DARK CROW: Vinland Saga One-shots

Askeladd » Just a Viking

canon-verse ; mature

━━━━━

"Askeladd refuses to leave this world without a bang, and the moments spent with you won't change that."

━━━━━

Sleep had always been an easy affair for Askeladd.

Having learned to tune out the part of himself that could keep him awake long ago, the Norse in him had never found trouble resting, even in the most raucous of environments, even after committing the most heinous of crimes, even when he was surrounded by men he loathed and was knee-deep in self-hatred.

Tonight, however, he hadn't been able to grasp it.

Ruins of the Romans stood on a hill a few meters away from the village they'd raided, and River Severn was only kilometers beyond it. Days would be needed to reach it, but the breeze of its other bank was already invading him. The breeze of the wastelands where his ancestors had been driven, the land whose inhabitants shared his blood, the country where his mother was buried.

And he didn't know which it was that was keeping him awake: the fact that he was finally close enough to set foot in his homeland for the first time in twenty years, or the fact that he didn't yet have a clear idea of why, how, and when to do that.

If his confusion and indecision in themselves weren't a sign of Ragnarök, Askeladd didn't know what else could be.

A yawn escaped him, momentarily quelling the rush of scenarios, possibilities, and opportunities overwhelming his mind, and he seized the chance. Just as his lids fluttered shut, however, a whisper slipped into the darkness of the room, "Master?"

He clicked his tongue.

"Oh, you're awake." You could make out his outline as he lay on the bed, his back to you, and you hastily stepped inside, shutting the creaking door after you. "You retreated early again, so I brought you something to eat. "

"I'm not hungry."

"But you must eat, Master. How else would you lead your men?"

Lazily spinning around, Askeladd sat up and watched with detached curiosity as you placed the tray on the small table.

You seemed to be in good spirits—as good as they could be for someone like you in your day and age—and from your relatively kempt appearance, he assumed you had survived yet another day without having been bothered by any of his men.

His sparing your life after he'd killed your owner upon pillaging your village had apparently been enough to keep them at bay. He was certain they thought he'd done it for a reason, for they knew Askeladd never kept useless people around. They assumed he would surely find a use for you, just like he had with the boy.

To think that they held so much respect for him made him scoff. What a bunch of fools!

His attention was back on you when you knelt on the floor beside him and pushed the food his way, a sickeningly sweet and inviting smile tugging at your lips. You could have left, for he had not said or done anything to indicate he was interested in keeping you around as his possession, yet you hadn't. And it made him question: were you as skilled an actor as he was, someone who'd found a way of life in enslavement, had known how to exploit it, and had now seen in him their new salvation? Or were you simply that shallow and simple-minded, a mere vessel that didn't mind being sold and bought and whipped and tossed over and over and over?

The harsh lines time had carved into his traits softened ever so slightly as he stared down at you, and you mustered just enough boldness not to buckle under his scrutiny.

"Which are you?" he mused.

Mouth ajar, brows quirked up, and moonlight flickering in your hollow eyes, you pondered his question. It took you a minute too many to breathe out a shaky, "What?" and he quietly laughed at himself for having overestimated your intelligence.

You were simply a slave to being a slave; it was all you had been and all you would ever be.

It had never crossed his mind before, but he now found himself wondering if that was why you had chosen to stick around. If that was the reason some slaves never attempted to retaliate. Was it because this was all they'd ever known? Did they believe this to be their purpose in life?

What did this say of those who weren't born into slavery and somehow found themselves thrust into it? Those who'd tasted freedom before it was snatched away from them? Why did they endure it?

What did this say of his mother?

His brows creased at the thought. His mother had no choice. She wasn't to blame. What could she, a single, frail woman, have done in the face of his father's tyranny?

If anything, he was the one to blame. For having been weak; for having taken so long to avenge her; for having allowed the Dane in his blood to overtake whom she had raised him to be.

Askeladd looked away from you, and before he could shoo you away, you hastened to his side. Where you got the courage from, he didn't know; slaves weren't supposed to be this carefree with their masters. You were surely aware that this gesture alone could cost you your life if he so wished, and he should—the Viking in him at least.

Yet, you took the gamble.

What it was in him that you saw and that had spurred you was beyond him, but he did not push you away when you closed the distance between your bodies. He did not pry you off when your fingers wrapped around his upper arm, nor when your hand landed on his shoulder. His lips felt chapped against yours when you leaned in and kissed him, and for the first time in your life, you were allowed to hold the wheel and steer the ship as you pleased.

You still somehow ended up beneath him when it was all set and done, your heavy pants filling the room. As he pulled out of you, you noticed something akin to disgust flash in his eyes before they lost all traces of emotion again. You'd witnessed enough repulsion on the faces of men to know for certain that that wasn't directed at you, and you made space for him to lie beside you.

He did not indulge you this time, though, and lifted himself to sit on the edge of the bed. Your gaze danced across the scars littering his back as he dressed. You reached to touch one that ran along his shoulder blades but were stopped when his tunic dropped to curtain it all.

"You're different from the rest of your men," you murmured.

Silence was all you got as Askeladd glanced out the window and putting on the last of his clothes, walked out of the house.

It was still early; the sun hadn't come up yet. And for the next hour you watched as dawn slowly broke across the sky and into the room. You were only roused from the comfort of the bed when you heard a commotion stir outside.

Stepping out, you spotted Askeladd at the center of it. You couldn't make out what he said to Björn before they all dispersed, but blood froze in your veins when your eyes met. He started approaching you, the sword in his hand still tainted by the blood of the soldier he'd executed mere minutes before.

The aura he emanated was as intimidating and bone-chilling as ever, even from a distance, so much so that you wondered what in hell had possessed you to make a move on him mere hours earlier. The man you'd caught a glimpse of was gone, and all that was left was the leader of the beasts now preparing to move on to the next village to plunder.

But you'd seen and felt it—that which set him apart from them. It was there; you were certain of it.

Your mind went blank when he halted before you, sharp and unwavering, a smirk on his lips, an arch to his brow, and another swift swing of his blade sent your head flying to the ground.

Askeladd was no different than his men. He was just a Viking—a man without beauty. And the world didn't need any more of them.