bTitle/b - Silent Night
bAuthor/b- lj user="cornerofmadness"
bDisclaimer/B - Makoto Yukimura owns it
bRating/b - teen
bCharacters/Pairing/b - Thorfinn
bWord Count/b - 358
bWarning/b - none
bSummary/b - Thorfinn loses again.
bAuthor's Note/b - Happy holidays 2014. This one is short because I totally ran out of time.
XXX
Thorfinn ached. He had lost to Askeladd again. He should have known better. He was barely thirteen and didn't come close to Askeladd's size or strength. He shouldn't have allowed himself to be so easily goaded. Askeladd did it every time.
Thorfinn lay back on the deck of his father's boat, pulling his cloak tighter against the gently falling snow. He had worked so hard to achieve the impossible task Askeladd had given him just so he had the right to challenge him and it was over in seconds. Askeladd got him so angry he lost his only advantage, his speed and dexterity. He moved in too close and Askeladd tossed him about like Thorfinn's sister's rag doll.
Absently, he wondered if something was broken. Thorfinn couldn't bring himself to care. He had gotten a petty revenge on Askeladd, stealing a skin of potato liquor. He'd never had it before but even if he threw it overboard untouched, Askeladd wasn't getting a drop of it. Thorfinn uncapped it, giving it a sniff. It burned his nose. Caraway's pungent scent mixed in with the liquor.
Thorfinn stared up at the night sky. Snow fluttered down and the night was silent and still. He wished he could enjoy the peace. He knew that it was Christmas, knew that some of the Danes had taken up that foreign belief. He didn't understand it. What could it offer that Thor and Odin couldn't? Thorfinn had no idea and no interest in finding out. Granted Odin had never granted him any favors, not even the strength to kill Askeladd and avenge his father.
He took a tentative sip of the liquor then coughed like his lungs would flee his chest. Oh, it was terrible. Thorfinn took several more because this is what men drank. He preferred his stolen sips of honey wine or beer. The acrid burn reminded him of the middens. It was horrible.
The skin of liquor hit the water with a satisfying splash. Thorfinn buried his face in his cloak, not ready to go inside yet. Let the snow dust him. His world was ever-cold anyhow. What did it matter?