Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ sigrblót and honey

as it turns out, honey cakes can cure just about anything. 

THERE'S A LOUD thud just outside your small bakery in Fornburg —it's followed by the wild squawking of a raven. Those two sounds combined tell you all you need to know about the raucous and who's responsible for it. Sighing, you slide a batch of honey cakes into the stone oven and turn to the door, wiping your hands on the front of a worn apron.

Eivor Wolfsmal is rising from the thick pile of snow beneath the eave —with snow stuck to his short-cropped beard and his golden hair. Glancing up to the ridge of the roof, you find a streak of the wooden shingles visible and Sýnin still croaking madly —it's not so much an alarmed cry as it is a mocking one. You wish you could say this is the first time Eivor has fallen off the roofs around Ravensthorpe, but it's not, and knowing him, you doubt it'll be the last, either. "What are you doing?" You ask, brow raised, and arms crossed.

He smiles, flashing his teeth in a charming, boyish smile —his clear blue eyes focusing on you. "Just wanted to see how much it hurt when you fell from the heavens," Eivor tells you. You want to scold him for such carelessness —tell him one of these days, he's going to end up breaking an arm or leg— and for his dowdy attempt at flattery. But you can't help but laugh at your dear friend, hiding your smile behind your hand.

STIRRING A SWEET glaze of honey and chopped walnuts thinned with mead, you drizzle the mixtures over a fresh, cooled batch of shortcakes. A newer twist on your traditional honey cake recipe —meant to last for sea voyages and long winter days— but these soft and sticky treats aren't meant to last long, and they never do, especially if Eivor catches a whiff of them. And since he isn't off to make alliances or do Sigurd's bidding, it's only a matter of time before he shows up at the door.

You're elbow deep in flour —sifting out missed grain hulls and small rocks— when you hear the familiar sound of something heavy thudding against the ground. It's followed by the laughing croaks of a raven and the cracking of a ceramic pot. You lean out of the cutout window, finding Eivor sprawled out on his back with the shards of a red-orange pot strewn around near his head. He groans, sitting up. "Age hasn't made you any better at falling off roofs," you remark.

Eivor looks up at you, brushing the dust and dirt from his hands and off his shoulders. "No," he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, a flush of shame rising to his cheeks —you've scarcely seen Eivor blush like this. "On that, I agree," he sighs, pushing himself off the ground and looking at the busted pot —he'll have to find a replacement for that soon. You motion him in the bakery, pointing to the bench at the table still littered with honey cakes.

He sits, eyeing the sweet treat, but lets you look over him for any injury first. He's certainly not as young as he used to be when he first made it a habit to slide off roofs and fall out of trees —and he'll feel the ache in his bones come morning. You dip the corner of your apron into a cup of water and scrub the dirt from his scarred cheek before sitting at his side. "Here," you slide him a honey cake.

"The best medicine," he smiles, taking a bite —two more bites, and the handheld cake is gone. You've found over the years that all Eivor's ailments can be cured by honey cakes; even cuts and winter colds could be solved with one —though it's no small coincidence the kisses you leave on his cheek and forehead help too.

He swipes away the flour dust on your cheek, hand lingering there. You draw in a sharp breath when he leans forward, resting his forehead against yours —hoping he can't hear how your heart hammers in your chest. "Eivor," you whisper, voice quivering. His warm breath fans out across your cheek and lips. He's so close and warm. The wiry hair of his golden beard tickling your chin. All you'd have to do to kiss him is tilt your chin up, but fear grips onto you —unwilling to lose one of your oldest and closest friends over something so silly as a dream.