
but—some smaller part of him, the part yet unsullied by politics and war, is all too aware of what it means to thorfinn. his father once told him not to give parts of himself to anyone, not to trust anyone enough to give them power over himself, not to feel anything but what a king must feel for his subjects. love and tenderness and hope have no place in the heart of the king of denmark. in his head, canute knows this.
and yet… he looks at thorfinn, at his empty, angry eyes, at the downturn of his lips, at the scar-hewn skin of his hands and chest and face, and canute feels guilty. he’s not sorry, no. he doesn’t regret what he did. but he hurt thorfinn, and that hurt has rebounded deep within him, into places he didn’t know he had given to thorfinn over the course of their time together, and the words coming out of his mouth must be little more than a defense mechanism to keep either of them from truly realizing it.
“you disgust me,” snaps thorfinn. “after everything—all of the shit i told you about the past ten years. you knew what i’ve done to avenge my father, and you killed askeladd, anyway.”
“he would have died either way.”
“but you just had to be the one to do it!”
“yes!” canute is exasperated. it feels like he’s arguing with a fucking wall. “how many times must i tell you it was a political move?”
“you could at least show a little remorse for it. you could at least show a little sympathy for the fact that i’ve spent almost my entire life trying to kill that man to avenge my father and you just took all of that right out of my hands. what am i supposed to do now, huh?”
“maybe you should have thought about that before now! you call me a monster but you’re the one who’s been killing endlessly for ten years with no remorse for any of your victims.”
thorfinn’s face screws up in anger and this time, he shoves canute backwards, causing him to stumble. “i did what i had to for my father.”
“well, so did i.” it’s not quite the truth; canute cared little for his father, particularly at the time of his death. but if thorfinn wants to play this game, canute is more than willing. “i don’t know what you want me to say, thorfinn. i’ve already told you i won’t apologize for killing him.”
this time, thorfinn laughs heartlessly, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “you’re… you’re so manipulative,” he says. “how could i ever have thought you couldn’t be the king? you’re just like them all—every filthy old man who wanted to get his hands on you these past few years. you’ll do anything for power, even if it means taking everyone on your own damn side out at the knees.”
the comparison makes canute’s blood heat, his own mouth set in a frown as he finally shoves thorfinn back. “you’re saying you were on my side? that you actually cared about me becoming king beyond the fact that askeladd told you to protect me, and if you did that, you might have a chance at killing him again?”
“does it fucking matter? all of this talk about what a despicable person your father was, and you know what, canute? you’re just like him. you don’t care about anything but your own power. well, i hope it’ll be worth it in the end, when the only thing you have to comfort you at night is that shiny fucking crown.”
“you know what? it will be!”
“good!” thorfinn spits at him—actually fucking spits. canute wants to slap him, but he knows he’ll never win in a physical fight, so he just stands still, angrier than he’s been in a long time. even thorfinn’s attempt at murdering him the first time didn’t make him feel like this. then thorfinn wipes his mouth, averting his gaze. “i’m tired of this. of you. i’ve always felt like some wretched creature for what i’ve done, but you’re so much worse than me. because you don’t even realize what you’ve become. or what you will become.”
canute stays silent, trying to calm his breathing as he stares at thorfinn.
but thorfinn huffs a laugh again, shaking his head. “i’ve never felt like… like prey before. but i look at you, and all i see is a carnivore.” he steps forward again, closing the distance between them, and lowers his voice when he stares up at canute. “so i’ll ask you one more time,” says thorfinn, voice somehow harsher than moments ago. “why are you here, canute?”
canute swallows. the truth is, he doesn’t know. thorfinn isn’t going to talk about this with him, not in any productive capacity—and why should he? canute understands his anger very well. understands why thorfinn tried to kill him, and doesn’t blame him. perhaps that’s why he’s here: because thorfinn is locked in this cage for doing something canute knew he would do and can’t blame him for, and maybe that’s not fair. or perhaps it’s because canute still hopes there could be something more for them, something that could smooth over the sharp edges of this whole situation and, as thorfinn said originally, make it as though nothing happened at all.
it’s only once he’s here, locked in a cage with a rabid animal, that canute realizes he was only fooling himself. allowing his festering feelings for thorfinn to take hold in his stress-addled mind and turn him in the wrong direction. he can tell from the way thorfinn has been looking at him—with all the anger he’s used to, yes, but none of the softness that would occasionally glaze over the amber of his eyes when he watched canute for long enough.
see, he always thought—
“i know he was yours,” says canute before he realizes it. “i know what you did to avenge your father. i know what you went through for ten years just to get the chance to kill askeladd. i know i took that away from you, thorfinn. but this is bigger than you.” he reaches between them, snagging his fingers on the dirty shirt thorfinn is wearing, keeping them both steady. “i’m not sorry that i killed him, but i… i regret that killing him did this to you. i’m sorry that i hurt you, and that you have to be locked in here, and that it had to be like this.” that’s the truth, at least. he’s not sorry about the act of killing—but he’s sorry for the fallout.
but thorfinn’s gaze still doesn’t soften. “the only reason i’m locked in here is because of you,” he says. “don’t act like this is all my fault.”
“you tried to kill me, thorfinn.”
“i should have tried a little harder.”
when canute doesn’t reply, thorfinn grips the hand in his shirt and pushes it off, apparently deeming the conversation over with neither of them having gotten what they wanted. he turns back to his former spot against the wall, walking the few steps to return to it, and then canute scoffs and says, “i doubt you could so much as bruise me now, given how utterly pathetic you look.”
he’s not sure why he says it—why he provokes thorfinn again and again. he used to do that when they on the road, too, and first staying in york, before the banquet and the king’s death and askeladd’s, too. canute delighted in riling thorfinn up until thorfinn would throw him against the furs of his bed, straddle him, pin his wrists above his head, and growl that canute was toeing a very dangerous line. nothing was better entertainment, nor more arousing than seeing that feral look in thorfinn’s eyes when he warned canute that if he pushed even a little further, he’d regret the consequences.
the truth is, canute was never someone who pushed boundaries or acted out, especially with ragnar. but when it came to thorfinn, he couldn’t help it. he knows now he simply wanted thorfinn’s attention so badly that he’d do just about anything to get it, even if it meant risking life and limb for it. but he thought, after the attempted murder and their long week apart, canute would have grown out of it.
but here he is. here he is, speaking those provocative words before he even realizes he’s opening his mouth, because thorfinn is turning away from him, thorfinn is dismissing him, and canute isn’t done here, doesn’t want to leave, doesn’t want to leave thorfinn here knowing it could be the last time—
for all of canute’s provoking in the past, he never did find out what those consequences were. thorfinn would never do anything beyond pin canute down and make empty threats, but perhaps that had more to do with the fact that those tousles almost always ended with them nearer to fucking than fighting. when canute’s laughter would die off and thorfinn’s threats would stop, when the tension from threatened violence would fade and they would be left to realize they were pressed together in a rather precocious position with their faces hovering inches apart—and that tension would immediately spring back up, only of a different nature this time. at first, when thorfinn came into his life, canute thought he was the only one whose feelings had transcended that of a prince and his guard.
but he could see it in those moments, with thorfinn’s eyes bouncing from his mouth to his eyes and back again, his breath becoming more ragged, his hands firm where they pressed canute’s into the bed. he could tell thorfinn was thinking about it. he could tell thorfinn wanted it.
he never said anything—neither of them did. those tension-filled moments always ended in thorfinn wrenching himself away, grumbling about canute’s unbecoming behaviour, either to stalk off into the woods or to sharpen his knives by the fire. and that was why canute kept pushing—because he wanted thorfinn to finally give in, to let canute get past those boundaries he’d laid for himself as a six-year-old. canute pushed because he knew thorfinn would never truly snap, not with him. not when he looked at canute like that when push came to shove, and canute was so certain the next tousle would be the one where thorfinn finally did something about it.
so when canute mutters those horrible words without thinking first—i doubt you could so much as bruise me now—he’s not surprised when thorfinn immediately turns on him, eyes suddenly void of all distance and emptiness canute saw in them previously. but in the two seconds it takes for thorfinn to descend on him, canute realizes this can’t be like any other time—because they’re not the boys they were just a week ago, and they’ve severed whatever delicate web of feelings and obligation they had spun between each other, and thorfinn has already tried to kill him once.
what’s to say he really won’t try again?
canute realizes he’s made a grave mistake at about the same time his back slams into the wall, one of thorfinn’s hands gripping his jaw and pushing his cheeks together, and the other fisted in his long hair, yanking it downward so that canute’s head is tilted back. like this, his throat is exposed, and canute feels the flutter of his pulse in his own ears, terrified as thorfinn keeps him pressed to the wall with a look on his face that canute can only describe as malicious.
“the crown hasn’t made you any smarter, princess,” he spits, and canute breathes heavily through his nose, watching thorfinn as best as he can with his head painfully pulled as far back as it can physically go. “need i remind you which between the two of us has been fighting in a war for ten years? which between us has killed and killed and killed, and not regretted a single thing about any of it?”
thorfinn leans closer, until his warm breath ghosts over canute’s exposed throat, making him shiver. “killing askeladd has given you false confidence,” he says. “you stupid brat. you’re the one who’s needed protection this whole time, and whose protection did you live off of? who did you rely on to keep you safe in your stupid little bed all this time? did you forget, just because you made yourself king? the crown can’t protect you when i have my hands on your throat, princess.”
thorfinn might be smaller than him, but he’s much stronger and faster, and he does know a thousand ways to kill a man with his bare hands. canute has been foolish. he thought that empty look in thorfinn’s eyes meant he would have no desire to kill canute anymore, meant he wouldn’t be able to muster up enough of anything to go through with it. it’s only now that canute realizes it’s not the first time he’s seen that empty look. in truth, thorfinn has had some degree of emptiness in his gaze the entire time canute has known him. he must have felt empty after his father died, too, and countless times when his duels with askeladd ended in defeat, when he was a starving child, when he looked back and realized he’d left a trail of the wrong bodies in his wake and there was no way but forward, into the pain, into the emptiness in order to come out on the other side stronger and faster and better at killing—
of course. of course. canute taught himself to fear an angry thorfinn. a vengeful thorfinn.
but an empty thorfinn might be the most terrifying thing of all.
he could scream. thorfinn isn’t covering his mouth, and they both know there are two guards waiting just around the corner for canute’s call for help. but—if thorfinn knows that, why hasn’t he struck already? canute swallows, throat bobbing, and tries to calm the racing of his heart and his mind. it was never like this—not any of those times thorfinn pinned him down and threatened him. canute never genuinely feared for his life as he does now.
and yet—
thorfinn shifts so his thigh is between canute’s legs, and when he presses closer, he pauses. a look of surprise passes over his features, and then it morphs into a shit-eating grin, and canute knows he’s lost.
“you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” thorfinn asks, pressing his thigh a little harder into canute’s admittedly hardening cock, and canute closes his eyes at the bit of friction, unable to keep down the embarrassing sound he makes. thorfinn laughs, the sound full of mockery. “you’re pathetic, princess. i could do anything to you right now, and all you want is to get your dick wet.”
canute winces, still breathing heavily, as he wills his cock to soften. but he’s still a teenage boy—a teenage boy pressed up against the wall by the one person he’s sure he’ll ever come this close to loving, and when he opens his eyes, thorfinn’s pupils are blown out. then thorfinn removes his hand from canute’s jaw, instead trailing it down to toy with the strings on canute’s trousers.
“so what? are you going to kill me?” canute asks, voice ragged. when thorfinn says nothing, canute adds, “are you going to take me by force?”
this makes thorfinn’s lips twitch downward. “i’m not like them. besides, if i wanted to, i could have done it a hundred times before this.”
“you can’t tell me you’ve never thought about it.”
“raping you?” thorfinn frowns, fingers pausing as he seems to think. when he says, “no, not that,” it sounds like something else. sounds like he’s thought about he and canute in a different capacity, and canute’s breath catches in his throat as he realizes this has gone far enough. he’s regretting coming here at all, questioning his own motives and what difference any of this makes, and he knows that they’ll never have what they once did. it never came close to gentle or tender, but it was close enough. closer than this.
some misguided part of canute came here hoping to find evidence that the wrongs would be righted, that there was still some hope to be found in the way thorfinn used to grin at him when canute did something especially stupid, but he knows it’s gone. it’s all gone. by plunging that sword into askeladd’s heart, canute has managed to kill more than one thing.
so he pushes thorfinn away from him, and thorfinn goes willingly, stumbling back. canute takes a breath, smoothing down his own hair and trying to rearrange his clothing so as to hide the erection he’s still sporting. when he’s sure he looks somewhat presentable, he huffs out an, “i don’t know why i came here. i don’t know what i wanted.” he turns for the door, and then hesitates, remembering what thorkell told him a few days ago, when canute asked for an update on thorfinn offhandedly, trying to pretend he didn’t actually care.
for attempted murder of the future king? thorkell had laughed, one of the great belly laughs he was always letting out when he thought something was ridiculous. what do you think? if he’s not killed, he’ll probably be sold into slavery. either way, you won’t have to worry about seeing that kid’s face around here anymore.
slavery. it made sense, he knew—and it was the right move, if he wanted to show some mercy even to the boy who tried to kill him. but canute doesn’t want to think as a prince or a king or a politician right now. when he turns back to look at thorfinn again, he simply realizes that whatever happens from here on out, the trajectory of both of their lives has changed vastly from just a week ago. and those trajectories might no longer have anything to do with each other.
it’s silly, really. they’ve only known each other for a fraction of their lives, and much of that time has been tumultuous. they’d be hard-pressed to call each other friends, let alone anything beyond. but canute thinks of those nights spent in bed listening to thorfinn sharpen his knives and regale stories of growing up with askeladd’s band—when he was in a good enough mood to relent when canute asked. he thinks of those good-natured arguments, of cooking for thorfinn, of sometimes forgetting they were worlds apart and always would be—and in those moments, pretending, for a time, that there could be more. that it could be like this forever.
but it can’t be like this forever. canute is going to become king, no matter how many bastards he has to slaughter to get there. and thorfinn—thorfinn will likely be shipped off to some distant land, worked to the bone for an ungrateful and abusive master, and then he’ll just fucking die. what should it matter, when he’s just a boy that canute knew for a time, the bodyguard that somehow got him here unscathed despite so many people wanting him dead? what should it matter, when he’s just some kid from iceland who stupidly devoted his life to killing one man and lost it when canute killed him first?
yet canute knows, with a certainty stronger now than it ever has been, than thorfinn isn’t merely those things. he doesn’t yet have the words for what thorfinn is, but the feeling of it all wells up inside of him so strongly that he could throw up, and then he bounds across the cell toward thorfinn before he can think better of it.
they collide and thorfinn stumbles backwards, surprised by the sudden weight against him, and when they fall to the ground, canute finds himself in the position thorfinn was so often in during their teasing arguments; he straddles thorfinn on the hay, in the dirt, and thorfinn’s startled expression meets his, hands hovering uselessly at his sides before canute grips the collar of thorfinn’s shirt and yanks him upward. canute meets him halfway, and when their lips press together sloppily, hungrily, it feels like the world is on fire.
in truth, whether he knew it at the time or not, this is what canute was seeking every time he opened his mouth to tease or rile up thorfinn. this is what he wanted every time he felt thorfinn’s heavy gaze upon him, whether it was in the middle of the night when no one was looking or whilst traveling across the country with countless eagle-eyed soldiers watching his every move. this is what he’s been longing for no more than in the past week of thorfinn’s sudden absence from his life, and he knows thorfinn tried to kill him—he knows there’s no possible way either of them can come out of this unscathed, but for a time, he doesn’t want to be a prince on the verge of crowning himself king. he doesn’t want to be watched by god or the ghost of his father or anyone. he doesn’t want to be ruled by politics or morals or religion.
he wants to be a boy, and a boy who has ached for the touch of his goddamn bodyguard since the first time he ever laid eyes on that sinewy muscle and downturned mouth. god, the things he’s dreamed about that mouth. about those hands.
and now—now, finally, in a fucking jail cell just feet from the guards waiting to rescue canute from his would-be murderer, canute finally has them. it takes barely any time at all for thorfinn to overcome his shock, and when canute feels him pressing back, he lets out a low groan. he feels thorfinn’s rough hands in his hair, over his shoulder, his back, and canute merely parts his lips against thorfinn’s, inviting him in. thorfinn takes the invitation with a new vigor, all teeth and tongue against canute as they kiss. it almost feels more like they’re fighting, but hasn’t that always been their relationship?
thorfinn bites him properly, teeth sinking into canute’s lip, and canute makes a wounded noise before muttering, “watch it, you fucking animal.”
“you’re the one who attacked me,” thorfinn growls back, but he grips canute by the back of the head and pushes him ever closer, their lips sliding hungrily against one another. “eager little whore.” canute wants to bite back with an insult of his own, but then he feels thorfinn thrust his hips upward, meeting canute’s unconscious grinding downward, and his thoughts are rewritten by the knowledge that thorfinn is hard, too.
instead of an insult, then, all canute whispers is an emphatic, “fuck,” as he grinds down with intention this time, seeking the friction he’s longed for all this time. this time, it’s thorfinn that makes a noise, unabashed and filthy in the silence of the cell, and canute grinds down again in hopes of hearing it once more.
it’s messy and sloppy and wrong, probably—if there’s even a right way to do this. but it’s the first time canute has ever been in this position, the first time he’s even kissed someone, and despite growing up with norse warriors, canute is convinced thorfinn has as little sexual experience as canute himself. arousal courses through canute like it’s trying to burst through his very veins, and he can feel himself rapidly approaching an edge he isn’t ready to throw himself over yet, but—but—
“did think about it,” thorfinn whispers, breath heavy and hot between them as canute presses their foreheads together, trying to work up a steady rhythm with his hips.
he doesn’t quite catch thorfinn’s words at first, and then thorfinn yanks on his hair and he winces out a, “what?”
“thought about it a lot. with you.” he punctuates the words with a smooth roll of his hips upward, and canute gasps at the delicious friction against him, and he thinks about it, thinks about what might have happened and kept happening if thorfinn had just given in one of those other times, or if canute had done it first, had finally closed that distance he didn’t realize both of them were resenting—“i wanted to fuck you so bad.”
somehow, that does it. not the grinding, nor thorfinn’s lips and teeth on him, but the words, the thought. he thinks about it, imagines thorfinn touching him, rough fingers on the most sensitive parts of his body, and about taking thorfinn within himself, about thorfinn leaving his traces deep inside like they could become part of each other, and then canute comes inside of his own pants, startling himself with the ferocity of it as he gasps and almost headbutts thorfinn in the process.
thorfinn gives him no time to recover nor process what any of it means; he wraps an arm around the small of canute’s back and rolls them over so that canute’s back hits the dirty floor with a dull thud and he finds his legs spread wide to accommodate thorfinn between them, now looming over him as though he's a warrior of thorkell’s size rather than the underdeveloped child the others have always seen him as.
canute stares up at him, half-terrified and half-aroused, as thorfinn grinds into him with fervor, chasing his own pleasure. thorfinn’s face is masked by darkness, but canute can still make out his swollen lips, the fever in his eyes, the way he looks at canute like prey and predator at the same time. one of his hands is splayed on the ground next to canute’s head, and as thorfinn’s face twists in a tell-tale sign of an impending release, canute digs his fingers under thorfinn’s palm, worming his hand between it and the floor until he can lace their fingers together.
it’s not romantic. nothing about this is romantic, and canute won’t delude himself into thinking this has anything to do with true love or fate or even politics. but thorfinn kisses him anyway, heavy and panting, and canute welcomes it, clinging for a moment to something long gone, now—an opportunity, a chance. it’s gone. it’s always going to be gone.
when thorfinn comes, he makes a choked sound, hips stilling against canute. their bodies are pressed together, mouths open as they share hot breaths. canute’s eyes are wide open, but thorfinn’s are closed, a little crease between his brows, and as they both pant in an attempt to come down from it all, thorfinn’s body gives out.
he practically collapses on top of canute, and he’s not heavy but it still knocks the wind out of canute, who lets his own legs come to rest against the floor. thorfinn lets out a deep sigh, face sliding away from canute’s until it’s pressed into his collarbone instead, chest heaving against canute’s ribcage. his hand goes slack in canute’s, but he doesn’t pull it away, and canute takes it as—something.
he stares at the ceiling. the guards definitely heard them, but neither of them rush to canute’s aid. neither thorfinn nor canute move another muscle. something about it feels momentous, but in the end, canute is still a prince. thorfinn still tried to kill him. only now, both of them have come drying in their goddamn trousers.
they stay like that for some time, until canute gets his breathing under control and he begins to think thorfinn might have fallen asleep on top of him. the silence stretches on around them, inviting in its presence, and then, eventually, thorfinn whispers, “i don’t know what this feeling is.” canute hesitates, unsure what feeling thorfinn means—if it’s the time to make a bad joke—and then thorfinn adds, “the moment i saw you holding the sword in askeladd’s chest, it just… overwhelmed me. i tried to kill you because i was angry, but there’s something more. this weird pain in my chest that’s more than just anger. it’s like—sadness, too. shock. loss, like something is missing inside of me. like something is out of place.” he pauses, and then adds, “i’ve always been so sure of myself, but now i feel like… there’s something i’m just failing to understand.”
canute knows those feelings well. he swallows tightly, waiting for the moment thorfinn starts yelling at him again, or the moment he wraps his pretty hands around canute’s throat and ends it for good. but there doesn’t seem to be any strength left in thorfinn’s body, and maybe they don’t have to be on opposite sides of this, anyway.
“betrayal,” says canute, voice breaking on the syllables. “what you’re feeling is betrayal.”
“betrayal?” thorfinn asks. “how could i feel betrayed by askeladd for dying? he never wanted me to kill him.”
canute closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “i don’t… i don’t think you’re feeling betrayed by askeladd. you can only feel betrayed by someone you’ve put your trust in. it only works if that person has done something you didn’t think they would. someone you thought… thought better of.” his toes curl with discomfort, sure he’s overstepping a plethora of boundaries.
but the longer thorfinn seems to think about it, the more canute is sure of its validity. if anyone else had killed askeladd, thorfinn would have gone berserk on them, too. but canute doubts he would be feeling the same level of betrayal and hurt about it, at least directed toward the person who killed askeladd in the first place.
finally, thorfinn says, “i don’t trust anyone.”
but canute thinks of every unguarded look he ever caught on thorfinn’s face, only when thorfinn was looking at him, and he thinks of how, eventually, thorfinn stopped accusing canute of trying to poison him every time he offered to share his food and instead ate it without question, and he thinks of the way thorfinn’s shoulders would always tense when he could hear someone approaching him, always prepared to run or fight, but when he slowly learned the distinct sound of canute’s footsteps, the exact weight of his steps and even the sound of his breathing—thorfinn stopped tensing up when he knew canute was the one behind him. because he isn’t afraid of canute.
because he trusts canute.
he—trusted canute.
canute thinks they both know that, even if it’s only subconsciously, or unwillingly. thorfinn will never admit to his own heart that easily, and yet, after some time, thorfinn speaks again: “i know it’s stupid. i know… in my head, that it was all a political game. everything you do and everything askeladd did is a political game. you can tell me all you want that you killed him because it was the best way to put yourself on the throne, and i know that. i agree with you. but even if my head understands that, it’s different for—for…”
when he trails off, canute helpfully supplies, “your heart.”
thorfinn stiffens, and then lets himself relax again, body sagging heavily against canute. or perhaps it’s not relaxing. perhaps he just doesn’t have the energy to fight anymore. to be strong when the reason for that strength—his revenge—has been snuffed like a flame in the bitter winds of winter.
“i didn’t think you would do it,” says thorfinn. quiet. quiet. “i thought—for some reason, i thought you were on my side.”
“i was. i am.”
“stupid,” thorfinn mutters, talking to himself rather than canute. “i’m so fucking stupid. i really thought—i really thought, after everything, maybe you actually cared for me.”
canute’s eyes widen, trying to push thorfinn up to be able to see his face—“i do, thorfinn,” he says firmly. “of course i care for you—”
“i thought,” thorfinn continues, voice never raising, and he sounds so—tired. “i thought you cared enough about me not to betray me like that. i thought it could be…” he searches for the right word, canute’s breath held for whatever it might be before thorfinn settles on: “mutual.”
the silence is almost deafening.
“i’ve been thinking about it, these past days,” says thorfinn, “and i know i have no right to be hurt by what you did. it’s like you said—i claimed askeladd as mine to kill, but no one was ever bound by that claim. war has always been first come, first serve. and truth be told, i was prepared for someone else to kill askeladd, with all the battles and fights he got into. but i always thought it would be another warrior, or another king. even when i knew you two were scheming of ways to put you on the throne, i foolishly allowed myself to believe that it would never be you who took him from me.”
this time, canute has nothing to say. he just stares at the back of thorfinn’s head and grits his teeth together, willing himself not to be weak. not to cry.
“askeladd once told me the most foolish thing a warrior could do was to leave his back open, even to someone he thought was an ally. i think he was paranoid most of the time. never trusted the people he’d been fighting with for decades. but he was right, in the end.” thorfinn laughs, the sound empty and hollow, as he finally pushes himself off of canute’s body, kneeling and looking down at his own hands. “i let you in, and i’m paying for it dearly. and the truth is, i don’t even think i can blame you.”
he sounds so unlike the boy he was just a week ago, screaming at the top of his lungs because canute had killed askeladd. this week of sitting and staring at the wall has done something to him, something that has taken away everything that made thorfinn who he was. who he forced himself to be so that he could one day avenge his father.
“thorfinn,” canute begins, but thorfinn shakes his head.
“i don’t know what to do with all of this anger, canute,” he says. “anger at you for killing askeladd. anger at askeladd for killing my father and never paying the price. anger at myself for never being strong enough to kill askeladd, and for letting my guard down when i was raised better, and for being angry in the first place. i don’t know what to do anymore. i just—i don’t know what to do.”
finally, thorfinn lifts his head, and canute is horrified to see thorfinn’s eyes have once more taken on their distant, empty shine. he stares at canute, but it’s like he’s seeing right through him. “i spent ten years vowing to kill askeladd and never thinking beyond that, and now he’s just—gone. and my anger is still here. my hatred is still here. but now i have nowhere to put it. and nowhere to go, nothing to work toward. no home to return to that would ever accept me for what i’ve become.”
“thorfinn,” canute tries again. “i can change that, you know? i can—i can try to fix this and make you my bodyguard again, or someone else on my side. i have power now.”
but it’s like thorfinn doesn’t even hear him. “i don’t know what to do,” he repeats. “i’m so angry and tired and—empty. i feel so empty. like i’ll never feel anything else again. i have nothing. i have nothing.”
“they’ll sell you into slavery otherwise. thorfinn, i can help you—”
and then thorfinn says it, the last damning thing he might ever give canute, a parting gift of vitriol so similar to the welcoming gift he gave so long ago: “i don’t want to see you anymore, canute.”
not princess. not your highness. just canute.
then thorfinn looks at him—really looks this time, so canute knows he sees the dishevelled boy king who forced the crown onto his own head but still has no idea how to bear its weight, who can’t do it alone, who doesn’t want to do it without thorfinn—and he repeats, “i don’t want to see you anymore.”
canute can’t blame him for it—just as thorfinn can’t blame him for using askeladd as a step up to the throne. but that doesn’t mean the hurt isn’t real, and he thinks in some small way, this is his version of the events from a week ago; here thorfinn is, with his sword plunged deeply in the heart of what canute has been chasing after for most of his life, even unconsciously. here thorfinn is, ripping apart every dream canute ever had of companionship and comradery and someone to understand him, someone who sees him not as a prince or a king or a political pawn, but a person. a boy.
here thorfinn is, and there’s so little remorse on his face that it almost makes canute sick.
but that’s war, isn’t it? that’s the danger in trusting someone, letting someone in, letting yourself be known by another human whose hands have been dripping with blood for years. somehow, canute always knew it would come to this—that they would be utterly alone, just as they had been before they met each other, and that they would be forced to navigate their different worlds with only scars from each other to show for the short but wicked time in which their lives were entangled.
so canute stands up. he dusts himself off, ignoring the dried come in his trousers, and smooths down his hair once more. he hesitates once more, as if thorfinn will change his mind—as if there is anything to salvage between them now. canute supposes thorfinn is right, in the end; he thought the feeling was mutual. he thought, as a boy does, that they could smooth things over, have hope for a future, be at least friends at the end of it all.
but thorfinn was consumed by anger and grief long before he met canute, and he will be consumed by it long after they part ways. canute will become the king. he’ll rule with an iron fist, and should he ever cross paths with thorfinn in the future, he can only hope he will be met with something other than this empty, dead thing that’s now inside of thorfinn’s skin.
just as he was when he came, canute is silent as he opens the door, and then locks it behind him. he stares into the cage once more, thorfinn still kneeling silently on the dirty ground. canute still isn’t sure what he came for at all, but he feels as though he’s leaving something behind. something vital. something he’ll never get back.
but nothing either of them says or does now will change what happened. they’re just two boys—men now, surely—who were too caught up in their own trajectories to care how it affected the other. rightfully so, perhaps. but it hurts all the same.
for a long time, canute always felt like prey around thorfinn—the weaker of the two, the softer, the more fearful. but now, thorfinn is in a cage and canute is calling himself king. he hates to admit it, but he’s never felt more powerful than he does now, as he closes his hand around one bar and leans in a little, so he’s sure thorfinn can hear and says, “it was. mutual, i mean. our feelings for each other.” thorfinn doesn’t so much as twitch. canute narrows his eyes. “but askeladd was right—you can’t leave your back open. so i won’t leave mine open, either. i hope you figure out what to do with all that anger, thorfinn. and i hope you know i almost could have called it love.”
he leaves before he sees if thorfinn reacts at all, past the guards he’ll never be able to look in the eye again, away from this feral, wounded animal he’s kept caged for a week. some part of him still wants to fight for thorfinn—to do what he can to have him forgiven, to have thorfinn at his side as he learns what it means to be a king and rules these nations how his father never could. that’s what he always imagined, when he first realized he had the ambition to reach for the crown. but he was alone before thorfinn, and he can be alone again.
that small part of him is silenced as canute schools his expression and steels himself for the world he’s forced his way into. by the time he finds himself outside once more, blinded momentarily by the sunlight, canute feels himself a predator. a carnivore. he tells himself he must care for thorfinn no longer, for what might have been, for whatever he’s leaving in that cage. he still has a war to win.
he still has all this fucking prey to catch.