An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
This is a late fic for Day 3 of Askebjorn week. Old man yaoi compelled me.
Summary:
Askeladd was being a tease, sitting on Bjorn's lap while reading records. Bjorn was frustrated but tried being patient while Askeladd used Bjorn as his chair... Until Bjorn took things into his own hands.
I’ve been working on this art piece for a long while now,and I’m excited to add my work to the fandom. It was inspired by that one momment with Askelad being along on the kanar,wrapped up in his cloak while his men laugh at a young Thorfin. Bjorn is always a must with anything Askelad. ❤︎
In my hc , Askelad plays with Bjorn’s hair when the helmet is off. Askelad would never grow his out but I imagine he loves Bjorn’s dark long hair. It’s so opposite to his own and doesn’t remind him of his pos dad.
I had to draw an owl bear and add it to this scene. It’s so cute 🥰!!!
Not sure if I should add the Askebjorn2025 tag since it’s on the tail end- but here it is!😃😁
We want to thank everyone who participated in our event, all the works have been absolutely wonderful! ❤️ Please, hmu if we've missed reblogging anyone's work by accident!
We'll do our best to reblog late works in case people didn't manage to finish everything they wanted last week. So feel free to tag us and/or use the hashtag still!
We'll hopefully see you again next year! We got plenty of prompt suggestions this year and couldn't use them all, so some might be included next time. However, if anyone has any ideas for next year's prompts, you can always message us and we'll add it to the list!
+ Don't forget to check out the ao3 collection if you'd like to read the fics written for the event:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
They found a nice spot by the river. Well any spot was nice in this place. In the endless expanse of the ocean and of the rolling yellow wheat hills always ready to be harvested yet never went rotten. Askeladd half wondered if this was the place Thorfinn would mutter about in his sleep.
They brought only one blanket, they didn’t need to but it felt more natural to bring it. Perhaps it was their minds still getting accustomed to not being human anymore. It took some time adjusting to this place. It was a rather jarring realization to Askeladd that this was where he would end up in and not in some godforsaken cesspool of blood and corpses to fill it. Bjørn was sadden at first to not be dining with Odin the All-Father while waiting for Ragnorok, but once Askeladd came around after a little while, Bjørn quickly warmed up to the idea of staying here forever.
They cozied up on the ground, bending the stalks to make a makeshift bed. Askeladd decided to go on top of Bjørn, as he often did lately, nuzzling his head like a cat directly on the place he drove his sword into. Bjørn hummed with content and placed a soft kiss on Askeladd’s forehead. They both didn’t quite understand why they ended up in a place like this but neither would complain for as long as they were allowed to stay here. Away from the constraints of life, and away from where their way of life would be scorned for. They cuddled, sharing eachothers body heat, and slept for a very long time.
Remember when Askeladd recounts to Thorfinn of when he saw Thorkell’s weakness? What if during that battle, he also saw for the first time Bjørn’s Berserker stance?
So I’m just imagining Askeladd is already getting blindsided by the fact that Thorkell the freaking tall is there and he just saw the legend himself fall to the floor, and not even five minutes later, he sees his new recruit, the relatively passive one out of all the recruits, just tear through 10 men like it was nothing.
I had to use the quote Uhtred says ,character from the Last Kingdom. I think it fits this piece I made for these two.🫶🏼
990s AD go burrrrrrr
Sometimes I wonder if some things went differently for Askelad - that he would have turned out to be more like Uhtred from the last kingdom. That character still has to wrestle between the cultures that he was raised in and the culture that he was born to. He was born into a Angalo Saxon family but he was raised by the Danish man named Ragnar and his family. He was a servant boy but the Danish family adopted him and he essentially became a son.Often times allies leave him standing solo because he dosent fit the block then he turns around he wings impossible situations to his favor or to help the people he cares about.
Both characters play the kingmaker roles but don’t wear the crown until the final chapters.
But I doubt Askelad would have that kind of honest reflection when he’s been essential threaded to Lydia’s ideals of folk hero. Lydia literally placed it onto her kid’s head to the point that even when he is disillusioned to the stories - the momment he has the opportunity to mold someone to become the Artorious he doesn’t think himself fit to be- he takes it and chaos ensues.
All this makes me curious about what he was like before he fully calcified into the character that we meet in the manga/anime and how Bjorn played a part in that.
And don’t get me started on Bjorn! Who was HE GROWING UP? What people mattered to him and which ones influenced his character ? What did his community of people shape him into and how did Askelad start to play an increasing role in that?
This one was long to edit and I'm quite KOed at the moment so yeah... all I have to say is enjoy my contribution for today's prompts and I promise to look up yours later... 🤗🤗🤗
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Posted my work on Ao3! Don’t know if I did this right but constructive criticism is welcome!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
This was for day 4 of AskeBjørn week. I got convinced to post it on Ao3 so I did. Also there are some minor editing because let me tell you, popping out a three-thousand word fanfic in less than a day gets you a shit-ton of errors ahaa-
So for today’s prompt, it was folklore and for a while I had planned to do a simple piece with the two of them interacting with a goddess. Until I realized that that wasn’t really “folklore”. So I decided to study up on Welsh folklore and I finally picked one that I could see the two of them in. I realized quickly that what I wanted to draw for this, I wouldn’t be able to do. So instead, I wrote what I saw in my head. For the the folklore I chose, It’s called, “The legend of Bala Lake.” I basically just took it and made it into something else entirely. Please go check out this guy! He’s the channel I found whilst looking for folklore! He has a great voice for listening to old folktales. You can find the 5 min video on “The Legend of Bala Lake” under the playlist, “welsh folklore tales”!
https://m.youtube.com/@davidreidaudiobooks2012
Here I post readings of some of my favourite stories and poems.
I hope you enjoy reading! Be warned it’s a lot.
Lord Olaf was the ruler of these lands. A cruel one at that. He would treat his workers and farmers horribly; neither caring when they went hungry or if they had any clothes to wear.
All he cared for were gorging himself with drinking the most lavish of wines and the most beautiful of women. Some of these women were of exotic origin. And If he could not have these ways a life at a moments notice, then his servants would pay the price with near death.
As he would do his merrymaking around the extravagant garden, filled with flowers and trees of rare origin, he had heard something. He couldn’t tell what it was so he was about to go his merry way until he had heard it again.
It was a low and quiet voice and it had whispered seemingly by his ear, “Vengeance will come.”
Lord Olaf had laughed this off. And he would continue to laugh it off as the voice, that only he could hear, kept up its whisperings. “Vengeance will come. Vengeance will come,” It would repeat until one day it had said its usual words with louder connotations.
Lord Olaf, right then and there, decided to throw the most extravagant of parties at his castle. He invited any and all guests of important standing to join him in celebration of his newly born grandson. A convenient excuse for what he really was partying for.
Among the people he had invited, he hired a traveling entertainer. The lord had hired all kinds of entertainers varying to dancers and instrumentalists. But this one was a tad different from the others
He was a bear-like man, very imposing but was quite nice to be around. His form of entertainment were like that of a bard. Only without the instrument. He would regale stories of beasts and gods from distant worlds. Of their trials and tribulations and of love and heartbreak, and would even sing of their tales with evocative sounds and tones. His voice would carry throughout the enormous room and bounce off the cobblestone walls and shiny wood floors. For hours he would entertain just like this. The servants would pour him and everyone drinks of the finest red color and the nobles would eat themselves silly of every kind of food.
At around midnight however there was a lull to the partying. Most of the guests had gotten drunk to the point of almost sleeping on the floor and the entertainers were taking their breaks. The Bear-like man stood in a far-away corner right by an open window when he heard the faintest of voices. He strained his ears for the sound and lo- there it was again. “Vengeance,” It seemed to sing. He looked down from the window sill and noticed a man.
From what the Bear-like entertainer could tell, he was wearing a long black cloak that covered his whole body save for his head. He could tell that he had blond hair with the help of the bright full moon shining its light on Midgard. His cloak shimmered with yellow specks in the moonlight with an intricate design he couldn’t make out from where he was above him, made of a gold-like color. “It matches his hair” the man thought.
The man below brought his hand up to his mouth and much louder than before proclaimed, “Vengeance!” The Bear-like man decided he must go see why this man was out here alone and yelling “vengeance.” If he were crazy he would simply barge in here and scream vengeance to any who could hear him. But it seemed this man wanted only him to hear. The hulking figure of a man weaved through the crowd of people and made his way to the back entrance of the castle.
Once he was through the door, he saw the man standing right before him. His face partially coved by the trees shade.
And oh, was he beautiful.
Up closer he could see now the defined cheekbones he had, along with the thick yet perfectly trimmed eyebrows. He had a goatee that gave this mysterious man a refined look. But moreover what caught the man’s attention was his eyes.
They didn’t look human.
Or maybe that was the alcohol muddling his eyesight. Regardless, those calculating, cold-blue eyes that seemed to glow in the dark, left him speechless. Was he afraid? Did it have something to do with the fluttering sensations in his gut? He didn’t know.
The blond haired man grinned, as if he won a game, and beckoned him to follow. And maybe stupidly, the Bear-Man did.
For a while they walked, the mysterious man kept leading the burly man through spindly trees and bushy undergrowth. Through deer trails and fairy circles. All while repeating the singular word “vengeance, vengeance, vengeance”. The Bear-man had wondered if he was being led astray by a land siren, or a witch, like so many before have tried. The blond man even had the looks that would surely sway any of their inhibitions. It certainly had for the man following behind. The alcohol didn’t help either. He took the time to admire the intricate patterns of the blonds cloak. It was of wings. The feathers of the wings led from where the man’s shoulder blades would be to the very end of the cloak. Beautiful twists and turns of each feather showing off the time and effort it would have took to craft such a cloak. The speckles of gold he’d noticed earlier were very much prevalent now that he was closer. It seemed to swirl around the wings and fall at the bottom of the cloak. If this person was anything other than a man, he would have probably have left a trail of gold dust like that of the Great Queen of the fairies Titania. The man following behind had thought this cloak to fit the regal man. It matched his bird-like behavior and features prevalent on his face. After some time the burly man decided to try something he never tried before to any mythical-like creature, for he was sure it this was such a being. He spoke to the man.
“Fair sir, please tell me, what is your name?” The Bear-man chided himself. He let his heart take over his mind. The better question would have been to ask where they were going. The Bear-man decided to roll with the question with an appropriate approach.
“My name is Bjørn. Just Bjørn.”
The ashen-blond haired man paused. He turned only his head around and for the what felt like the first time tonight, Bjørn felt the sinking feeling of being dissected, examined inside and out. The ashen-blond man replied, “Vengeance.” It was a much softer tone than the previous times and Bjørn wondered somberly if maybe that’s all he could say. ‘Oh I’m such an idiot’ thought Bjørn, bringing his hand to scratch his head in embarrassment. ‘I know better than to offer up my name so easily.’ The man in front continued his trek, seemingly not interested in taking his name. ‘Thank the gods’ thought Bjørn. He didn’t know what he would do if this man had wanted his name. He didn’t know if he would offer up much resistance. Bjørn continued following a bit closer than before at his side. “Funny,” thought Bjørn, “it feels almost natural like this, being by his side”.
They continued their trek. Bjørn took notice that Valshamr; that was what he would call him, after Freyja’s cloak of falcon feathers, it didn’t feel right but he could think up of no other name; he was going through safer parts of the forest, where the light of the moon shone brighter and where the trees stood tall and healthy. Valshamr avoided the tracks of wolves and bears, purposely going the opposite way and he seemed to constantly go uphill, never downhill. Bjørn was beginning to grow discontent at the amount of time it was taking to reach this mysterious destination and was worried he would not make it in time for his pay. He was in need of coin for he was out of supplies for his journey. Bjørn wasn’t really an entertainer, he was more of a mercenary. Willing to hunt anything from human to monster. But it wasn’t reliable work so he’d go around and offer services of entertainment to any who were willing to pay.
Just as he was about to ask if they would be reaching their destination soon, Valshamr had stopped suddenly and turned fully around to chirp rather cutely, “vengeance” to Bjørn. Bjørn didn’t know what to say, so he asked,
“Are we here?”
Valshamr shook his head. But he stayed for some odd reason.
“If we aren’t there then why have we stopped?” The blue-eyed man had took a step closer and Bjørn’s heart started thumping. Valshamr took his hand out of his cloak and pointed at Bjørn, then at himself and cocked his head to the side. The obvious signs of a question were written on his face. Bjørn thought a moment.
“Are you asking me a question?” The man nodded. “Is it in regard to me?” The man nodded once more. Bjørn was getting rather peeved that Valshamr couldn’t or wouldn’t speak any other words. “Is it about this trip?”
Once again, the man nodded. Bjørn laughed to himself, “So I’m assuming the question is something along the lines of why I’m still following you?” After all, why had he continued to follow him?
The blond man seemed rather pleased that Bjørn figured out his question so fast. He graced the Bear-man with a small smile and nodded. Bjørn flushed at this, Valshamr looked quite handsome with a smile like that. He didn’t know how to respond, so instead of replying with a smart and understandable answer as to why he would stupidly follow a man of unknown origin, he simply responded with,
“I suppose I wanted to.”
Valshamr blinked at him and then proceeded to laugh a hearty laugh. Bjørn grew embarrassed. ‘Of course he would laugh at me, how else are you supposed to respond to an answer like that?’ The blue-eyed man looked at him for a moment before turning around and walking forward, seemingly continuing the trek until he stopped at a base of a tree. He grabbed a fallen stick nearby and traced in the wet dirt in perfect Norse,
‘Askeladd’
Bjørn was taken by surprise at this. ‘Had he heard of his stories at the castle? Surely he couldn’t as he had been outside, and even so, he had spoken of folklore of other countries as well!’ Sure, he didn’t try to hide the fact he was a Norseman. If someone had asked he wouldn’t deny it. But still, how could this man know? Valshamr had pointed to the word written on the dirt then to himself, turning around and looking at Bjørn. He seemed to also sense his inner turmoil and smirked. He pointed at Bjørn’s lips and made a gesture of ‘talking.’
‘Ah,’ realized Bjørn, ‘because of my accent.’ He felt silly for not thinking of that sooner. He cleared his throat and spoke to him, “Interesting name, ‘Askeladd.’ I’ve been calling you Valshamr in my head this entire time.” He smiled sheepishly. ‘Ah,’ Bjørn thought, ‘Askeladd seems more fitting for him.’
‘Askeladd’ looked a bit surprised at the choice of name Bjørn had for him until he looked down at his cloak then back up and scoffed. He had a funny looking smile to his face and Bjørn realized it was probably because of why he chose that name for Askeladd. Was Askeladd of Norse origin? He must have heard the story of how Freyja would use the legendary item ‘Valshamr’ to transform into a falcon to make such a face at his cloak.
They continued their walk through the forest and Bjørn’s mind couldn’t help but wonder to the name ‘Askeladd.’ He wasn’t sure why he was as surprised as he was by the fact he could write in Norse. Especially since ‘Askeladd’ itself was a Norse-like name. He was probably surprised because they were currently in Wales and nobody here spoke, wrote, or even were Norse. Except for Olaf funnily enough. Bjørn could detect a faint trace of a Norse culture in the castle with the decoration and choice of food. It was why he was more than willing to entertain these nobles. It felt more of home. Of telling bedtime stories to his siblings.
About an hour had passed and not a word was spoken between the two men. Bjorn spent that time admiring Askeladd’s grace as he walked through the grass and roots of the forest floor. How the cloak emphasized his regal way of walking. Not long after, they finally reached the top of the hill they had been climbing through, far, far away from the castle. The moon lit up the sky with its presence, with only a few stars twinkling in the hazy black sky. Bjørn looked back and saw the castle lights still on. Maybe he could return in time for his pay.
Bjørn almost rammed into Askeladd, for he had stopped walking. Bjørn backed away and looked at Askeladd.
Sure, Askeladd had picked the path with the most visibility but it was still a forest. And sure, he saw his face from above and even got close enough to see it by the edge of the forest. However something always seemed to cover his face so Bjørn couldn’t really look at it.
Until now.
Nothing was hindering the moonlights rays. So nothing was covering Askeladd’s face. ‘Gods-‘ Bjørn had thought, with awe in his eyes and a slight blush to his face, ‘he truly is as beautiful as I thought he is.’ Forget enchanting someone with your looks. What Askeladd was doing to Bjørn was a full on assault of spells to his mind and heart. Askeladd held his left hand out while Bjørn was gawking at him. He cleared his throat and Bjørn shook out of his stupor. He walked forward to Askeladd and stood there. He didn’t really what Askeladd wanted from him. ‘Did he want me to Hild his hand?’ Gods no, there’s no way a man as magnificent as him would want that from someone he met an hour ago.
However, Askeladd did the unthinkable and reached for Bjørn’s left hand. He held it firmly and brought it to his face, he placed a gentle kiss on backside of the hand. His blond beard tickling his fingers. ‘Oh my gods- Oh my gods he kissed it!’ thought Bjørn, red as a beet. Fighting against the sound of his heartbeat, he noticed that the man was whispering something. It was too quiet to make out and his hand covered his mouth so Bjørn couldn’t read his lips. Askeladd brought the hand down and looked up at Bjørn. He smirked at the redness that bloomed over the Bear-man’s face and Bjørn would be lying if he said it didn’t affect him. Askeladd took a step back and held out his hand expectantly.
Bjørn gawked for a moment until he realized that the blue-eyed man was wanting the same. It was a bit embarrassing how fast he reached out for the hand, and how he didn’t kiss it immediately, instead opting to carve every groove he could feel from the man’s hand into memory. He noticed immediately that these hands had seen battle. And the image of captain, clad in a dark chest plate and poised at the head of the ship with his sword drawn out, pointing to the horizon, leading a band of warriors to battle, had made its way into the forefront of Bjørn’s mind. He didn’t know where these images came from, all he knew was that he was holding Askeladd’s hand for longer than intended and promptly embarrassed himself in front of a man he knew from the bottom of his heart, was a captain unlike any other.
He bended over and brought the battle-worn hand to his face and pressed as gentle as he could, for he didn’t want to make a fool out of himself, a loving kiss. His kiss was borderline a kiss a worshipper would make to their gods hand. Bjørn looked up in time to see Askeladd have a pretty pink dusting his face. He stored that fact about Askeladd away for later. Bjørn let go of his hand and straightened up. They looked at each other for a moment, with Bjørn wanting to know badly what was going in behind those distant ice-blue eyes.
Askeladd’s face had a carefully drawn blankness to them. Perhaps it was the kiss, because Bjørn knew a spell when he saw one, that allowed Bjørn a moment to see into his eyes, a sadness to them. Oh how much he wanted to fix whatever was ailing him. Bjørn gathered his courage to break the silence with a statement. A simple one to him, but one that had Askeladd’s pupils blown up wide.
“Please Askeladd, tell me what ails you, and I won’t ever rest until you’re free of this illness”
Never before had Askeladd been asked a question like that from anyone else. Never before had anyone ever wanted so badly to help only him, with no strings attached. Oh how he wished he could speak freely, to tell Bjørn what ailed him, tell him how happy and relieved he was that he followed him, that Bjorn was very much still, his one and only friend. But he hadn’t much time. So with the sharp wit of his mind, and a desire to not be apart from him for long, he wrapped his arms around Bjørn’s neck, breathed in his scent, closed eyes, and whispered a very old and very powerful spell.
***
Daylight broke through the clouds, Bjørn woke up blearily and covered his head with his blanket to block out the sun. Only that he didn’t have his blanket, nor his tent for that matter. He shot up from the ground and realized he had fallen asleep on a patch of grass, wrapped in a black cloak with wings for its design and a fading yellow color. He looked around for somebody, he couldn’t remember who, no wait he was looking for a bird. Yes that’s right, he followed a bird, a falcon, through the forest. That spoke only the word “vengeance.” Only there was no forest and instead, what stood a big forest surrounding a huge castle, was instead a vast and serene lake. He peered through the calm waters and saw where the castle lay nestled deep within the lake. Its inhabitants never to see another day.
He became very grateful to the Falcon for leading him out of the castle and woods safely. He grabbed this mysterious cloak and began to stand up when he say a some sort of dust fall off the cloak. He inspected it and found that it was gold coming off of the cloak. He tried his best to remember where he’d gotten the cloak from. He knew the legend of the river Lethe and that if you drank its waters you would forget memories of yourself. But he was certain he hadn’t drunken from the lake, not to mention that this was no flowing river, and he certainly wasn’t in the Greek underworld.
He stared at the cloak, long and hard, and came up with nothing. There was a deep aching wound in his heart but he didn’t know why it was there. He brought the cloak to his face, hoping for answers, and breathed in its scent. The smell was unlike any other scent he’d ever encountered. It smelt of blood, fresh and old from a long hard-fought battle, dried up dirt from long weeks traveled on land, a recently lit up hearth in a far-away cottage, of hot nights spent in pure ecstasy, of the briny sea of the Jutland Peninsula, of sweat, steel, and soap.
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