Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ baths and braids

you've always enjoyed playing with eivor's hair.

EIVOR WOLFSMAL RETURNS at the edge of dark covered in filth. He left before dawn with a group of hunters in pursuit of a beast rumored to be lurking near the settlement. It would be best to put the beast down before it started causing trouble with the livestock and people. When he steps into the firelight, it is a mixture of blood and mud marring his leathers and staining his golden hair and beard. You point him to a chair near the table after telling him to strip —away from your loom and drying clothes. His clothes will have to wait to be washed for now.

It is by luck alone you had been preparing a bath for yourself, but Eivor now needs one far more than you. Dumping the last kettle of steaming water into the wooden tub, you motion for him to get in. He wanted to be greeted with a kiss, but given his current state and foul smell, he cannot blame you. Eivor splashes water onto his face and scrubs away the muck. You stoke the fire in the hearth before moving next to the bath with a cake of soap and a boar bristle brush.

He takes the soap from you and rubs it between his hands until it lathers. While he scrubs his beard, arms, and legs with the bristle brush, you bring one of the table chairs and sit behind him. Taking a seat, you reach for his hair and start to undo his braids —setting aside the beads, rings, and leather thongs he had adorning his golden locks. Unbound, his hair falls past his shoulders. With your fingers, you work through the largest knot, humming the soft tune of a lullaby.

Dipping a stone pitcher into the tub, you pour water over his head. He grumbles and you laugh at his churlish protest. It takes three pitchers to soak his hair, but then you lean forward, taking the cake of soap from him and begin working it into a lather through his hair. Eivor leans against the wooden bath, head tilted back as you massage his scalp. "Your fingers are magic, kjære min," he breathes. You smile and place a short kiss on his forehead. These little moments do nothing but make you love him more —the gods had been kind to let you marry a man like Eivor Wolfsmal.

Dumping several pitchers over his head washes the suds and grime away and into the dirty bathwater. Pleased with the cleanliness of his hair, you wash his shoulders and back. Stopping to trace over the few scars, fingers brushing over the rough patch of skin on his back —a burn from some time ago. You can hear his sharp intake of air when your fingers are replaced by the soft warmth of your lips.

He shifts, turning back to look at you from over his shoulder. "Will you kiss me now that I'm clean?" Eivor asks with a low, rough laugh. Smiling, you lean toward him and he closes the remaining gap —pressing his lips against yours. His damp hand slides back into your hair, pulling you closer. Parting, you lift your hand to his cheek, tracing over the scar running down his cheek —hand dropping down to comb through his wet beard.

"You should have seen the beast," Eivor remarks, lifting his arms above his head of mimic the size of the slain bear. You listen to the tale. It will be told again by others during the next gathering on the settlement. The antler comb catches on another knot to be worked out. He pretends to shove a spear forward —skewering the beast. He had struck the first major blow and the bear was easily felled by the hunting party. You run your fingers through his hair, pleased to find there is nary a knot left. Setting the comb aside, you wrap your arms around his middle from behind and lean over Eivor's shoulder, kissing his cheek.

Before the warm hearth, you share a small meal —crusty brown bread and smashed blackberries from brambles in the forest. By the time you both discard the dirtied bathwater and clean up after the meal, the hour is late. Eivor yawns, he has been awake since before the break of dawn. The silence within the small home is broken by the low, gurgling croak of Sýnin, finding his perch above the hearth and preening his damp feathers.

Eivor draws you toward the bed, working the ties of your woolen dress free. Crawling over him, you settle into the mattress, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders. "Your hair is always soft after it's washed," you tell him, smiling as you brush aside the golden strands falling in front of his face. His hair is often bound in braids and it is easy to forget how well the golden strands frame his face —making him seem less a fierce warrior and more of an overgrown whelp. He catches your wrist, placing a soft kiss to the center of your palm. Gathering a clump of the golden hair, you split it into three parts —weaving the strands into a simple braid to keep the hair from his face. He mumbles something, half-asleep already. "Stop fussing," you laugh, "I'm just braiding your hair."

Eivor swats your hands away, quickly engulfing you with his arms —warm and strong. "You can do that in the morning," he tells you, nuzzling his nose into your neck. There will be plenty of time for you to fix his hair in the morn. You relax in his embrace, laying your head against his chest. The steady and strong beat of his heart is a comfort. For now, Eivor Wolfsmal just wants to rest after a long day and hold the woman he loves in his arms.