Assassin's Creed Drabbles

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ivarr has a jealous streak a mile wide, and it always rears its ugly head at the worst possible times. rated 18+ for smut.

FOR ONCE, THE English sun is blazing down upon Mercia. Clear skies hang overhead, and birdsong fills the sweltering air. It would be pleasant if not for the sweat clinging to the back of your neck, even in the shade of a great oak tree. It would be peaceful, too, if not for the sound of Ceolbert's groan of pain when Ivar the Boneless knocks the boy off his feet for the hundredth time. Ceolwulf placed his son under the tutelage of Ivarr —a foolish thing to do if he really wanted the ætheling to learn something other than the taste of dirt and the feel of fresh bruises.

Ivarr struts around the boy, goading him to rise again. Ceolbert does, albeit slowly, wiping the mud from his cheek and the sweat from his eyes. You can't help how your lips twist upward upon the young ætheling's perseverance as he reaches down to collect his sparring sword again —your smile widens when you notice Ivarr's expression settle into something akin to annoyance. He steps back, shrugging off his sweat-stained fading blue tunic, and leans his head to the left, then the right before taking up the two wooden dowels meant to serve as his axes.

The boy is already intimidated enough, Ivarr, you want to tell him. Ivarr's armor and tunics always gave him an unassuming look, hiding the strong planes of his chest and the strength in his arms. With his chest bared —glistening with sweat— you can't help but stare from your place in the shade as the dark tattoos on his arms, chest, and back ripple with his muscle at every thrust and strike. Sighing, you slip back into a memory from the morning hours —before the sun rose above the rolling hills— to the feel of his arms wrapped around your middle, pulling your back flush to his chest, and his warm breaths hitting the back of your neck. The trance breaks when you hear Ceolbert thud against the ground with another loud groan, this time, it sounds like resignation.

Rising, you pace to the patch of dirt and gravel where the two train. Ceolbert opens his dark eyes when a shadow comes over him. The young ætheling is relieved to find you in place of Ivarr. You extend your hand, pulling him up from the ground —brushing the dust from his shoulders. "That's not how you teach the boy, Ivarr," you announce, having seen enough. Persistence is only one part of learning. In your experience, patience is also required —from both student and teacher.

"No?" Ivarr challenges, turning a waterskin up to his lips as he comes to stand before you, looking down his nose. He remembers the first time you dared crawl into the training yard with him —the number of times he laid you out in the mud and snow. It took months before you could hold your own and years before you would finally best Ivarr the Boneless. Victory against Ivarr is something that remains an impressive and rare feat to this day. He leans toward you, a cocksure smirk on his lips. "It's how I taught you," he says, reminding you of the hard path taken to be as renowned as the Ragnarsson brothers in matters of bloodshed.

A spark catches in your eyes, and Ivarr grins —he knows just how to burrow his way under your skin. "I was not some soft Saxon whelp," you bite back. Ceolbert is nearly a man but still little more than a green boy when it came to war —you'd already killed men and maimed others by the time you were the same age as he. A harsh upbringing after Ragnar Lodbrok agreed to raise you as a gift of good faith to assure peace with your quarreling father, as such you trained with his sons, drawn to Ivarr over Halfdan and Ubba. As you stare at Ivarr the Boneless —the scar on his cheek twitching— childhood seems a lifetime ago.

Ivarr steps back, tossing the dowels aside as you both settle into fighting stances —a silent acknowledgment and language only you and Ivarr are fluent. "Have a rest, twig," he smirks, glancing over at Ceolbert, "watch how real fighters move." Ceolbert watches, wide-eyed and in awe. He's seen you and Ivarr fight in battles —each a force of nature, nigh untouchable against other Northmen and Saxon— but never against each other. It's more a dance than a fight. Each blow landed is hardly enough to faze the other. Ceolbert is certain he's never seen Ivarr smile so genuinely, nor you laugh as hard as you are now.