Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ lullaby

after a raid on your settlement, you and eivor reunite in the woods with those who could be spared.

FLAMES RISE INTO the night. You adjust the weight of the shield on your arm and tighten your grip on the leather-wrapped hilt of a sword. They had come in the night —setting fire to the fields and tossing torches atop the dry thatch roofs of the settlement. A raid against your peaceful home in East Anglia.

Eivor grips onto your shoulder, a familiar look in his blue eyes, now clouded by smoke and tears. "Get them out of here," he murmurs, placing a lingering kiss on your forehead. Nodding, you watch as he steps back, falling in at the head of those gathering to fight.

Þóra's small hands clutch at your tunic, frightened. You'd been charged with seeing the children and those who could not fight to safety. "Follow me," you announce, looking ahead to the tree line and river. If you could make it to the river, everyone could follow it upstream to where the longships had been hidden. "Quickly now," you urge, nudging one of the young boys forward through the reed fence, "stay together."

Sinking into a crouch, you follow as the last of the children pass through the fence —it does not escape you, though, that you are being trailed by two assailants. You stop once everyone reaches the forest. "Keep quiet and move ahead," you tell them, "I'll take care of it."

The group disappears into the forest, hiding behind trees and in the underbrush. You sink behind a fallen tree and watch the two Anglians pass by, swords drawn and searching for those who had escaped. On the wind, you can hear screaming.

Bounding over the tree, you dart forward after the two men and take one of them by surprise. The heavy thud of his body against the forest floor and the harsh sound of gurgling blood give away your presence to the second man.

He blocks your first strike and the blow he deals is enough to crack the shield on your arm. Hastily, you discard the broken shield, but not quick enough to evade his second blow. The edge of his sword bites into your side —warmth and pain blossom there. The man steps back, preparing his next move, but his foot hooks on a tree root and you take the opening, hacking down into his shoulder. He drops his own sword and shouts when you wrench the blade from his clavicle, silencing his wails with a clean cut to the throat.

In the distance, more dark figures approach the tree line. You press your back against one of the trees again and lay in wait —steadying your breathing and listening to the branches snapping and leaves crunching underfoot.

Between the moon and the flames, a long shadow is cast on the forest floor —then several more. Leaping from behind the cover of the tree, you swing the bloody sword, ignoring the dull throbbing and surge of dampness on your side. The blow is quickly knocked away by an axe —the man wielding it is familiar. "Eivor," you breathe, dropping the blade. His face is a mess of soot and blood.

Eivor hangs his axe in his belt and lays one hand on your shoulder, the other cupping your cheek. Relief floods his expression as his gaze darts across your face and down to your toes. Nothing seems out of place. "Are you okay?" He asks —rough thumb sliding across your cheek.

"Only scratches," you assure him, hoping he will not see through the lie. You glance around him to the small group of warriors still trickling into the forest from the burning settlement. Through the canopy of autumn leaves, you spot Sýnin making wide circles and hear his faint cries over the rustling trees. You cannot tarry here any longer.

IT IS NOT until midday when you stop to rest near where the longships are moored on the river. You let Þóra down from your back, watching as the girl scurries off to her mother —a shieldmaiden who'd taken a grievous wound to the thigh. Eivor spots the patch of bloodstained wool on your side when you kneel at the river's edge, splashing water on your face.

He crouches next to you, gently shooing Sýnin from his shoulder before pushing your arm aside and reaching for the ties of the belt around your hips. You do not resist when Eivor tugs off your stained tunic to survey the damage. "You said it was only scratches," he mutters, dipping the burgundy sash he often wears at his waist in the water.

"You've told the same lie, Eivor Wolfsmal," you chide, reminding him of the times he claimed something serious was only a scratch. If he could call almost losing a finger a scratch, then you could say the same about the cut on your side as it is not deep enough to warrant sutures. A good cleaning and watchful eye will suffice.

Eivor knows he has been stubborn in the past, often downplaying his own wounds, but seeing you hurt always strikes something deep inside him and stirs an aching sadness in his heart. He lifts the damp sash to wipe away the dirt on your brow and cheeks, then places it aside, taking your face in both of his hands. "I can't lose you," Eivor murmurs —almost pleading— swallowing the lump in his throat. He cannot bear the thought of losing you —his closest friend since childhood, who he now calls his wife.

You cover his hands with your own and lean forward until your lips brush against his. A soft, loving kiss that says you won't and deepens into I love you. Eivor pulls back, hands falling away from your face as he passes you the stained and torn tunic.

He carries you from the river and eases the both of you down to rest against a tree trunk. You lean against his shoulder, fingers loosely combing through his beard as exhaustion from the previous evening's attack sets in. Eivor looks between his people and you —one of his arms slips around your waist as he turns his head, pressing his lips to your forehead. "Will you sing to me?" You ask, almost a whisper, curling further into the warmth and safety of his arms.

"My mother told me–" he starts having cleared his throat, the timbre of his voice as sweet as any lullaby "–someday I would buy..." You sigh, and despite the desolation having occurred in the night, manage a weak smile as Eivor continues to sing, lulling you to sleep in his arms.