The Raven's Song (Eivor, AC: Valhalla)

The Raven's Song

Eivor took in her relaxed expression through well-rested eyes.

He had felt in his fingertips the hiccup on her breathing, and he watched quietly as she stirred in his arms, ever so softly, to get rid of the stiffness of her body. He knew better than to fill the air with meaningless banter. He had learned the hard way that she hated being talked to right after leaving the Dreamworld, when reality still made no sense and her mind was easily overwhelmed.

Instead, he leaned forward, enough for his beard to tickle her jawline as he brushed his lips against her cheek. She smiled content and buried herself deeper in his arms —⁠seeking his warmth to escape the wintry temperatures⁠—, and he welcomed her in like they hadn't spent the previous night tangled on the feather‑filled mattress before dragging the bear skin further over them.

She hummed appreciatively against his neck. "I wish we could stay like this forever."

Eivor couldn't help the smile that took over his lips before he pressed a soft kiss to her temple. He let his clear irises travel to the nearby window, and watched the first shy rays as they peeked over the distant mountains. Soon the village would come alive: the merchants would open their shops, the fishermen would set sail towards deeper waters, and the hunters would meet at the forest limit to prepare for another successful hunt... and he would have to go with them.

He found himself sinking a little further into the mattress and bringing her body closer, almost possessively. He understood his position in the settlement, prided himself in being the leader everyone turned to when his brother wasn't around... but some days he wished he could just be Eivor Varinson and stay in bed with her for as long as they wanted to.

He massaged her lower back with expert fingers. His hands knew her body by heart, knew where to press to unveil all its secrets, yet he was pretty certain he would never get used to how she answered to his ministrations. The moan through pressed lips, the nails clawing at his arms with no harmful intent. Eivor could get lost in the sensations, in the electric pulses that she sent through his nerves.

He let out a quiet groan as his digits lowered, exploring naked skin in search of the perfect curve of her spine.

"Eivor," she warned, her voice still hoarse from the previous night's festivities.

As much as she would love to match his advances with some of her own —⁠like she had done in the small hours, when they had taken their loud banter to their hut⁠—, she, too, would soon have to get up to meet the new day. She couldn't remember from the top of her head all the tasks awaiting her, but the distant neighing of horses reminded her that there were animals that required her attention, perhaps slightly more than the dangerously handsome warrior lying next to her.

"Let's run away together," Eivor offered humorously before burying his face in the crook of her neck to stain her body with warm kisses.

"Don't tempt me," she replied with a crooked smirk.

She carded her fingers through his dishevelled hair. She would have to redo his braids that night to keep his unruly locks away from enemy hands, but in that moment she allowed herself to just enjoy the feeling of the golden strands. Without the ornate hairstyle he always insisted on wearing, Eivor looked younger. It reminded her of the early days, when they would escape the music and thunderous cheers of the parties in search of a good spot on the hills to lie down and stargaze.

The lazy pattern of her digits faltered when he sucked on her sensitive skin to leave a love bite. This time her nails found his arm with deeper determination, and his lips abandoned her collarbone to let out a low protest. Stubborn as he was, nevertheless, the hands that had found their home on the small of her back retraced their way to her hips as he moved upwards to whisper a shameless invitation in her ear.

"There's still time," he offered as his beard softly scratched her cheek and he pressed her lower body to his. "Sýnin hasn't sung yet."

She could feel his hardening member against her stomach, and his dexterous digits tracing circles on her hip bones to cloud her judgement. With a defeated, yet amused, sigh, she rested her palms on his tattooed chest and mirrored the small beam plastered on his lips as she met his stare.

"Who am I to disagree with such a convincing argument."