Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ surprise engagement

everyone seems to know something is about to happen, except you. and you have a gut feeling eivor is behind it.

EIVOR WOLFSMAL WAITS until he is sure you have left for the day before he knocks on the wooden door of your home. This moment has been a long time coming and one he has put off for nigh a year, but with the courage provided by a cup of ale and the insistent croaking of Sýnin at his ear, Eivor decides now is the time to act. Despite his breadth and stature, he feels small under the scrutinizing stare of your father, Vígmaðr —a reputable warrior in his own right.

This is not an unfamiliar situation, though, hardly three springs ago Eivor sat on the same bench at the small wooden table and petitioned for the lifelong friendship between him and you to be able to grow into something more through courtship. Now, Eivor asks for Vígmaðr's daughter's hand in marriage, laying his heart bare.

Guðríðr, your mother, smiles and rests a hand on her husband's shoulder. Eivor is a good man and as parents, they could not ask for a better man to marry you. He explains his intention to surprise you by asking after the harvest feast by the week's end —when the agreement is made Eivor takes his leave and lets out a long sigh as the wooden door shuts behind him.

Stepping back onto the main road in the village, he looks up at the overcast sky and smiles, laughing softly to himself as he makes his way into the heart of the seaside village. Sýnin's low croak is the only warning Eivor has before you fall into stride at his side, carrying a basket of root vegetables and grain. The raven jumps onto your shoulder, ruffling his blue-black feathers and nuzzling against your cheek and temple —more affectionate than normal. Reaching up, you scritch the feathers on Sýnin's belly. "What's got you in such a good mood?" You ask, the question directed both to Eivor and the raven perched on your shoulder.

"Thinking about the hunt for the celebration," Eivor replies, hoping his answer will be enough to stave your curiosity for now. It seems to work as you don't doubt it —it'd been well over a month since he last went on a true hunt. "You're busy," he remarks, eyeing the basket in your arms, not wanting to hinder you. The elder healer of the village had tasked you with running errands to some of the sick, a break from your usual routine of making poultices and tonics. Eivor leans down, placing a quick kiss to your check before carrying on his way.

Sýnin lingers on your shoulder, the raven cocks his head to the side, watching Eivor leave. You eye Sýnin, meeting his dark, beady eyes. "He's up to something, isn't he?" Sýnin turns his head this what and that, then hops from foot-to-foot. "Mischief," the raven croaks, "mischief."

AFTER TWO DAYS since encountering Eivor in the street, you start to notice something odd about the way your parents are acting. Vígmaðr and Guðríðr both assure you it is nothing to worry about, but you know they are hiding something. Taking a small breakfast of smashed cloudberries on brown bread, you try to goad your mother into telling you anything about her and Vígmaðr's odd behavior. She does not relent, but your suspicions increase tenfold when you venture to the small market. "I heard the good news!" The merchant smiles, accepting the trade of goat tallow for a bundle of mugwort.

"Always knew you and Eivor were a match made by the gods," someone else says, one of your mother's close friends and fellow shieldmaidens. You take the few items from the market and what had been foraged from the forest the day prior back to the healer, finding even she is acting strange —giving you the rest of the day for yourself. Drawing up your cloak's hood, you set out back into the summer rain and towards Eivor's small house at the edge of the forest.

"Eivor?" You call after knocking, but there is no answer. Pushing open the door, you step inside out of the rain and look around. The hearth is cold, and his bow is gone from its place on the wall. Thrown over the back of his chair is a scarlet tunic with a rip in the sleeve and side —folding it into your basket, you set back toward your home. Eivor's tunic is not the only thing in need of mending. Your mother wields a sword and shield, but you have always wielded a needle with more efficacy than any sword or axe. Sitting by the fire, you start patching the small pile of clothing at your side, humming the tune to a song Vígmaðr used to sing to you at night.

The next day, Eivor returns with a stag nigh twelve hands high draped over his shoulders. A fine beast for the night's feast. You accept his soft kiss and return his repaired tunic as he sets off to wash up now that the hunt has ended. Shortly before the festivities begin, Eivor appears at your door —wearing the scarlet tunic beneath a dark leather jerkin— with Sýnin on his shoulder.

For much of the feast, you cannot shake the number of eyes lingering on you and Eivor, as though they are aware of something you are not. Eivor does not leave your side, not even when talk of battle and raids arise among the warriors gathered at one table —their stories drowning out most of the other conversations. He draws you into his side on the bench when barrels of mead and ale are rolled to the center of the hall, his arm tightening around your waist. "I have something to show you," Eivor breathes, pressing his lips against your temple. You raise your brow in question, and he nods toward the doors, pulling you up to your feet and guiding you by the hand. You hardly notice the mead hall has grown silent with everyone watching as the two of you leave.

He leads you toward the tree line and past a winding trail into the dark depths that you know well from foraging herbs and berries. Sýnin darts through the canopy —you can just make out his dark shadow in the moonlight. Eivor's foot catches on an upturned root and he stumbles, nearly dragging you to the ground before steadying himself against a tree trunk. He laughs at the folly continues on another path, one that is less traveled. "Where are we going?" You ask, fighting back a laugh. It's been quite some time since you've seen Eivor so giddy about something.

"You'll see," he remarks, looking to his side with a bright smile. A little way up on the trail, the forest gives away to a hill overlooking the harbor and village. All the stars in the heavens above are looking down at the two of you standing atop the small bald. The faint beginnings of the autumn and winter lights are visible against the dark backdrop of the sky —dancing ribbons of blue and green.

Between the night sky and the glittering reflection of the moon off the water, you are entranced by the serenity of the night. "Eivor?" You question, softly, noting that he had not taken his gaze off you since coming to a stop. He only smiles in response as Sýnin circles above, letting a two talonfuls of mountain avens rain down.

Eivor stoops down, picking up one of the flowers and tucks it behind your ear —cupping your cheek. His clear blue eyes are sparkling in the moon and starlight. "Ek ann þér," he breathes, his rough thumb ghosting across your lips. You smile, meaning to return the sentiment, though before you can speak Eivor continues, clearing his throat. "And I want to spend the rest of my life with you." For as long as Eivor could remember, you were always there —his closest friend and the person he loved most in all nine realms. Your brows furrow, but then your eyes widen in understanding as everyone's odd behavior for the past comes to make sense. "Marry me?" Eivor asks, smiling with love written in eyes and on his expression.

You break into a wide smile and leap up onto your toes, wrapping your arms around Eivor's neck and find his lips with yours. He wraps his arms around your middle, pulling you flush against him, and leans into the kiss —pouring his heart and soul into it. Eivor pulls away, still smiling as you comb your fingers through his golden beard. "I hope that means yes," he laughs, taking the flower from behind your ear and threading it into a small braid near the crown of your head.

"Of course, it does," you assure him, lips kinked into a smile, "I love you, Eivor." He pulls your close again, dipping his head down to seal the space between your lips again as Sýnin flies overhead, happily croaking.