Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ warm home

no matter his temperament and injuries, it is good to have ivarr back in your arms. 

SLOW, METHODICAL STROKES of the damp whetstone sharpen and hones the blade of your axe —recently dulled in battle cutting down Saxons who took to spurring trouble in the countryside where the Sons of Ragnar settled in since the Great Heathen Army disbanded. A soft sigh escapes your lips when you look up through the branches of a mighty elm tree and to the overcast sky beyond.

One thing you hate about England is the lack of sun. Between the clouds and the rain, a week has passed since you last felt the warm rays of the sun and saw the silver light of the moon and stars. It's been longer still since you experienced either with your beloved. Wiping the blade of your axe with a cloth, you test the edge with the pad of your thumb —feeling the sharp iron bite into your skin, bringing a small well of blood to the surface.

Eyes flitting up from the axe, you find Ubba and Halfdan speaking to each other, both wearing concerned expressions. When the brothers part, Ubba turns toward you. His face is grim —more so than usual— when he approaches you under the elm. He does not give you the chance to greet him nor ask why he seeks you out before he speaks. "Come with me," Ubba says, turning away as quick as he came, motioning for you to follow after him.

"Is it the Saxons?" You ask, grip tightening around the throat of your axe. Ubba shakes his head, pushing the door to one of the cottages near the longhouse open. Then you see him and know the reason for Ubba's distress. Ivarr rests upon a cot, the right side of his face mangled and swollen, bloodied, and bruised from jaw to hairline —his eye swelled shut. Panic seizes your chest, making it hard to breathe. "Ivarr," you gasp, moving to his side. There's a strange peace about him while at rest. His return from the Western Isle was meant to be that of joyous celebration, not this.

Reaching down, you take his hand and kneel, holding it close to your heart as you think of what to do to call him back from the Valkyrie's sweet songs. "Rags and water!" You call, glancing over your shoulder at the three drengrs who brought him back. "Now!"

Ubba and Halfdan come after midday; by then, you and the village healer have cleaned and bound his wounds with strips of linen and cataplasms of moss and herbs. There is hope yet —even if he has not woken— so long as the cut does not turn rancid, though neither of you can say how long he's gone without proper treatment or whether Ivarr will be able to keep his right eye. The brothers offer their good wishes, not wanting to see you sink into despair or lose their brother. Time passes, a slow crawl as the sky shifts to darkness.

In the early hours of the night, one of your fellow shieldmaidens brings a bundle of dried herbs and petals —a combination she had burnt by her sister's bedside after falling in battle. Burning the offering of rose, sweetgrass, and thyme, you kneel bedside, praying to Frigg and Freya, hoping the goddesses will hear your pleads and take mercy on you. Too long have you stood by Ivarr Ragnarsson to have him ripped away from you like this. You don't hear his low groan or notice the shift in his weight, but his voice is unmistakable. "Shut up, woman," Ivarr rasps, lifting his hand to the bandages wound about his forehead and across his cheek.

"Ivarr!" You exclaim, clambering over to his bedside. Your first impulse is to kiss him, but you think better of it, looking down at the white linens wrapped around his head. "I'm half-dead already," he laments, shifting around of the cot —unable to keep still, "think I'm entitled to some peace and quiet."

You shake your head, hiding a smile as you roll your eyes. "Perhaps I should have prayed for them to cart you off instead," you muse —it's not too late to ask the gods to be rid of him.

Though it pains him, he laughs, feeling the scabs on his cheek tear. Would that he could, he'd have you beneath him already —his favorite kind of homecoming. But no, he's not a fool, and his body aches, reminding him he is not young as he once was. "Did you miss me, wife?" Ivarr asks, turning to look upon you with his left eye, the back of his fingers brushing along your jawline.

"Only at night, husband," you tell him with a teasing smile, leaning forward to kiss the corner of his lips and then the bruise on his right cheek.

Ivarr sees the dampness in your eyes then, and his brow furrows —or at least tries to, given the wound and the dressings. "What are you weeping over?" He doesn't like seeing you weep, and something twists in his chest at him being the cause for these tears.

"You, fool," you tell him, resting your hand on the center of his chest. After months parted, it feels good to touch him, to have the warmth and strength of his muscles underhand. "I was not ready to see you off to Valhalla." One day, you will both be reunited there —to sing, feast, fight, and fuck— but a seer once told you that day would not come for many years.

Ivarr leans back, situating his head on the pillow again with a grimace and groan, covering the hand lying on his chest with his own. "Too good for me," he remarks. He thought the gods playing a trick when they led him to you —then you picked up sword and axe and left him in the dirt with a kind smile playing on your lips. Silence falls in the small cottage. Ivarr mindlessly rubs his thumb over your knuckles. "Bet I'm a pretty sight," he says.

"Better looking than you were." You smile, stifling a laugh as you brush back the ashen brown hair falling in front of the left side of his face.

He grips onto your wrist, left eye narrowing. "Don't mock me." Then the corner of his lip quirks upward, and his hand slides up your arm, cupping your cheek —his thumb running over your lips. "Did you miss me, wife?" He repeats. You can tell in his tone just how much he had missed you while off to conquer the Western Isle by his lonesome. For once, he should not have been a good husband, concerned with keeping his Viking wife away from the edge of a blade. Perhaps you could have kept him away from the coast of Cymru and the bite of some Briton's axe.

"Only during the days," you answer. With a sigh, you, turn into his touch and kiss the center of his palm before moving his hand away from your cheek and holding it close to your heart. "I am glad you are back with me" —Ivarr watches you intently— "where you belong." Then you smile, nigh laughing. "And mostly in one piece." He laughs again too.

"Come," Ivarr breathes, "lay next to me." He shifts, making room at his side. You settle next to him, resting your head on his shoulder, enjoying the weight of his tattooed arm wrapped around you, holding you close. He turns his head, pressing his unmarred cheek against the crown of your head, breathing in the scent of your hair as it tickles his nose. The silence that settles between you is comfortable, nothing else need be said, now that you were both back in each other's arms. You follow the dark outlines of Yggdrasil, Sleipnir, and Muninn on his chest with your fingertips. "I've missed your warmth," Ivarr admits, running his rough hand up and down your arm. You hum, having missed his warmth too. Valhalla can wait a while longer, Ivarr the Boneless decides, for now, he is home.