A Philosophical Mess of A Thorffin x Male!Reader Fic

Chapter One.

Blood.

All he recalls is the taste of blood. That, and the almost intoxicating smell of filthy dirt which is quite frankly violating his nostrils.

Give it a moment, now; the fear hasn't set in.

He hardly registers the world around him, barely making out the shapes his eyes perceive the world to be.

And a moment more passes, slowly but surely blinking his eyes, without fear. This blissful sensory shutdown, he unconsciously knew, was bound to dissolve soon enough.

And it does.

Screams.

Utter terror.

The sounds are enough, more than enough, to keep him running to the edge of this damned earth, if he were capable of such a feat. The frantic cries for help heard all around him snapped his consciousness wide awake. His eyesight, however, didn't seem too eager to catch up just yet.

He attempts to move his legs, no; feel them in the first place. He does not.

Barely able to see, and simply unable to move, he knew he was a goner. Calling for help is hopeless as well, seeing as the screams all over him blend into one net of certain death.

I do not want to die.

Not like this.

He feels something. An aura. It surrounds him, and all those nearby who are still breathing. They all sense it.

Not salvation, not justice, not a single ounce of concern or mercy.

Death. Total, unapologetic, death.

And it reigns upon them, rushes at them with swift, cold, practical speed. A predator devouring easy prey, roadkill. The hunter's bow releasing an arrow, calculated acceleration, slicing through the wind into their warm, thin, feeble necks.

And what else can they do? What else is he capable of, breathing with only his own wavering will of survival, if not to simply watch and except his doom? To witness the only home he's ever known be stomped into submission, into nothing.

Into dust. Into the mere smell of blood, hazy images of the brain's own desire, the heart's aching.

Later on as he tries to recount all this, he does not know of the men who pillaged his village before Askeladd's men took over. He supposes that this is in Askeladd's character, seeing such an opportunity. A helpless village pillaged by men he can easily defeat. So many slaves and valuables to be gained, all for his taking.

Now, back to where we were, to the bloodshed in the village.

He feels something. An arm wraps itself around his torso, albeit too roughly. He struggles back and forth out of fear, for he has heard many a terrifying tale about the fates of those captured by Vikings. Unfortunately, that does little to deter the iron-clad grip of whatever monster had caught him.

He feels the urge to cry, but doesn't.

His eyes have finally adjusted to the light, and he is now able to see the horrors around him in great detail.

As he is dragged against his will, he can only stare in utter silent despair at the carnage and slaughter taking up all his vision.

Home.

Or what it once was.

Names and faces he knew, folk he looked up to or despised yet ultimately cared for, all a mere husk of who they once were. Fields of lush grass, a somewhat muted yet beautiful green, now painted red in cruel spurts of a barbaric brush. Paths he'd taken before, twisted and carved into his memory, now littered with bodies unrecognizable to him, for better or for worse. The dirt he'd play in, along with many other rebellious boys and girls from the village, that'd stain his clothes and earn him a harsh scolding from his parents. That, too, was tainted by the marks of bloodshed, of the scratches of struggle, the final signs of life etched on the soil.