Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ warmth

no matter how cold and hard life may be, Eivor is always warm.

THE DARK WATER of the Kattegat is a cold slush as the prow of the longship carves a path. Long past are tepid days of life in the Wessex settlement —and they shall never come again after the decimation and slaughter by King Alfred's men. Eivor steps behind you, draping a heavy cloak around your shoulders and an arm around your waist. You can feel his warm breath against your neck and see your own condense before you.

Sailing in the winter months was never ideal, but you had been given no choice. All those aboard the longship were all the survivors left from the settlement. Of more than a hundred, only twenty-four remained —most are women and children save for a few wounded warriors. You grip onto the fold of the cloak, fingers twisting in the pale fur. Odin forgive us you think looking skyward we could not even honor our fallen.

Synin circles overhead, crying aloud. Ahead are a dark shoreline and a familiar village against white-capped peaks, visible as the morning fog lifts. The call of several horns carries across the bay. A welcome for friends and a warning to foes. Once in earshot, Eivors shouts —long, loud, and bereft. Villagers gather at the dock and along the icy shoreline. Mournful cries rise on the north wind as the weight of what their return means.

You and Eivor both help the others disembark to safety and lift a gravely injured Cnut onto a makeshift stretcher to be taken to the healer and herbalist. Jarl Ama greets both you and Eivor —once pillars in the Wessex settlement. Ama looks around, tears welling in her eyes as the absence of her own husband sets in. "Is this all?" She inquires. Eivor nods —nothing need be said. Ama holds her chin high. "There will be a time for retribution," the Jarl announces, speaking as a true leader, "but until then rest and rest assured many are indebted to you both."

Fresh flakes of snow dance in the air as the village returns to silence. A feast to honor the dead will be prepared by nightfall. "You're freezing," Eivor rasps, taking both your hands into his. His hands are large, rough with callouses and scars, and warm —like the rest of him. It never seemed to matter how cold it was, Eivor was always warm.

Everything in your shared home had been left untouched —even the furs before the hearth are still heaped into a pile. Synin quickly takes to his perch near the hearth, preening his sleek, black feathers. Eivor stoops down, striking a piece of flint and sending sparks into dry kindling and split logs. Light and warmth fill the air of the small room. Draping his cloak and yours over a wooden chair, you join him before the fire. "When is the last time you slept, love?" You question, taking his arm and undoing the straps holding an ornate gold blade against his wrist. Eivor does not answer. He has not slept since before the attack.

You doff him of the rest of his weapons and outer layers —some are still stained with blood— in comfortable silence. He turns the favor, unlacing the back of your ruined wool dress and leaving you in a pale linen shift. A chill takes your body, but between the fire and Eivor, you'll soon be rid of the chill, though. He lays back on the pallet of fur and pillows, tugging you down with him. The fire warms your backside and the heat radiating from Eivor your front.

At one time, you'd been used to the frigid winters and bitter cold, but after so long in England you'd grown accustomed to little more than a chill in the air. Pressing your face into his chest, you sigh —entangling your legs with his. "Your feet are cold," he muses, thick fingers stroking your knotted hair as he draws a quilt of stitched pelts around you both. You shift, pillowing your head on his outstretched arm.

There is a far-off look in his clear blue eyes. Guilt. "Eivor," you breath, hand moving from his chest to comb through his beard. "Don't blame yourself," you plead. The losses could be laid at no one's feet but the King of Wessex. Without Eivor, even more of your people could have met the harsh kiss of iron. His gaze softens and focuses on you. A moment of silence passes again, then he brings you closer and finds your chapped lips with his own for a short, sweet kiss.

"I love you," he murmurs. Somehow you always knew exactly what he needed to hear. No other being —save Synin— would ever understand him the way you did. You smile, leaning in to kiss the tip of his nose. A silent way of saying I love you that you and he had crafted so many years ago. Eivor wraps you in his arms wholly, pulling you flush against him and pressing his cheek into the crown of your head. He sighs, content for the moment. The days of unrest finally taking its toll. You place another quick kiss to the place where the entwined serpents tattooed on his chest cross. Between Eivor Wolfsmal and the warmth in your heart, you are certain to never go cold again.