Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ honey cakes

honey cakes are eivor's favorite, but the gods are against you today when it comes to baking them.

ANOTHER BATCH OF honey cakes ruined. You sigh, watching the crows and songbirds peck at the burnt remains scattered behind the bakery, wondering how much larger their feast will grow before you'll have something fit to serve your Jarl for the spring feast. Eivor is more than just your Jarl, though. He is one of your dearest friends of many years —and the one person always willing to put his stomach on the line to sample what sweets you craft. Honey cakes happen to be his favorite, and you've made them more times than you care to count, but it's as though the gods are against you today.

Sliding another batch into the stone oven, you take to a stool, watching with a keen and focused eye. Not about to let more flour and eggs go to the bad. It's not but a minute or two later that Tekla appears in the doorway, asking for a hand in rolling one of the mead barrels onto a cart to take to Grantebridge. Thinking it a quick chore, you agree to help, certain you'd return in time to tend the honey cakes. But you should have known it would take longer than what Tekla said —the scent of bread almost to burn fills the air and sends you in panic.

Using the linen of your apron, you grip onto the handle of the cooking pan. It takes a moment before the heat of the metal handle seeps through the thin fabric, though when it does, you drop the pan with a yelp, unable to get the pan to the table. Hands red and blistered, you look down at another ruined batch scattered across the earth and plank floor of the bakery —one final crack in the dam of your resolve, enough to let loose a flood of emotion. It feels silly, crying over burnt sweets, but you can't help it.

Floorboards creak as someone steps through the doorway. You spare a glance —seeing Sýnin take to pecking at crumbs on the floor before you see him. He slides onto the bench across from you at the table, brows furrowed. and concern written in his clear blue eyes when he notices the tear tracks on your cheeks and the dampness around your eyes you try to hide with a wipe of a sleeve. "Eivor," you sniffle, finally deciding to sit up and meet his kindly gaze. He doesn't like to see you in distress, and he especially doesn't like seeing you cry.

Eivor takes your wrists, seeing how you hold your hands against your chest —knowing you're hiding something. "Your hands," he frowns, looking at your red and blistered fingers and palms. You won't be baking anything else for a little while with those burns, especially if they don't get cleaned and bandaged. A soft sigh escapes his lips. It won't be the first time he's helped patch you from a mishap in the bakery, and —much to his disliking— he knows it probably won't be the last either. Rising from the bench, he moves around the table. "Come," he breathes, helping you stand, "let's get you taken care of."

He motions for you to sit on his bed in the longhouse while he plunders through chests and small boxes for a roll of linens and one of the Valka's salves. Eivor kneels before you, pressing a cool, damp rag against one of your hands and then the other. You watch, lips twitching upward at how careful he is, and how mindful he is of the rough spots on his own hands while working. "What were you doing?" The question snaps you from the daze and brings the color of shame rushing to your cheeks.

You look away, biting down on your lip as he spreads the chamomile salve across your other palm. "Wanted to make you some honey cakes," you admit, not meeting his soft gaze yet, "but kept burning them." Just the thought of watching the crows feast is enough to make your stomach churn and eyes water. Messing up a recipe you've made over and over again for nigh twenty years after the added stresses of helping Randvi and the others during Eivor and Sigurd's absences was too much.

It's wrong of him to laugh at your misfortune and distress, but Eivor's lips tug into a smile, and a soft chuckle escapes his lips. You are too good to him, and he knows it. Tying off a final knot in the second bandage, he wipes his hands on his britches and moves beside you on the bed, draping an arm around your shoulders to draw you into his chest, lips ghosting above your forehead. There's something about Eivor's embraces —the warm comfort that makes everything feel like it'll be okay in the end.

"As much as I love your honey cakes," he muses, "I'd prefer you not hurt yourself trying to make them." That shameful flush races up to your cheeks again, but before it can surface, Eivor brushes back messy wisps of hair and leans in, kissing your forehead —his golden beard tickling your cheek and nose. "Besides" –a larger smile twists his lips– "you're sweet as any honey cake." Sweeter even.

At one time, you would have said you were immune to Eivor's flattery, but it's become increasingly difficult as of late to ignore the way his sweet words make you feel —and more than a few times you've caught his lingering gaze watching you with an unfamiliar gleam in his clear blue eyes. Eivor may be your dearest friend, but he's also the man you cannot help but love. "Eivor," you chide, eyes flitting down to study the linen wrapped around your hands.

Eivor cups your cheek, tilting your chin up so you can see he's being sincere. "Why don't we make them together?" He proposes, unable to deny a fresh honey cake would be welcome. You lift a brow, a silent challenge. Eivor has helped you bake in the past —taking pans from the oven and scrubbing dishes mostly, but the image of Eivor elbow deep in flour is an amusing one. "You can tell me what to do, and with two sets of eyes, we won't let them burn." He smiles, nudging your ribs lightly.

"Deal," you agree, glad to know you'll have him all to yourself for the rest of the day. You mean to kiss his cheek in thanks —for tending your burnt hands— instead, you find your lips against Eivor's and little desire to shy away. He turned his head at the last moment to see you smile, but this was certainly better. In all your foolish daydreams, you'd never been able to imagine how his lips would feel against yours. They are softer than you expected and gentler. You sigh against his parted lips when his fingers trail along your cheek and jaw, slipping back into your hair —not eager to part— and all the reassurance you need to know he feels the same.