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Thorfinn cannot stand the sight of the prince, in all his pathetic royal glory. The poor whelp who had never been weaned off his mother’s teat. The boy who was so unlike a man that it was reflected in his pretty face, doe-eyed and soft-cheeked and screaming to the world that he was prey, tempting any who bore fangs to dig their teeth into his flesh. And indeed, the scent of his blood had proven to be irresistible; he found himself with his throat clamped in the jaws of men who were determined to use him for their own political gain, a prize to be won and tossed around like royal luggage. It would be pitiful if Thorfinn wasn’t so sure he didn’t care. He had other things to worry about, and currently at the forefront was his personal mission of keeping the prince out of his direct line of sight, no matter the fact that he was supposed to be playing bodyguard. 

He could not stand the sight of the prince, as he knew that if his eyes fell upon that damned face—or any part of him—tearing them away would prove to be a difficult task.

He'd unfortunately found that his will was not as firm as he believed it to be. The prince was impossible to ignore, and the universe seemed determined to test him at every turn. He missed when the boy had not yet found his voice, when he did nothing but make himself small and silent and as invisible as he possibly could be in that striking red fur-trimmed cloak of his. Ignoring him had been so easy, then—or had it? Why had he made the mistake of taunting him? Why had he made things harder for himself? Now, the prince looked at him with eyes that were still uncertain but piercing, even daring to challenge him with that pathetic spluttering mouth of his that could do nothing but whine and nag. Thorfinn was still only a boy, but he had a man's pride. No challenge could go unanswered. They bickered, they exchanged scornful glances, they spent their days sitting several feet apart in a wagon pretending the presence of another youthful body next to them did not affect them.

In those passing, brief moments, Thorfinn had gotten more glimpses of the prince than he'd ever bargained for. His face, beet red and twisted in frustration and embarrassment in a way that did not befit its delicate beauty. The way he crossed his arms and looked away with a sharp turn of the head as he let out a "hmph" like a petulant child, plush lips squished into a pout. His perfect, long hair whipping the air as he did so. Thorfinn relished every victory over him, letting childlike competitiveness rule him as he could not help but rile up the poor boy until he was sure that he would be bursting to tears if it weren't for his own regal pride. He'd let his foolish boyish side trick him into making the prince a someone to him. Even if that someone was only a target for his verbal throwing knives, he now had a place in his mind. The boy who was more princess than prince had somehow taken residence among the few other figures he deigned to remember, if only to be the amusing object of his bullying. Entertaining he was, as much as it begrudged him to admit it. He was perhaps the most exciting thing to have happened to him in all his years spent in a band of Vikings, as much as he hated to find a reason to enjoy his presence. But all enjoyment was quickly extinguished whenever he was reminded that his poor victim was in fact a royal, and he his unwilling servant.

He had come to dread Saturday. He had the banal task of accompanying the prince everywhere he went, and that included the bath: around a half hour of standing still, arms crossed and leaning on a tree as he stared off into the distance in the opposite direction pretending to be lost in thought or admiring the woods. Once, the prince's guardian would accompany them, but a sneer at the display of a would-be king being attended to by his overbearing retainer had led to the royal insisting his guard was enough company. Of course, the balding mother hen had fought it, taking one look at Thorfinn and arguing that such a ragged feral creature could not be trusted to be left alone with the prince in such a vulnerable state, but in the end, he understood his charge's need to preserve his dignity. It would be just the two of them, far from camp and the leering eyes of wolves in men's clothing who looked at that striking head of blond hair and could see no difference between man and woman.

It was torturous. Thorfinn could not say he preferred the company of the men, but such a task tried him in ways that tempted him to groan and stomp his feet like the rebellious child he was. He only restrained himself from doing so as to not further invoke the ire of the prince’s coddling guardian, whose squawking only added to his headache.

So there he stood, eyes half-lidded as he fought off boredom as aggressively as if he were taking on an army. Away from camp, nothing could be heard but the light sounds of the flowing stream and the soft rustling of leaves in the calm breeze. Somewhere, a hawk cried out, its shrill cry breaking through the serene silence. He envied it, wherever it was. How nice it must be, to soar the skies and hunt rather than be posted as a guard for a useless princeling who was apparently so fragile he could not even be trusted to bathe unattended. A decent guard who cared for his job would perhaps keep his gaze on his charge, but the warrior was sure that simply being able to hear the light splashing several feet away was enough to assure him that he was alive and hadn't drowned or slipped on a rock. Each time, he wondered what on earth could possibly warrant such an amount of bathing. Maybe he was in no place to judge, wearing a permanent layer of dirt and grime from only ever doing the bare minimum to stave off disease, but he was sure that no man needed such a thorough wash.

Princess, indeed. More than half of the time he spent in the bath was likely spent on his hair, for it to be as silky and perfect as it was. The warrior's lips curled into an unwitting smirk. He could see the prince running his dainty little fingers through it, carefully scrubbing soap through those soft locks of pale gold as if they could come apart in his hands if they were handled too roughly. Gently squeezing the water out of his hair, baring his pale nape as he bunched it up and lifted it off his shoulders to do so…

Thorfinn flinched at the image and immediately stamped it out of his mind. He'd done it again; he'd let his thoughts drift to precisely what he was trying so desperately to avoid. He tried to ignore the faint warmth spreading on his cheeks, feeling his shame at faltering once again—and at something else. Before that something could make itself known, he focused his gaze on the woods before him and counted the trees; one, two, three…

Thorfinn had become an expert at ignoring, at drowning out the unnecessary, honing his mind to a single sharp point over the course of a decade as if it were one of his daggers. Nothing could draw it away from thoughts of revenge, of blood and steel and the image of his enemy’s throat slashed by his own hands. He had such a vivid imagination, yes—he’d replayed that moment and dozens of variations of it in his mind to the point where such thoughts brought him calm. He could almost feel the blood on his hands, smell the iron. It felt tangible, real. Being aware of his purpose kept him grounded. It made him who he was.

But lately, his mind’s ability to conjure the most vivid of images had begun to betray him. In the deep of night, in the dregs of his mind, drops of gold began to seep into the dark fabric of his subconscious, a slow setting poison even he with his hunter’s awareness had not registered until it had become far too late. His thoughts had been disturbed. The curtain draped over his heart that had been so carefully woven with violence and anger now had golden threads disrupting its harmony. Bright strands so striking they could not be ignored, threatening to tear from him those precious dark thoughts. To distract his heart from hatred, and carve within it room for something else.

To his annoyance, he’d found that in a way, his stubbornness to keep the prince out of sight only made things worse. The mind would often supplement what his eyes could not, whether or not he willed it to.

His mind had turned traitor, tormenting him with images of the prince’s stunning visage and enthralling locks of flaxen gold; of thin, dainty fingers, perfect and unscarred unlike his own calloused ones, leaving delicate, burning touches on his skin, inviting thoughts of something other than anger, a something he would refuse to name. He saw plush pink lips and wondered how they'd feel on his. Maybe they'd be good for something other than whining, if he showed him how to put them to use. His teenage body would shudder at the thought, and he'd fight to suppress it, at war with himself. He’d do what he did best: kill. Purge the unnecessary. Sharpen his mind and will, shave off everything unneeded until all that was left was a tool that could deliver nothing but death. He’d rip and tear and shred the thoughts that dared to try and lead him astray. He would not fall into the trap.

If he were a lesser man, he would've already been ensnared. He was determined to prove that he was not. 

He stilled his skittish eyes, tempted as they were to wander and make him see something he’d regret seeing later. He’d made the mistake of looking, once. It had been the briefest of glances, and yet that split second of weakness had been his undoing.

Thorfinn was no maiden. He had seen bodies of all kinds: male, female, child, adult. He had torn apart bodies of all kinds. All were the same to him, mere bags of flesh containing life he was put on this earth to snuff out. He was nothing like the animals he found himself surrounded by, men so ruled by lust and conquest that the mere thought of flesh drove them to violence. He had more honorable reasons to unsheathe his blade, and nothing would distract him from them. And yet he afforded the prince some privacy whenever he bathed. Thorfinn was no maiden, but he could not be too sure whether or not his charge was, in body if not soul. Better safe than sorry, he supposed. Maybe he knew better. Maybe he knew it was ridiculous to ever entertain the notion that a prince of Denmark was feigning masculinity, as rumors spoke of. Maybe it was only an excuse. Maybe he needed to tell himself there was a pressing reason he could not let his eyes fall upon the prince in such a state.

But they had betrayed him anyway.

His eyes had fallen upon the prince’s bare back, wet hair draped over his shoulder like molten gold on driven snow. Seeing him from behind, the mind could make no distinction between boy and girl, the clash of sharp angles and soft curves confounding the eye. He would not dare his gaze to travel any further. He’d turned away nearly as fast as he’d looked, but it was too late. The sight would haunt him, his traitorous eyes tormenting his boy’s mind and body, burning into him the horrible warmth he’d felt build within him at that moment.

The word “beautiful” had dared to form in his mind then, floating to the surface before he could stifle and drown it. The men constantly joked that the prince was the incarnation of Freyja herself; there could be no other explanation for him being blessed with beauty so divine it would make women weep for what they were not. In that moment, illuminated by the streams of light peeking through the evergreen canopy, wet hair glistening in the cast spotlight, the boy looked even less like a man than usual. Anyone stumbling upon such a sight would surely believe they’d come across a goddess in the flesh. Perhaps his shoulders were too broad and his frame too lacking in curves to be a woman’s, but his delicate limbs and smooth, milky skin were enough to make anyone doubt for a second. And even Thorfinn, who had seen the prince take a piss with his own eyes, had harbored that brief doubt. 

But he assured himself that the prince was very much a man. He may be womanlike, but he had a boyishness fitting of his age. Thorfinn was sure he held dominion over his own body, the body he had hardened and trained to move and act exactly as he willed it to. He would not lust for a man. A man he squabbled with regularly, whose bratty countenance was anything but attractive. Where his thoughts wandered at night did not define him, he was sure.

Oh, but they'd do more than wander. They'd run.

The warrior's thoughts were interrupted before he could recall things he'd rather not by the sound of rippling water nearby. So thirty minutes had passed already; he had been saved. He waited to hear the rustling of cloth before removing himself from his post and turning enough so that the prince was in his periphery, but not directly in his view. Perhaps frustrated from the humiliation of having been forced to grapple with his thoughts out of boredom, he let his tongue slip.

"Finally done, Princess? Get every nook and cranny?"

He did not need to look at Canute to know what his reaction would be. For better or for worse, they had both grown accustomed to this sort of banter, making it routine. He could tell the prince was standing up straight, tilting his chin up to give a haughty huff in an effort to look unaffected. As his charge walked past him, Thorfinn tried not to let the glisten of freshly washed hair catch his eye.

"Yes, Thorfinn. Perhaps it would do you some good to take after me in that regard."

The warrior clicked his tongue. The princess was starting to have bite, lately, the faintest showings of a spine. Clearly, he was rubbing off on him.

He needed to have the final word.

"What, wash every inch of my ass like a maiden preparing for her wedding night? Fuck no. I'm no princess, unlike you."

Canute paused, his regal gait coming to an abrupt stop. That did it. The boy turned sharply to face him, stomping toward him with thinly veiled embarrassment at the crudeness of his retort.

"No. I mean to stop behaving like an animal and take a real bath for once." The prince stopped in front of him, standing tall as if his height gave him an advantage over him. It was perhaps the only real advantage he had, much to Thorfinn's dismay. Why did this prissy maiden of a boy have to be nearly a head taller than him?

"If you weren't aware, you reek," Canute huffed. "It is unthinkable that any subject of mine, let alone my guard, should be in such a state."

Unfortunately for Thorfinn, with the boy standing directly in front of him it was impossible for him to not have the prince in his view. So this time, he'd bear it and meet his determined gaze, grudgingly looking up to do so. He would not lose this battle.

"And I'm not your subject, so what's it matter? I'm not your guard 'cause I wanna be. You can't tell me what to do."

Thorfinn was very much aware that he could tell him what to do and he'd have no choice but to grit his teeth and do it lest Baldie and that conehead give him trouble for it, but he had a fight to win and a point to make.

"That's why I'm not commanding you to." The prince's voice took on a cool tone, a strange calm seemingly washing over him. "It was merely a suggestion. One that any sensible man would take."

A triumphant smirk crept onto his face.

"But you have proven to me that not a shred of sense lies in that head of yours. Else you wouldn't smell more beast than man."

Thorfinn's mouth twitched. Oh, Princess was feeling brave today, wasn't he? He could not let him have the final word.

"Oh, then what does lie in my head, then, Princess?" He took a step forward, hoping to intimidate. "Wanna come closer and find out?"

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, remembering what had been in his head just a few moments before. He did not want him to find out.

Canute stood his ground, determined to not falter before his guard no matter how aware he was becoming of his scent, a musk that told him he had in fact not properly bathed in at least a few weeks.

"I'd be surprised if there was anything in there at all," he said, keeping his voice steady as he locked his gaze on the warrior, a challenge in his eyes. "You haven't shown otherwise."

For a moment, Thorfinn wanted to kill him. Their bouts had never been so even before. Perhaps the isolation and privacy of the clearing emboldened the boy who had not long ago been so timid he had been incapable of doing more than whimpering behind his guardian and shrinking into the blond curtain that was his hair. If he weren't the prince, and if for some reason the idea of laying a hand on that stupid pretty face of his didn't discomfort him, he was sure he'd pummel him; if he wanted to talk sense he'd punch some into him.

But for now, Thorfinn needed to be the bigger man.

"Heh." He turned to walk away, hoping he hadn't let his temper show. "Tell yourself that. If you saw any of what's in there, you'd piss yourself crying."

He did not give the prince a chance to sling another retort as he made his way back to camp, threatening to leave him behind. He noted the boy's silence and took it as a victory, hearing only defeated footfalls trailing behind him. The satisfaction of it was enough to cloud his mind and banish the signs of the battle that had taken place there only moments ago.

Thorfinn was naive to think he can ever escape battle. Not the physical kind. Not ever the mental kind. Everything was his enemy, eager to add to the many scars he wore on his flesh and on his spirit. His own mind had turned against him and proven itself to be one of his greatest adversaries yet, even recruiting his eyes to its cause. And he was foolish to believe he had truly ended the battle he had fought earlier. The dreaded thoughts would continue their assault that night, taking advantage of the warrior's unguarded mental fortress to march on its walls and force their way in, spears in hand.

Sleep was never pleasure. Sleep was one of the few necessary things Thorfinn allowed to take priority over his dark thoughts and urge to continue honing himself, but it was only ever a thing he had to do in order to keep his body from falling apart even more than it already had. He'd stuff himself into his raggedy sleeping bag placed a distance from the prince's tent, far enough to have some privacy and a full view of its surroundings yet close enough that he could sprint there at a moment's notice, and coax his body into fitful slumber. He very rarely got any deep sleep, his warrior's mind trained to be aware even as his body slipped into rest.

But when he did, he'd dream. He'd dream of his father, a pillar of strength shielding him from the world's many woes, placing a steadying hand on the top of his head and telling him he had no enemies. He'd dream of that same father being pelted with arrows as he could do nothing but watch, frozen as he had been the day it happened. When he didn't dream of death, he'd even dream of his family in Iceland, of warmth and kindness and all the things he had convinced himself he'd forgotten.

Sleep was never pleasure, but dreams could be. Recent nights had taught him that, and that night, he had been brought another lesson.

He dreamt of standing, a cool sensation enveloping his legs. He was outside, and a gentle breeze flowed past him, refreshing, but not cold. It took a moment for him to recognize the sensation as water. It reached up to his knees. His bare knees. Which were not the only part of him that was bare. He was naked. He was naked and standing in water up to his knees. Was he… bathing?

Maybe the insults toward his hygiene had affected him more than he wanted to admit. Those biting words had apparently burrowed into his subconscious enough to resurface in his dreams.

And so had the voice that had said them. His honed instincts flare and alert to him that he is not alone, and his suspicions are confirmed when delicate fingers breach his defenses to place themselves on his head, gently running through the once wild hair now tamed by water and scrubbing soap into his scalp. The owner of those fingers giggles behind him, clearly amused by the fact that the warrior was letting any of this happen to him.

"See?" the voice asks with a playful lilt. "It isn't so hard after all, is it?"

The voice is familiar, unmistakable. Soft, breathy, and boyish. A part of Thorfinn screams at him not to turn around and identify the stranger, to not put a face to the alluring voice and hands that had invaded his subconscious.

But as always, his body betrays him. Or maybe in his dreams, he never had any control over himself to begin with, as in the realm of the unconscious the mind was supreme, the same mind that he had been fighting tirelessly against for the past few weeks. The body he had been given was only an illusion. In reality, he was only a spectator, helpless against the whims of the brain. Dream Thorfinn's eyes widen as he takes in the sight.

Molten gold, clinging to dainty pale shoulders that were lithe but undoubtedly masculine. Rosy pink, made wet and glistening in the sun, belonging to a face that the mind insisted was too round and soft to be a man's. Piercing blue, so close and staring so directly Thorfinn could probably see himself reflected in them if he were brave enough to meet their gaze.

He was bathing with the prince, who was standing before him in all his naked glory and holding a bar of soap. Somehow, he willed his eyes to lock in place and not travel any lower. Perhaps his subconscious did not want to know for sure what lied there.

"You know, you should deem this a great honor," Canute says, seemingly unfazed by their nakedness and proximity. "You have done nothing to deserve such treatment, but I deign to grant you this anyway out of my own kindness because I cannot stand to let my retainer go unwashed."

Thorfinn still cannot fully process the image his subconscious has greeted him with.

I can wash myself, Princess, he thinks to say—and it's certainly in the script he's supposed to be following in this dream, but it's one of those dreams, where he is somewhere in a place between lucidity and unconsciousness and he is unfortunate enough to have some will of his own despite not being in total control over the situation, making him aware when he'd rather not be. So the words do not leave his mouth, and he simply stands there dumbfounded.

Dream Canute seems to be following the script, unprivy to the storm brewing within the shorter boy's head. He hums as he casually grabs one of the warrior's muscled arms and begins to scrub, as if it were the most normal thing in the world for him to do. The most bewildering thing is that Thorfinn is allowing it, not resisting as the prince does his work. Like a slave—

Or like a wife. The thought leaves him as quickly as it came.

This Canute was rather bold, he thinks, watching the boy move from one place on his body to another, careful but thorough. It was uncharacteristic, and unnerving. Was this how he saw him in his subconscious?

Did he want him to do this to him?

A part of him is relishing it, he knows. Even if none of it was real, he's enjoying this—enjoying the phantom sensation of gentle fingertips on his skin and the sight of the most beautiful boy he'd ever laid eyes on standing before him, treating him with tenderness and care as if Thorfinn weren't a ragged beast of a boy most would flinch from. That he would flinch from, in reality. Maybe there was a part of him that had always wanted something like this, and that is what had crawled out of his subconscious this night.

Feeling his rationality wash away with the dirt being scrubbed from his skin, Thorfinn surrenders to the dream, throwing to the ground his weapons and letting his mind's whims guide him.

Canute gives a satisfied hum as he steps back and admires his work, seemingly pleased with himself.

"You look a new man," he says, smiling. His big eyes look down at Thorfinn with an innocent, inquiring look. He blinks, and Thorfinn can't help but stare at the long pale lashes framing them.

"I'd say I've done a thorough job," he continues. "But Thorfinn,"

He pauses for a moment. His voice should not be as calm as it is when he says his next words.

"Have I missed anything?" He eyes his guard up and down, innocuously. "Is there anywhere in particular you'd like for me to wash?"

Thorfinn gulps.

Curse those eyes, and his own, for disarming him as thoroughly as he had just been washed. Curse his filthy subconscious for unearthing everything he'd been trying so hard to bury up until this point. Curse his stupid mouth for saying earlier the words that had led to this dream.

He tells him.

The prince's lips part as he stares at him with a look of faint surprise, eyes wide. He should slap him. The real Canute would, or at least be considering it. But he doesn't, because like the Thorfinn in this dream, this phantom Canute was subject to every whim of the mind that had conjured this scene.

Thorfinn watches, partly in disbelief, as the prince begins to kneel and get on his knees, seemingly eager to fulfill his request. He watches as he carefully tucks his wet hair behind an ear on one side, shyly flutters those girly lashes of his, and lifts a hand to…

A gasp, and Thorfinn finds himself staring into a sky of pale blue. Not the prince's eyes, he's relieved to find, though it immediately annoys him that it reminds him of them. He's on his back, his clothed back, lying on the ground in his sleeping bag. His heart is racing, his body confused as it does not sense a battle despite the state of alarm. Lucidity returning to him, he sits up and groans as the dream's spell wears off. He hated that he could still see it, feel the cool touches on his skin. Of all the dreams he'd had, why would that be one of the few he'd still remember upon waking up?

Fully awake, he freezes as he realizes that the dream's spell hadn't completely worn off. Heat creeps onto his face, and he scowls as he curses himself for falling so far. His body was supposed to listen to him, not the other way around!

He's lucky he's such an early riser, waking before most of the men could bear witness to his shame. He glances all around him, and then again, ensuring that no waking soul would see him, before stalking off into the woods like a ruffled cat.

He had lost the battle. In control of his body, his ass. He was foolish to think he could ever be in control of anything. Not his mind, not his body, not the part of him that wanted to be touched by another boy. He had been beaten and humiliated by his own brain, his mental armies devastated before an uncontrolled wave of teenage hormones that cared nothing for the walls he'd worked so hard to set. He was a man who'd let himself be ruled by lust. He was a man lusting for another man in his dreams.

The dull horizon stretched for miles and miles, a mix of muddy colors painting a foreboding picture of the coming winter. Fallen leaves littered the ground surrounding the trail now worn by the footsteps of a hundred weary men, leaving their lonesome branches barren and gray. Among those lucky enough to not be trudging through rocks and dirt on foot was Thorfinn, perched in his familiar spot on the wagon carrying the prince and his entourage, keeping his usual nonchalant poise with his head resting on a fist as he stared, bored, into the distance. There were only so many trees he could count before feeling his mind begin to slip, but he was determined to keep his gaze on those desolate woods devoid of color. It was not the only thing testing his sanity.

He was used to the tedium of marching. At least, when he was on the ground, carrying himself on his own two feet. He could enter a flow state, thinking nothing and letting his legs move on their own until the day had ended and it was time to make camp. Sitting in a wagon was different. It was boring. Being so still felt wrong. He would be lying if he said he did not appreciate the break from working his legs every now and then, but it was beginning to have a toll on him. The endless marching was having a toll on everyone, he could tell.

Especially on his charge, who was so valiantly trying not to show it. Thorfinn was doing his best to drown out his presence, even more so than usual, but when faced with nothing but the dull white noise of footsteps and the muttering of the men surrounding him, his hunter's ears could not help but pick up on every sound beside him: the prince's mother hen assuring his lord that their march would be coming to an end soon; they'd reach friendly territory and no longer have to bear this mindnumbing tedium and the looming fear of being attacked or worse. The boy thanking his guardian for his attempts at comfort in a tired, low voice that was completely unlike the way he'd spoken in that isolated clearing only days ago. Thorfinn knew that if he looked, he'd see the prince sitting there solemnly, keeping his head down and doing his best to stay calm and silent. Much like how he'd been when he'd just been rescued, a timid lamb too scared to bleat for fear of drawing attention to himself among a pack of wolves.

The warrior wanted even less for him to enter his sight. He did not forgive easily, if at all. He could not forget the humiliation he had endured only a few nights ago. He could not forgive the prince for poisoning his subconscious and putting into his head the thoughts that had led to that filthy dream sent to torment him. The rational part of him knew that he was being childish; a misplaced anger taken out on the poor boy who had in reality played no part in the workings of his own mind. It was his own fault that he'd become like this, that he'd succumbed to a base instinct he'd thought himself above.

Ignoring the striking blond had always been a difficult task, but his trained awareness was truly backfiring on him now. As a warrior, Thorfinn had developed the ability to sense when eyes were on him and discern the intent they held, even when he could not see who they belonged to. He could sense those nervous eyes flitting to him before retreating once more behind the golden curtain they hid behind. Did he think he wouldn't notice? The warrior scowled. Gods, was he in a foul mood.

The day finally came to an end, saving him from his daily torment. In the fleeting comfort of his sleeping bag, Thorfinn was pleased to find that his mind was free of dreams that night, and the few nights after. He was proud of himself; perhaps he'd finally mastered the art of ignoring the prissy maiden prince. Sure, he still had to perform his grudging duties, helping to set up his tent and maybe even stir the cookpot, but he would not grace the boy with even a passing glance as he did so. He would not acknowledge the piercing gaze on his back as he stalked off to his lone post every night. It was petty and he knew it, but he had to win at least one battle. He'd take any victory he could get.

The dreaded day came once more. This time, he'd be strong. He would not let himself be tempted into starting another bout with the prince, who he had not exchanged any words with for the past week. He would suppress the urge to jab at him in the hopes of drawing out that whiny voice he was certain he did not miss hearing. He took his typical spot and prepared to empty his mind for the next half hour, become one with the tree at his back. He had done such a good job of drowning out his surroundings that he did not notice the absence of the usual splashing nearby.

"Thorfinn?"

His daze was rudely interrupted by a familiar voice, low and uncertain as it called out to him.

What the hell did he want?

The warrior did not budge, acting as if the sound had never been uttered. He hoped the prince would get the hint and leave him alone. But instead he heard footsteps approach, raising his hackles as his instincts told him that danger was coming. The light, nervous footfalls were all too reminiscent of the timid boy he had saved that day in the burning forest.

"I came to apologize," the intruder said.

Thorfinn's eyes widened, abandoning the act.

"If I offended you," he continued, in a voice that Thorfinn could tell was requiring all of his will to keep steady. "With what I said last Saturday."

The warrior could not stop himself from turning to stare wide-eyed at the boy standing a few feet away from him, a sight he knew he'd regret burning into his mind. Canute looked at him mournfully, a plea in his eyes clearly seeking some sort of forgiveness.

"It was wrong of me to insult your intelligence unprovoked." The prince's solemn gaze held Thorfinn's eyes in his own, the makings of a royal trained in diplomacy. "It was undignified and unbecoming. I had not considered the things you might have gone through."

All Thorfinn could do was gawk at him. Was he really apologizing to him? With the way he spoke, one would think he'd committed some grave sin, had personally murdered his family and set fire to his home.

"It was immature of me to not seek understanding before hostility. I ask for your forgiveness."

And with that, he bowed. A prince of Denmark was bowing to him, a mangy foul-mouthed boy warrior far below him, both in status and in height. Thorfinn could sense something else lying beneath his words, something else that had driven him to seek his company, but he could not identify it. Stunned to silence, all he could do was stare. He really thought he was avoiding him because he had been hurt by those insults? The words that were no more than pebbles compared to his boulders? Was he pitying him? It was laughable. Cute, even. He'd be offended if it were anyone else.

But there was no way in hell he'd ever tell him the truth. He ignored the guilt beginning to claw at him as those sad doe eyes bored into his soul, anxious and clearly awaiting any sort of acknowledgement from him. The warrior clicked his tongue and scratched the back of his neck, wanting to be anywhere but trapped in this stifling atmosphere. He had come here to dissociate while the prince played in the water for half an hour, not have a mushy heart to heart.

"The hell are you on about?" he managed. "I didn't care about any of that shit. I'm not fragile like you, Princess."

Oops. Even then, he could not help but jab at him a little. But instead of getting bristled at the slight, the prince's shoulders relaxed as a tension left him. Had he truly been so worried about something so trivial? Thorfinn tried not to groan. He had finally come close to putting the week's trials behind him and here the source of his torment was, coming back to haunt him.

"I'm glad."

The apprehension in Canute's eyes faded, and in its place came a glint of inquiry.

"But if that's the case," he started, concern twisting his pretty face once more. "Why are you avoiding me?"

The warrior froze. It was the question he wanted to hear the least.

"If I've done anything else to bring you discomfort, I'd like to know so that I can mend it."

His words were solemn. What had happened for him to suddenly care about his feelings so much? The look on his face sent a strange wave of déjà vu through the shorter boy, and his pulse began to quicken as he recalled the very thing he had been trying so hard to forget for the past week. He could not help but recall that same gentle face and voice asking him how he'd like to be served, innocent eyes blind to the filth behind his own. Nor could he help the faint blush forming on his cheeks, the searing burn that came with summoning that sinful image. This was the longest he'd held eye contact with the beautiful blond in a week. He had almost forgotten the true reason why he had been avoiding him all this time in the first place, even before the incident that had led him here.

He could not grace him with a decent answer.

"It's none of your business," he spat, his words laced with more embarrassment than venom. "Nothing's wrong. Hurry up and go splash around before your nanny wonders what's taking so long."

He watched Canute frown, tensing as if he wanted to say something before he finally relented and turned towards the stream. The warrior let out an annoyed huff, exasperated and relieved that the ordeal was over with. Closing his eyes, he heard the familiar sound of the prince beginning to undress before the noise came to a pause.

"Thorfinn?" that tormenting voice called once more.

His eyes shot open. What now? He was beginning to regret not walking off after the prince had finished his little speech.

"Would you like to bathe first?" There was not a hint of shame or hesitation in Canute's voice. "You may use my soap if you wish. I'll leave you for a bit if you'd prefer some privacy. I do regret my earlier tone, but I am genuinely concerned for your physical state, given that you must serve me."

Thorfinn could not believe it. Could he not just leave things alone? He'd thought himself finally free of the boy's whining and nagging, but here he was, back in full force already.

Luckily for him, the prince got the hint when he remained silent this time and continued his business. He was quicker than usual, and before long Thorfinn could hear him already putting his clothes back on.

"I'll leave some soap for you here," he called. "I can go back by myself."

And he did. Thorfinn watched as he walked past him, relieved to not have a passing glance shot his way. He waited until the prince's silhouette faded completely before finally removing himself from his post and taking apprehensive steps toward the supplies left out for him. He examined the bar of soap, a quality bar of sweet-scented lye. The good stuff only a royal would be carrying around with him. That explained his scent.

He thought it over. It wasn't every day you had the opportunity to use royal soap, was it?

Sitting in the wagon once more, Thorfinn's shoulders felt lighter. Maybe now that they were rid of dirt for the first time in Odin knows how long, a weight had been lifted. As he gazed towards the horizon, his hair fluttered freely in the wind, the strands lighter and perhaps containing just a bit more color in them, resembling more of the hue they once were. No longer were they bound together by caked grime and sweat. The amber locks were still matted and unruly, a beast that like its owner could never be fully tamed, but for once, one could run their fingers through the soft brush and not be met with a greasy resistance repelling them. Even his clothes were lighter, slightly less stiff as they too found themselves free from a layer of mud that had once threatened to be permanent.

He had tried to ignore the eyes on him as he returned from the stream. He believed he had done so inconspicuously, drawing little attention as he usually did. But people had stared. Had looked at him as if he'd grown a second head. Was his usual scent so strong that the absence of it turned heads? Was the world ending because Thorfinn, the wild, mangy runt of a warrior that'd bark at anyone who dared to offer him any sort of direction, had decided to undergo a full cleanse at the behest of another? Apparently it was; one would think his presence signaled the coming of Ragnarok itself with the way this band of warriors had stopped to stare at him. He especially tried to ignore the big blue eyes locked on him in amazement as he walked past, the familiar lashes blinking once and then twice in disbelief before squinting in a look Thorfinn did not want to identify. Let him have his victory. Let him relish the fact that he, the noble and belevolent prince, had managed to tame the beast who surely was only a misguided soul in need of a tender and caring hand to remind him of what kindness was.

"Your Highness, I applaud you," an aggravating voice had rung out as the warrior boarded the wagon, mockery underlying its feigned astonishment. "You truly are a great man, to do in one day what none of us had managed to accomplish in all of a decade."

Thorfinn shot a look that would kill any other man, but the balding blond only stared back at him with a disgustingly smug look on his face as he drank in what was sure to be a once-in-a-lifetime sight. He would not humor him anymore than he already had. So he willed himself to turn away, crossing his arms and surely painting a picture of a pouting brat as he bottled up the foul words sitting on his tongue. Not this time. Not while those other eyes were on him, glued to him so hard he could feel the astonishment radiating off of them and boring holes into him. It was sickening. Everything was, all of them were. He sank into his seat, hoping the growing color on his face was hidden despite the absence of a grimy veil to mask it.

When they made camp that night, he could not ignore the shift in the prince's demeanor towards him, the once nervous glances replaced by looks that reeked of something different, something warmer. He'd set up his tent for him, stoked the fire for his cookpot, and then stalked off to his usual distant post to brood, idly polishing his daggers for the umpteenth time, an unnecessary task given that they'd been hardly used these past few days and were now so clean he could see his own clean face in them. He did not want to admit that even he could see the difference. Rarely did he ever look like a boy of seventeen summers beyond his height and stature. For a moment, his youth was unobscured by grime and the matted mess usually framing it. For a moment, he was simply a boy, his hands free of blood and dirt as they were meant to be.

And so was the prince, who had dared to approach him that night. Seldom did Thorfinn join him and his followers as they ate. It could not be said for sure whether it was pride or discomfort that drove him to enjoy his meals alone despite their invitations. They had accepted that the boy would never join them, would always prefer to chew on dried rations and foraged nuts than enjoy a warm meal cooked by hands that were not his own. So they ate separately, an insurmountable distance between them. Tonight, the prince had chosen to cross that distance. He bore with him a bowl of stew, still warm from the pot.

"Leftovers," he explained simply. "I thought it a waste to throw out."

Thorfinn looked up, lowering his dagger. In the night, bathed in the gold of the distant firelight at his back, Canute looked ethereal as ever standing before him, the absence of his cloak and chainmail exposing his thin figure. The warmth radiating from his smile was appalling. Did he get off on thinking he was being a savior to the needy? The warrior knew little of this so-called Christ's teachings, but he had picked up that its scripture apparently taught humility and compassion for the unfortunate. In that moment, the prince likely thought he was embodying such teachings. Perhaps that is what had driven him to reach out to him in the first place. What a joke.

He thought to turn away and give the boy a dismissive glare, but he found himself frozen instead, eyes locked in place. The prince had always had that sort of effect on him, a strange spell surely woven to enthrall all who were unfortunate enough to lay eyes on him. Thorfinn did not believe that he had been raised to be insignificant and unseen; he could not imagine the prince walking through any room and not commanding the attention of all in the vicinity. After all, if even he could never fully ignore that striking blond head of his, who could?

Used to the lack of response, Canute lowered himself to gently place the bowl within reach of the sitting boy as if he were leaving food for a stray. Doing so, he met his eyes again, a disarming look as if to signal to a feral animal that he truly and wholly meant no harm. Silently, before he could overstay his welcome, the prince got up and turned to leave, and Thorfinn watched as his hair swept through the air as he did so. He kept his gaze on him as the shape of his silhouette shrunk and faded back into the distance, rejoining the light of the camp and the company of his followers and leaving him alone in the dark.

He sat there simply, for a moment. The distant light flickered in the twilight, and so did something within him. The warmth of the prince's smile, gentle and kind, still lingered on his skin, which was beginning to burn. How could he have thought such things about someone who looked at him like that? The boy could not help how he looked. Nor how he was built. And then Thorfinn forced his thoughts to a stop with a sudden shame before they could spiral once more. What was wrong with him? Did being around an attractive teenager his age for so long really have such an effect on him? Was he really no better than a rutting mutt, a slave to his adolescent body?

His mind is not free of dreams that night. What awaits him in his sleep is something familiar. A warmth still lingers, enveloping him and clouding the depths of his subconscious in a golden haze that enshrouded every worry, every sorrow. The fog shifts and swirls, finally taking on the faint shape of a boy. A silken stream of gold settles on his shoulders, framing the slender neck and soft planes of the face it belongs to. His glossy, rosy lips are curved in a smile, blinding in its radiance. Eyes reminiscent of the sky glimmer with fondness, so clear they were a mirror. In them Thorfinn could see himself, see him as the boy saw him: a kindred soul, a lonely boy of the same age aching for companionship just as much as he was. He would reach out to him, attempt to form a bridge and connect the two despite the extreme distance separating them. And he would succeed.

Thorfinn recognizes this sort of dream. It is familiar because it reminds him of the dreams he has about home, of warmth and kindness and all the comforts he'd believed to be forever lost and beyond his grasp.

Home.

An ache stirs within his heart, and the image of the prince begins to blur.

When Thorfinn wakes, he feels more rested than he can remember ever being since he first sold his soul to walk a path of blood. Despite the morning chill, a warmth clings to him. Probably from the soup he had enjoyed the night before, he tells himself. As it begins to fade, leaving him along with the dream's soothing spell, something within him burns to reach out and seize it in its grasp, to hold it close and never let go. But it leaves him, and all he is left with is a hollow where that warmth had once taken residence, feeling its absence as achingly as if a part of him had been torn from him.

He had always been ensnared, hadn't he?

He had walked into the trap long before he had ever even seen it. From the very start, he had always been the lesser man—lesser before the prince who had deigned to show him kindness and an attempt at understanding despite the awful things that lay within him, both in his body and his soul. The prince saw a boy who had known nothing but death and anger wearing filth like a veil and had outstretched a hand to him in spite of that. The Canute in his dreams had been on the mark; he had done nothing to deserve such treatment, and yet a prince of Denmark was lowering himself for his sake out of a purity in his heart that Thorfinn could not ever begin to grasp.

Watching the morning sun show its face and break through the horizon, banishing the fogged remains of the night, Thorfinn could feel the weight of the day's trials looming over him. As if his mind and eyes alone hadn't already been formidable enough, he now had another new adversary to contend with. His own heart had left him to take the side of those traitors, seduced by the threads of golden silk now weaving themselves into the very fabric of his soul.

Another tireless battle awaited him. As always, he had no choice but to fight it. He got to his feet and took his first steps towards a new day now bathed in gold.