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The city is an expanse of lights beneath his feet, still full of life despite the late hour.
Askeladd takes a drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing briefly in the darkness before dissipating into the night. The soft scrape of leather against concrete catches his ear, and when he turns to look, he catches Thorfinn’s small frame climbing up from the fire escape with practiced ease.
He watches as the boy steps onto his balcony, wearing his ridiculous ripped jeans and a leather jacket that barely protects him from the cold. Askeladd leans casually against the railing, turning his gaze back to the city below them. Thorfinn joins him there, and for a moment, the only sound is the distant hum of traffic far below and the occasional flick of Askeladd’s cigarette as he taps away the ash.
Thorfinn doesn't say anything, but Askeladd can sense the boy's frustration coming out of him in waves. His new job as Canute's bodyguard doesn't allow him to move on his own like he's used to, and now he's restless. Askeladd suppresses a sigh; he’s in no mood for whatever antics the kid has in mind tonight.
“Seems some of the guys are getting cold feet about the whole Canute situation," Askeladd mutters, letting the cigarette’s light die out before flicking it to the ground. He pulls another one from his pocket and lights it with ease. He needs another dose of nicotine if he's going to put up with the boy. "Can’t say I blame them, with Thorkell’s group sniffing around. But it’s not exactly helping when you’re out here instead of keeping a close eye on our guest.” Their hostage, technically. But since the father seems reluctant to pay the ransom, Canute has become more of a nuisance than anything else. And what is a guest if not a nuisance? He can still get some use out of Canute, he’s sure of that. Beautiful rich kids always have their uses, but there's no denying that he has become more trouble than he's worth.
Thorfinn’s eyes flash with annoyance. “I’m doing my job. Canute’s asleep, and Bjorn is keeping watch. He can be on his own for a while. I’m not his damn nanny.”
Askeladd raises an eyebrow, curious. The kid’s tone is sharp, which isn’t uncommon, but it still carries something heavier than his usual moodiness.
“Problem in paradise?” he mocks. He has noticed how close the two teenagers have become. It’s strange to see Thorfinn talking to anyone of his own accord, let alone a target. The cigarette dangles between his fingers as he exhales another cloud of smoke.
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
"I thought you two were getting along, that's all. Maybe the kid needs a handjob in your absence, and it's not my desire to deprive him of anything. As I said, he’s our guest."
His tone must have revealed more than the light teasing he intended, because Thorfinn shoots him a strange look, as if trying to read his mood. Which is pretty dark, but the kid has never been good at reading others—or at self-preservation—so he keeps pushing.
"The fuck is up your ass now, baldy?” Thorfinn snaps. “I told you, Canute is fine. You’re the one obsessed with him, so what the hell is your problem?"
Askeladd almost laughs. "No problem. I have no complaints, really. You do everything I tell you to, after all. Such a good boy for your father's killer."
That was cruel, even for him, but Thorfinn has chosen a terrible time to test his patience. The kid is instantly in his space, the knife he always carries pressed millimeters from Askeladd’s throat. Unfazed, Askeladd takes another drag from his cigarette and blows the smoke in Thorfinn’s face.
"I could kill you right now," the boy snarls, eyes blazing with fury.
Askeladd, annoyed by the empty threat and the useless conversation, smiles coldly. “Then why don’t you?” He tilts his head, exposing his neck to the blade’s edge. “What’s stopping you?”
“You know what.”
“You've been at this for ten years, boy. You are an accomplished assassin, and you are close to me. You could kill me as easily as you take a piss. And yet,” Askeladd extends his arms at his sides, “here I stand. Your blade is at my throat, but you won't take the natural next step. I'm starting to think you don't want to.”
“Of course I want to! It's the only thing I want! The thing I live for!”
“Use the knife, then. Get what you want, Thorfinn. Stop making a fool of yourself. It was cute when you were ten, but now it's getting tiresome.”
“Shut up, asshole! You know it can't be like this! It has to be in a proper duel.”
Askeladd moves closer, until the tender skin of his throat touches the cold edge of Thorfinn’s blade, and then looks down at the kid. He can see the glow of the street lights reflected in his eyes, the pursed line of his mouth in a perpetual grimace. His stupidity makes Askeladd want to strangle him.
“Oh? And why is that? Why do you have to kill me in a duel? Won't it be,” Askeladd smiles in terrible mockery, “because I told you to?”
Thorfinn’s breathing quickens—his rage almost palpable—and Askeladd wants to laugh at him.
“Stop making shit up, you didn't tell me shit.”
“Don't tell me you don't remember our second meeting? I'm hurt, truly. To think I'm the one you live for, and yet you treat me like this…”
“Don't say it like that, dipshit. I live to kill you—that’s what I meant!”
Askeladd almost sighs. Talking to a fool is like pulling teeth.
“Our second meeting, Thorfinn. When you failed your first assassination attempt. Bjorn stopped you.”
“Yeah, yeah, I remember, baldy. I'm not the one here with the incoming threat of dementia hanging over him.”
Askeladd ignores him. He takes one last drag from the cigarette, and then he lets it fall to the ground.
“Why did you stop the assassination attempts? Why did you start asking me for duels instead of trying to kill me in my sleep?”
Thorfinn’s frown deepens; perhaps Askeladd has finally succeeded in making him think. He shouldn’t allow this nonsense, really. His control over Thorfinn relies on withholding what the boy wants—revenge, honor, victory—so encouraging him to question his beliefs is not the smartest move. Thorfinn is at his best when held by a metaphorical leash, woven from the hypocrisies he tells himself. And yet, Askeladd—perhaps because of the late hour, or perhaps because his plan to blackmail Canute's father has failed, leaving him angry and on edge—finds himself curious. How much can he push the boy before he breaks? For how long can he step down from the stage and speak truthfully before everything turns to ashes?
(Would the boy finally kill him? Would he walk away with Canute, leaving this life of crime behind, his revenge accomplished at last? No more thoughts of Askeladd to disturb his mind?)
“I told you to, Thorfinn,” he almost purrs. “I looked into your eyes and told you that, in our circles, the only legitimate way to avenge your father with honor was with a proper pistol duel. And you believed me.”
There's silence for a moment, a few seconds. A car passes below on the street. One of the streetlights flickers.
“So?” Thorfinn finally says, for once more confused than angry. “It's true, that's how we solve conflicts around here. With violence and blood," he sounds disgusted despite being a willing participant in all the violence and blood.
His wrist must be tired from holding the knife at his throat, but the hand doesn't tremble. The edge of the blade kisses Askeladd’s throat but it doesn't cut the skin. And really, it would be easy to make him bleed a little, even by accident, but the brat's been careful.
Such a little fool.
“To be fair, I didn't expect you to live this long,” Askeladd goes on. “You were a scrawny little thing—I could’ve had Bjorn kill you after he found you in my room with a knife, but I thought: why not use the kid for a little while? Let's throw him the bone of the duel to keep him in line until he inevitably gets killed. But look at you! You survived! And now you are strong enough to keep surviving anything I throw your way. I'm almost proud. Not even I could picture a future in which you grew up and turned into a well-oiled killing machine, and I was still breathing around you. Who would have thought?”
The kid is watching his face intently, his eyes moving across his expression like a scholar trying to decipher a very complicated book.
For a moment, Askeladd thinks he gets it. There's almost fear in his eyes. But then, like always, anger and stubbornness take hold of him.
“So what?” He grits his teeth, getting even closer until they're breathing the same air, the knife still at his throat, but never breaking through the skin. There's a metaphor in there, somewhere. “You think that means shit to me? I knew you were a scheming bastard already, asshole, but you are right about one thing: I am a well-oiled killing machine, I will survive anything you throw at me. And then, sooner or later, I will kill you. Properly. I will shoot you between the eyes, or in your shitty liver and then cut your throat. And you will be dead at my feet. And my father will finally rest in peace.”
“Is that so?” Askeladd whispers, watching him. Another lesson wasted on that thick skull, but Askeladd can't say he's disappointed. He’s always mesmerized when the brat burns like this, all that fierce focus locked solely on him. It makes Askeladd wonder: does he ever unleash this fire on Canute? Does the pretty boy even know how to handle it?
Or, like so many other things about the kid, is this intensity something he saves just for Askeladd?
“Yes,” says Thorfinn like a curse, like a blessing. With Askeladd leaning in, their breaths mingle, close enough to share the air between them. Askeladd briefly wonders what the kid would do if he kissed him; if that would finally push Thorfinn to press the blade into his throat. The idea of cold steel in his flesh—of Thorfinn's hands slick with his blood—almost tempts him to find out.
The thought that Thorfinn might actually kiss him back stops him, in the end.
With a quiet laugh, he steps away. Thorfinn lets him go, the gleam of the knife vanishing as quickly as it appeared, like it was never a threat at all.
Because it never was, thinks Askeladd with something akin to amusement.
He's in a better mood now, for some reason. Thorfinn's eyes follow his movements like a predator about to strike, but Askeladd knows he won't bite.
“Well, as long as you are still motivated,” he muses, just to say something.
Thorfinn bares his teeth in a grim parody of a smile. “I'm always motivated, bastard. One day, I’ll rip your heart out of your chest.”
The brat’s turning into a romantic, Askeladd thinks with a shake of his head, stifling a yawn. Now that his irritation has passed, he’s grown bored with the conversation.
“Yes, yes, I get it—you’ll kill me one day. Now off you go. Some of us are old and need our sleep.”
He turns his back on Thorfinn and walks inside, leaving the window open and the curtains undrawn. He can still feel the boy’s gaze on him, sharp as ever, like a brand searing into his skin. As he settles into bed, Askeladd ponders how long Thorfinn will stand out there, watching him, whether Canute is wondering where his so-called protector has wandered off to. He should tell him to go and do his job properly; Askeladd is not the person Thorfinn should be guarding.
Instead, he closes his eyes and falls into an easy sleep. Thorfinn’s eyes burn at the back of his neck.