Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ tattooed

you decide to get a tattoo matching eivor's raven.

SVEND GREETS YOU with a smile and motions you into his workshop and home, for he knows the reason you have come to visit him this early in the day after Tove told him of your plans the prior evening. Eivor Wolfsmal and his brother, Sigurd, were due back any day now, having left two moons ago to venture further into Mercia seeking an alliance with the Songs of Ragnar.

It is not only Eivor's return that has you sitting in Svend's workshop but the fast-approaching day marking your third year of marriage. You wished to surprise him with a tattoo of raven matching his own —a tribute to your clan, Sýnin, and your husband.

With a piece of wood coal, Svend outlines the shape of a raven on the inside of your wrist. The same design Eivor proudly displays on the right side of his skull and that he'd labored over for days. Rising from the table, he gathers several pins and brings a freshly mixed thick blue-black paste of wood ash and woad.

The process is slow and one of practiced repetition —dipping the head of a slim pin into the dye, tapping it into the skin within the bounds of his charcoal outline, and wiping away any blood welling up. It takes the day for him to complete the relatively small, simple design. "Keep it wrapped while it heals," the tattooist tells you, tying off a strip of linen around your wrist. It is sore to the touch and will take several days to mend.

"Thank you, Svend," you smile, flexing your stiff hand and arm before reaching to your belt and presenting him with a pouch of silver coin. A fair price for fair work.

He shakes his head, pushing the coin purse across the table. "No," Svend says, adamant, "this place and your company are more than enough payment." The tattooist looks around his workshop and out the door to the ever-growing settlement of Ravensthorpe. Sigurd may wear the title of Jarl, but it is Eivor who had rebuilt the abandoned borough into a prospering seat in the heart of Mercia. Between his new home and workshop and a day of pleasant conversation with you, he needs no compensation. "You and Eivor have already done too much for an old man like me," he notes.

LITTLE ARTH FINDS you at the hearth in the longhouse, sewing tunics and repairing ripped britches for several of the children often running amuck through the fields and woods, finding more trouble than treasures. His bright smile is enough for you to know why he has come in haste —the sails of Eivor's longship spotted on the River Nene in the twilight. You follow in the boy's steps, darting to the wharf eager to see your husband after so many weeks apart.

His voice rings out over the river and longship crew like a sweet song —they are to unload the plundered riches for the storehouse. Eivor jumps from the dragon-tail of the ship, eyes skimming over the visiting traders and the people of Ravensthorpe. You call his name above a small gathering, and he is quick to discard the shield and bow on his back, greeting you with a warm embrace and soft kiss upon the cheek. "A fair sight for thine sore eyes," he remarks, worsening a smudge of soot on your cheek.

You smile, wrapping your arms around him again, and take a quick moment to breathe in his scent —leather, sweet berries, and hornbeam resin. "It's good to have you back," you tell him. This time he leans forward, rough lips meeting yours. A short, sweet kiss promising more to follow to make up for days and nights you've been parted from each other. Parting, you glance around him to the longship. Sigurd departed with him but does not return. "Where is your brother?"

Eivor recovers his bow and shield, draping his arm over your shoulders as you both climb the hill leading to the longhouse. "Gone to begin negotiations with the East Anglia," he answers. Sigurd is making it a habit to keep the company of kings in hopes that one day he may wear a crown of his own. "No matter," Eivor remarks —Sigurd is better suited for things of a diplomatic nature. "I should tell Randvi the good news." New allies for the Raven clan had been found in the Sons of Ragnar.

He pauses in the center of the longhouse, turning to the adjacent room where Randvi is discussing discoveries with her scouts. "Join me in our chambers after you've delivered the tidings," you say, quietly, kissing his scarred cheek before returning to the hearth to gather up your sewing projects. The heavy wooden door shuts behind him, and he's quick to start shedding his bracers and outer layers.

Eivor crawls onto the straw bed wearing a faded blue tunic and patched breeches, laying his head on your thigh, and you run your fingers across his brow —smoothing out the wrinkles and furrows. A lengthy sigh passes his lips. "I am sorry to have missed our anniversary," he admits. Of all the days away from you, that had been the day to seem endless. Sigurd and Ivarr alike tried to cheer him up with drink, but he would not be content until he returned to Ravensthorpe and you.

"All that matters is you're back," you say with a smile, "safe and in my arms." Eivor returns your smile in kind, sitting up. He moves behind you on the mattress, wrapping his arms around your middle, and props his chin up on your shoulder. You hold onto his hands, softly laughing as he rocks you from side-to-side to the tune of a hummed lullaby. It is good to have your husband back, if only for a short while.

"What happened?" He asks, catching your bandaged wrist. His first thought is you've managed to burn yourself, but you disprove that suspicion when you pull the knot in the linen free, discarding the dressing and revealing the tattoo —just under a week old and close to being healed save for a few small scabs. Shifting, you note the surprise in his clear blue eyes and the soft smile kinking his lips.

"A raven," Eivor breathes, his calloused thumb tracing the outline of the tattoo that is a mirror image of the one on his scalp. Hearing talk of ravens, Sýnin drops down from the rafters, staring at the blue-black tattoo of his likeness on your wrist. He turns his head this way and that —looking between your tattoo and the one Eivor has. With a satisfied croak, Sýnin returns to his perch in the rafters above.

"What do you think?" You ask, glancing at the raven on your wrist. Eivor lifts your wrist, placing a short kiss to the tattoo in reverence before brushing aside your hair and kissing a small patch of skin on your neck just below your ear —making you shiver.

"I love it," he hums, letting his golden beard tickle your check. He sees it as a tribute to your people and Sýnin —an expression and extension of your love. "And I love you," he adds. Eivor will never let an opportunity for him to say he loves you go to waste. He is away too often and involved in too many battles to ever let silence rest easily on his heart. Tilting your chin up, Eivor kisses you. This kiss lasts longer than the others and is no less sweet. You cup his scarred cheek, chasing his lips when he moves to part, and he chuckles as he rids the space between you —pulling further into the bed.

Yes, you think white settling for the night with the added comfort of Eivor's warmth and arms draped across your middle, it is good to have my husband back.