Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ needed warmth

in which eivor comes home half frozen and you must help him unthaw.

"EIVOR!" YOU CRY, dropping a cup of ale onto the floor in shock. He is standing in your doorway, soaked to the bone, and trembling in the cold night —ice stiffens his clothes and gathers in his uncombed beard. You motion him in and push him toward the burning brazier at the center of the room, tossing three more pieces of halved wood to keep the flames from dying down.

Returning to Eivor, you begin undressing him —frozen clothes will do nothing but make him colder and sick. His wool and fur mantle falls away from his shoulders, followed by his leathers and linens until he's bear, arms crossed over his chest. You lay your hand on his shoulder, urging him to sit by the brazier before turning to gather up the patchwork of pelts from the straw mattress.

He glances over his shoulder, finding you'd stripped from your woolen dress and were only left in a loincloth and breast band with a woolen blanket and furs in your arms. A moment later, you join him on the floor —sitting astride his lap, draping the fur and wool around you both and pressing your chest tightly to his, arms wrapped around his middle. Eivor's skin is like ice, the warm glow of the fire revealing the blue pallor that'd taken him. "What are you doing?" He asks, voice still shaking.

"Using my warmth," you breathe, pressing your cheek against his shoulder. The cold could kill a man, but so could warming up too quickly after being nigh frozen. Eivor loosely grips onto your hips —fingertips pressing into your thighs— as you run your hands up and down his back, his heart racing. You hold fast to him, feeling the part of the cold sink into your bones too. He turns his head, rough lips brushing over your forehead.

Once his heart calms and breathing grows even, he leans against a stack of firewood and pulls you with him —unwilling to give up your warmth. Resting a hand over his cheek, you trace the scar there and meet his clear blue gaze. "What happened?" You ask, hand slipping down to his shoulder and chest.

Eivor shakes his head, ridiculing his folly —he should have known better than tread that path. "The ice wasn't as thick as I thought on one of the pools near Hildisvíni Crag," he answers. One misstep and the next thing he knew was a cold that felt like a thousand blades stabbing him at once. Had he been further from Fornburg, he would likely have frozen in the night, but he'd made it home and into the warmth of your loving arms.

Knowing he must be starving after having left before sunrise, you rise from his lap and lift the kettle from over the fire —pouring out the remaining hot water into a cup holding a sash of dried bilberry and birch. Leaving the brew steeping, you gather a small meal and return to his side. "Here," you press the stone cup into his hands and sit back at his side with a plate of brown bread, butter, and smashed elderberries.

"Better?" You ask, smiling. A soft flush of pink returns to his cheeks and his touch is no longer like ice. Eivor nods and leans to the side, pressing his lips against your temple. He's lost track of the times he's returned home at ungodly hours in unpredictable conditions only to be greeted by your smile and kiss —it's only recently he has been able to start referring to you as his wife.

Sighing, you reach for his hand and thread your fingers through his, tucking your entwined hands beneath your chin. The gods both blessed and cursed you by entangling your fate with Eivor Wolfsmal's. He is the best man you know, and you're grateful to call him yours, but you worry for him a great deal —never knowing if he'll come back bloody and missing limbs or nigh frozen in the night. "You scared me," you admit, voice barely a whisper.

"That wasn't my intent," Eivor notes, pulling you back against his chest, his arm settling around your waist. He doesn't like it when you worry for him, but he knows nothing he says can change that. You'd been his best friend years before he ever called you his wife, and you always worried for him until he was back safe at home.

"I know," you tell him, gaze darting from the patch of dark blond hair on his chest up to his eyes. "Just don't go making a habit out of it," you add, laughing softly.

His lips kink into a smile, and he bends forward. Eivor's beard scratches and tickles your cheek and chin just for a moment before his lips touch yours —still smiling. You slip your hand from his and loosely comb through the hair at the back of his neck as you push closer to him. Eivor's kisses are sweeter as summer mead, soft as the first snowfall, and you can never get enough of them. He pulls away, brushing the backs of his fingers over your cheek. "I don't plan to," he assures you. Plans seldom seem to go in his favor, though.

Rid of the deathly chill that'd taken him, Eivor gathers you up in his arms and moves to the straw-and-rag stuffed mattress separated from the main room by a screen of wattle and settles in for a late-night. Under the woolen blankets and patchwork of fur pelts, you curl into his chest and tangle your legs with his. He brushes away the hair covering your cheek and places a short kiss there. "Sleep well, love," he breathes with a soft sigh, feeling you press a light kiss to his collarbone in return. Eivor settles his arms around you and feels a blossoming warmth in his chest —he smiles into the crown of your hair, knowing you to be the source of that warmth.