Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ wildflowers

in which ivarr refuses to be caught picking wildflowers for the lady he's sweet on.

HE SMILES, WIPING the blood from his axe on a piece of wool taken from a dead Saxon when a glimpse of blue catches his attention. Ivarr's smile widens as he looks at the patches of blue flowers dotting the battlefield —cornflowers. Kneeling, he gathers the stems into a small bundle, shearing them from the earth with his axe. Inwardly, he scoffs at himself for picking wildflowers after a battle when he should already have a cup of mead in hand, but Ivarr knows it'll be worth it if it means seeing his ladylove smile.

Ivarr waves the young Mercian ætheling to him. Ceolbert fought bravely, having learned to wield his two-handed greatsword. Naming the son of Ceolwulf as a ward of Ivarr the Boneless was simultaneously the wisest and most careless decision Ubba Ragnarsson had ever made. "I need your help with something, twig," he says, gripping onto the boy's shoulder. Ivarr has come to think of Ceolbert as a son since they've trekked over the hills of Mercia.

"Flowers?" Ceolbert inquires, eyeing the blue bouquet. "Ivarr, I didn't think you were a romantic." His teasing tone and smile earn him a sharp glare, but Ivarr asks if he will deliver them to his ladylove. He doesn't wish to be seen carrying around flowers. Ivarr the Boneless has a reputation to maintain, after all. Ceolbert is surprised upon hearing your name pass through the Dane's scarred lips —he hadn't expected Ivarr to fancy a farmer and baker of all people. "Why not deliver them yourself?" He asks, taking the small bouquet.

The question is answered with a scoff and a haphazard wave of an axe. "I am a drengr," Ivarr says —as though anyone could ever forget— using his warrior title as an excuse to avoid confronting the feelings lurking deep in his heart. "I won't let Ubba catch me hauling around wildflowers either." Ceolbert almost laughs, a smile twisting his lips. "He'd have my balls on a platter." Ivarr ridiculed Ubba for wanting to marry and settle down, but that was before he met you. The king's son sets off, promising to deliver the flowers.

CEOLBERT KNOCKS ON the doorframe then steps back as he hears the shuffling of feet and crates from the other side. He looks down at the arrangement of wildflowers —cornflowers and bluebells. You open the door, smiling when you see the young ætheling on your doorstep.

Hastily, Ceolbert sticks out the wildflowers for you to take, his cheeks turning a bright red. The blue blooms are your favorite in the English countryside, and aside from your late mother, only one other knows of your affinity for cornflowers and bluebells. "Thank you, Ceolbert," you tell him, taking the bouquet. "Would you like to come in?" You ask, stepping back from the doorway. The heavy scent of sweetness and spice tickle his nose as he steps inside. Small confections cover the table. "I just finished making honey cakes."

He will not say who the flowers are from, though you already know, and for his trouble, you give him a honey cake —still warm and topped with toasted hazelnuts and dripping with freshly harvested honey. "Are these for the celebration tonight?" Ceolbert asks —the time had come to thank the gods for a bountiful midsummer harvest and feast. You nod, glad the boy had gotten one of the sweets before they vanished.

Rising from the stool, Ceolbert thanks you for the honey cake and excuses himself to prepare for the night's festivities. "Ceolbert," you call, stopping him before he opens the door to your small home. He looks back, seeing the smirk kink your lips and the knowing glint in your eyes. "Tell Ivarr he better be there."

PARTING FROM THE conversation with several farmers, you turn to the barrel of mead and dip two cups into the fresh batch before joining Ivarr. He sits by his lonesome, watching the merrymaking over an empty plate and cup. You sit next to him, setting the mead in from of him, taking a long drink from your cup. Ivarr spares a glance at you, his scarred lips twisting into a surprisingly soft smile —both Ubba and Ceolbert notice across the feast hall. "A woman who knows the way to my heart and stomach," he muses. Given half the chance, he'd be as rotund as Halfdan if he could eat honey cakes every day.

"Ivarr–" you lay your hand over his on the table, catching him by surprise. "Thank you for the flowers." He turns his full attention to you, looking as though you've accused him of some heinous crime. "I know it's you." Ivarr the Boneless would not be able to wiggle himself out of confronting what he felt tonight. It wasn't just the flowers from Ceolbert you were thanking him for, but the ones you often found lying on your doorstep early in the morning too.

"Thought I saw the twig giving them to you," he refutes. It's a poor excuse to not speak what need be said, and you both know it.

You laugh, cheeks warmed by the mead and braziers and how close you are to Ivarr. He turns his hand over, and you slip your fingers through his. "Ceolbert doesn't know cornflowers and bluebells are my favorites," you note, "only you do." It was an early summer morning nigh three years ago when Ivarr stumbled across you picking flowers along the edges of your grain fields. He hadn't known why he stopped at the time but looking back it seems the Nornir planned it all along. For he found himself stopping by your farmstead whenever fate led him back.

"Walk with me?" You ask, not wishing to have a hundred watchful eyes lingering on the two of you. Ivarr trails after you, leaving behind the chatter and songs of the feast hall. It's a clear night with a full moon bathing the Mercian countryside silver. You stop beneath one of the great trees in the borough, looking up at the lanterns hanging from the lower branches.

He stands at your side, the back of his hand brushing against yours, but it is not only holding hands in which you are interested. Ivarr meets your gaze when you slide in front of him with a raised brow. Unsure what was going on in that head of yours. He finds out when you cup his face, thumb quickly running over part of the scar cutting across his cheek before you rise and lean toward him —lips ghosting over his, gauging his response and if you'd made a fool of yourself.

All worries vanish when he presses his cracked lips to yours —firmly. One of his arms snaking around your waist to draw you closer as you slide your hand into his ashen brown hair. Lips parting, you can taste the honey sweetness on his tongue. You smile against his twisted lips, feeling a flood of embers race through your veins. Breaking the kiss, you rest your forehead on his shoulder —the hand tangled in his hair slipping down to his chest.

His rough fingers move across your jaw, tilting your chin up. "Sweet as honey," Ivarr remarks with a lopsided smile as he cranes down, eager for another kiss. This time, you wrap your arms around his neck, gasping into his mouth when he lifts you —your feet barely touch the ground. It is a good feeling and one you can quickly grow accustomed to.

Ceolbert stands next to Ubba Ragnarsson in the open entry of the feast hall, looking down the path to the great tree where you and Ivarr embraced one another. The young ætheling smiled, quickly returning to his seat at the table when you kissed Ivarr, but Ubba lingers a moment longer. He watches with a reserved smile as he drinks from his cup, thinking perhaps now, it will not be as hard to tame his brother if he had you to help ground him.