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The moment Thorfinn walks up to him, all wide eyed and expectant, he knows he’s done for. There is no need for the boy to utter a single word—Thors knows what he wants from the look on his face alone.
With Helga and Ylva out of the house for the day, out on womanly errands in preparation for her and Ari’s upcoming wedding, Thors is left to deal with Thorfinn all on his own, and it seems that just when Ylva is ready to leave the nest, it is time for Thorfinn to start acting up in her stead; few and far between are the days where his son does not find some way to pester him.
It has gotten to the point where he has grown almost accustomed to his presence hanging around him at all times. Like a mosquito’s buzzing circling him, he has learned to pay it no mind.
Kneeling in front of the open hearth, the man feeds the fire with another few sticks, trying to get a nice flame going for the quickly approaching nightfall. Thorfinn stands at his side, arms crossed over his chest disapprovingly, clearly unhappy with being ignored by his father.
No matter how many times Thors dismisses him, the boy just does not let up. “Come on, can’t you tell me just one story? Leif does it all the time!” The man swallows back a groan. Ah, how troublesome.
Thorfinn is older now, at the cusp of adulthood, yet he is still the exact same starry eyed little boy from years ago, begging for stories to quench his thirst for war and battle. Thors sighs wearily, tosses the last stick into the fire and rubs at the deep furrow between his knitted brows.
This is not the first time he has had to repel the boy’s forceful requests, but it never gets any easier. He begins in a sigh, slow and patient, but exhaustion showing through in his tone of voice. “Thorfinn, this isn't..”
“I know I can't sail out to be a warrior” His son interrupts him, words dragged out and whiny, sounding almost rehearsed—only natural, considering the amount of times they'd had this conversation. “I’m just asking to hear about it”
With the years, he had finally stopped pestering him about wanting to become a warrior—Thank Odin—but the demand for stories never died down. Damn that old man Leif for spoiling him this way.
Taking his silence as a go-ahead, Thorfinn pushes on. "Come on! I know you've got plenty”
Thors has to take a deep breath to calm himself, filling his lungs with the warm air heated by the fire. Thorfinn is not wrong—the older man has uncountable stories of battle and bloodshed, which is precisely the reason he feels such strong aversion to telling Thorfinn about them. The boy doesn't know what he is really asking for; being sheltered—kept safe and sound where the abomination that was war could not reach him, he has no real idea of the horrors he is currently begging Thors to retell.
“The guys in the village told me some stuff about you, how you used to fight back then” As his son retells stories about Thors that he had always tried so hard to keep away from the boy’s ears, he is all starry eyes and awe, and Thors’ ever dwindling patience grows thinner. “Thorfinn…” He warns, voice low and rumbly through his gritted teeth, nostrils flaring in mounting exasperation. But the boy pays his warning no mind; with a dreaming look on his face, he goes on and on and on and Thors wishes Helga was there so she could work her motherly magic as usual and end this torment. “Can’t you tell me one where you killed someone? I wa–”
“Thorfinn! That’s enough.” Thors roars, his patience finally bursting.
The sudden outburst has Thorfinn flinching, a quick look of dread flashing in his wide eyes. The words have the same effect on him as if he had been physically slapped in the face, and his mouth hangs open in surprise for a split second, before he quickly presses his lips shut tight, bottom lip jutting out. The flickering light of the fire dances over his features, illuminates his look of shock for Thors to take in, and he curses himself for snapping so suddenly.
The man is taken aback himself—he truly hadn’t meant to yell like that…
“Sorry, father…” Murmurs Thorfinn. His voice is quiet, so small compared to that spirited, unrelenting tone from mere seconds ago; his hurt is palpable, as audible in his voice as it is visible in his features—corners of his lips downturned and his gaze timid, staring off into the fire with shame, not wanting to meet Thors’ own. The dejection in his son’s face brings forth a sharp sting in his heart. This is the first time he has ever snapped at him like this, isn’t it?
Without another word, the boy quietly turns on his heel and drags himself to their shared sleeping room, gaze downcast. Thors opens his mouth to call out for him, but as usual, he hasn’t the slightest idea of what to say. Why does this have to be so difficult? As the boy disappears into the doorway, Thors presses his lips shut tight in defeat.
Why couldn’t he just understand what he was trying to protect him from?
With a small grunt, he stands up from his crouch. With Helga away, he knows he cannot leave the boy like that—it falls onto him to comfort him, and the thought has him furrowing his brows in distress. Just how is he supposed to manage…?
In the warm light of the fire, he takes the moment to breathe a deep sigh. Watching the steady flame dance, he brushes a hand through his curls, steeling himself, before finally following Thorfinn into the room.
He leaves the door open, allowing some of the fire light in, and in the low, orange glow, he finds his son sitting curled up in the middle of the bed, with his knees to his chest and arms wrapped around himself.
Thors frowns at this surprisingly feeble looking Thorfinn; his son is soon to be a man, but with his glossy eyes and quivering bottom lip poking out in a pout, it is difficult to tell. Ah, how complicated everything has to be…
“Thorfi-”
“I'm not gonna ask again, alright..” The boy’s voice is hoarse, mumbled quietly into the fabric of his sleeves. Thors sighs.
“That's not…” His sentence fizzles out halfway through—words still aren't working with him. Instead, he begins a slow stride toward the bed.
As he reaches the corner, the boy looks away, burrowing deeper into himself. Carefully, Thors sits down on the edge of the bed, feet planted on the floor. His weight brings the bedding down and forces Thorfinn closer to him; he can feel the warmth of him against his broad back, not daring to move just yet.
Without turning to look at the boy, he pats the space beside him. “Come here, Thorfinn…” He murmurs softly.
A beat passes, then there comes a shuffling behind him as Thorfinn shifts on the bed. Wordlessly, the boy drags himself to sit by Thors’ side on the edge of the bed. He expects him to just sit down beside him, but the boy slumps down, pools onto the bedding like an overgrown cat and—despite the circumstances—timidly lays his head in Thors’ lap.
His eyes go wide, thick brows shooting up as he stares down at this surprising display. A wet sniffle from below has his brow twitching, his look of awe resolving in a frown. Ah, maybe this had meant more to Thorfinn than he had thought…
With how his son is laying—on his side and facing him, but with his head buried in the folds of Thors’ kaftan—it is hard to make out his countenance, but he catches a hint of those glossy eyes and a strong brow knitted in distress.
It is amazing how he can be cuddled into him like this with that angry face on him; the proud defensive boy that he is, acting like a little kid, crying over something so trivial.
Despite how much the boy has grown, his head feels so small and light on his thigh. Fragile. In a rare moment of weakness like this, Thors knows he has to tread carefully.
Hesitantly, he places a palm over his cheek, noting with a swell in his heart how his hand dwarfs the boy. A wide thumb fits right on his cheek bone, and as he strokes gently under his eye, it falls shut, long, dark lashes dewy with moisture.
A sigh passes his lips as he studies the gloomy expression on his son’s face. His brows are still furrowed into an unhappy squint, but Thors can feel the wetness on the pad of his thumb, and it has a twinge of guilt blooming in him. His sweet boy…
“I-.. am sorry for yelling at you, Thorfinn…” Reluctant and uncertain, but he manages. Thorfinn doesn't give him a response, but his bottom lip stops quivering.
Not ceasing in his soothing gesture, his thumb continues to trace the soft swell of his dusty pink cheek, and eventually, the angry look on his face melts, giving way to a sleepy, placid expression. After a while of this comfortable silence, his hand stops moving, just resting lightly on his warm cheek, and those drowsy eyes flutter open slowly. The color of amber, wide and round and staring up at him expectantly.
Taken aback by their surprising intensity, he is forced to look away; his son is no warrior, but Gods, the look in his eyes can be so fierce sometimes. This time, Thors lets his gaze wander around the dark room as he searches in the depths of his mind for something to appease Thorfinn’s ceaseless need. He has never been any good with words, but Thorfinn wants a story, and he doesn’t want to deny the boy any more than he already has.
Apprehensively, he begins. “Far, far to the west, across the sea, there’s a land…” In the back of his mind, he is only hoping this story won’t bore his war-hungry, energetic son.
And as he tells Thorfinn the story of Vinland, his hand winds up in the boy’s hair, playing with the uncombed, messy strands the way Helga always would when he was younger. Thorfinn sighs comfortably, face cuddling into his thigh as he lets the low rumble of his father’s voice lull him.
Despite all the trouble the boy manages to bring him, Thors catches himself smiling softly into the story.
Odin help him, what a troublesome brat he had on his hands.