Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ sweet first kisses

over the years, eivor has gotten better at a lot of things, kissing you just happens to be one of them.

A WOODEN PLANK creaks underfoot as you tiptoe toward the entrance of your single room home, trying not to wake your father and mother at the late hour. Your efforts to be stealthy fail as your father stirs awake at the opposite end of the hut, eyes studying the darkness and groggily asking why you're up in the dead of night. Replying that you only wished for a drink of water eases his mind, and after a few long moments, you hear his soft snores again. Letting out a shaky breath, you move quickly, slipping into the night.

Eivor Wolfsmal is waiting in the moonlight under a tree just outside your home, Sýnin perched on his shoulder. He smiles when you reach him, extending his hand for you to take before stealing you away to a quiet cove where a new litter of seal pups resides. For some time now this small cove had been your and Eivor's spot —a place of quiet solitude away from the demands and expectations of life.

He is a man now —the son of a king. Sigurd's more frequent and prolonged absences leave Eivor to shoulder his brother's duties. You are no longer a girl either, but a woman grown —nearly finished with a five-year apprenticeship under the blacksmith, Gunnar. While you are in no position to open your own forge, you will soon be Gunnar's equal. It certainly helps your position that Eivor trusts you with his axe and blades.

You both sit on the rocky shoreline, looking out over the dark water to the crag of rock jutting from the surface and writhing with harbor seals. Sýnin croaks at your ear, jealous of the seal pup whose belly you're rubbing. You eye the raven and Eivor laughs —shaking his head.

"This makes the third time he's nearly caught me," you note with a long sigh. It was easy for Eivor to sneak around without a care as to being caught, but between your mother and father and their growing suspicions, it was becoming more difficult to leave your home at odd hours of the night. When you were younger, they laughed at your and Eivor's antics, but now people were starting to talk. "We cannot keep this up, Eivor."

He frowns, having received an earful from Styrbjorn less than a fortnight ago about the whispers surrounding his adopted son. You are past the age of unwitting playfulness, Eivor. All Fornburg knew the two of you were inseparable; parting when duty demanded it. Best consider how you really feel, boy, and act on it.

Only a fool could not see how things had changed since you both came of age. Your gazes linger more now, often wandering when the other looked away. Hugs last longer, too, and even the simplest of touches —hands or arms brushing— set your hearts to beating like a war drum.

"I'll find a way," he tells you, planning to confront your father before the harvest feast about courtship. Though before he makes a fool of himself, Eivor needs to know if you feel the same. He watches you stroke Sýnin's feathers as the raven had taken up residence on your thigh, demanding scritches if he couldn't have a treat. Eivor smiles —you are one of the few people Sýnin is fond of.

You catch his gaze from the corner of your eye, wondering how long he had been looking at you like that —with his lips kinked into a smile beneath a growing golden beard and a glint of something bordering on longing in his clear blue eyes. "Eivor?" You question, only half-drawing him from the trance. He lifts his hand, fingertips gliding across your cheek and back into your hair.

Eivor leans toward you, and instinctively, you do the same. You expect a kiss upon the cheek or temple, but it never comes. Instead, his lips brush over yours —almost missing his mark as his nose bumps against yours, pushing him a little too far left. He feels your lips twist into a smile as you tilt your head to meet his kiss firmly and happily. You move a hand to his shoulder for balance, the other resting over the scar on his neck.

Though clumsy at first, you both fall into rhythm, like the rise and fall of the sea. You think kissing your best friend should feel strange —wrong even, but it doesn't. It feels right. A harsh croak from Sýnin separates you. Eivor glances down at the raven, in part to hide the color rising his face. His eyes flit up to yours, though he cannot help but notice the warmth on your cheeks too. "I've wanted to do that for a while now," he admits, laughing. Smiling, you lean toward him again, pressing your lips against the corner of his, feeling the tickle of his short beard against your cheek.

WATER LAPS AT your feet as you look to the small isle where seals often frequent, though abandoned now that warmer months have returned. It's quiet and peaceful —a good place to come and think of everything that has happened and will happen in the coming days. Nigh five years have passed since the night you and Eivor shared a first kiss under the moonlight. Now you ponder your upcoming wedding. In less than a month's timing, you would marry Eivor —your closest and dearest friend.

Gravel crunches underfoot, and you smile. Only one other knew about this spot. "Aren't you supposed to be hunting with Alvis?" You challenge, glancing back as Eivor joins you on the shore.

"Yes," Eivor answers sitting next to you —Sýnin hops from his shoulder to yours, "but he and Holger are having a dispute." You roll your eyes at his response, laughing. The two brothers always seemed to be at odds about something, no matter how trivial. The hunt would have to wait for another day.

"Besides," he starts, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you onto his lap. "I was hoping we might spend some time together–" he eyes Sýnin, silently telling the raven to take leave to hunt or preen his feathers "–alone." Sýnin croaks in response, ruffling his feathers before taking to the grey sky.

You shift, running a finger down the scar on his cheek and across his lips. Eivor catches your hand, placing a soft kiss on the center of your palm. Freeing your wrist, he leans forward, wasting no time in settling his lips against yours and stealing your breath away. "You've gotten better at kissing," you laugh, recalling the first time Eivor kissed you in the moonlight in this same spot.

He hums his agreement, a smirk kinking his lips as a dark glint appears in his bright blue eyes. "I've learned a few tricks," Eivor remarks, "with my lips and tongue." You raise a brow in question, but his smile and kiss assure you that neither of you will be arriving at the evening's feast on time.