Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ feathered confessions

eivor knows he made a mistake and now he must suffer for it. or in which eivor, drunk, talks to some chickens.

THE END OF summer lingers in the air of Ravensthorpe as a chill on the wind. Once green leaves and grass have begun shifting to warm earthen hues of gold, red, and orange. It seems a lifetime ago when your father sat you upon his knee and explained why it is autumn, he loved best. Spring is too full of life, and in the summer months they are too strong and won't let go —he motions to the changing leaves— autumn's the time, little one, in autumn everything is tired and ready to die, this is the time to root things up, so they won't come back to trouble you.

Treading back up to the longhouse after helping Tekla and Tarben, you fetch a woolen cloak, tying it off beneath your chin —it will ward off the chill in the air while flying through the Mercian countryside on horseback. You glimpse Randvi and halt, path turning to the map room. She stands looking over the alliance map. There are still lands to the north and east where the Raven Clan may yet find friends. "Randvi?" She lifts her gaze. "There's an apple orchard not far" —you gesture over your shoulder to the west— "would like to ride with me?" You ask. "Just for the afternoon before the feast."

"I would," she answers, smiling at the notion of your thought to ask, and then her smile falters, "but I thought you would be with Eivor since he's leaving for Vinland in the morn." You're certain you haven't heard her correctly when she says Vinland, yet there is no indication of jest on her stern expression. You swallow the rising lump in your thought, feeling your ears burn hot and your face twists with anger. Why would he keep this from me? Randvi's face falls, her lips parting at the realization. "He didn't tell you?"

NOT EVEN THE High One himself could have avoided your wrath when you storm from the longhouse, marching to the northern extent of the riverbank in Ravensthorpe —the thought of a peaceful afternoon picking apples is long gone, replaced by frustration and something akin to betrayal. It's where you last saw him fishing to help little Arth earn a few pieces of silver and begin stocking enough meat to pickle and cure for the winter months.

Eivor unhooks another trout from his line, dropping the wriggling fish into a basket at his side, doing his best to keep Sýnin from making off with too much of his catch. He doesn't see you approaching, but the hairs on the back of his neck bristle —as though he can already feel your heated stare upon him. You call to him, hands turning to fists at your side. Eivor Wolfsmal turns, still smiling —delightfully ignorant to your incoming wrath.

"What is it, my love?" He queries, setting aside his fishing line and shifting as though to take you into his arms in greeting. His expression sours when he beholds you, standing with your arms crossed, the first signs of tears gathering in your eyes. Eivor steps to you, his brows furrowing.

"Why didn't you tell me you're leaving?" You inquire, fighting to keep the tremble of anger and despair from your voice. Eivor was never one to keep secrets, not from you, and even if he tried, you could almost always pry the truth from him. To be left in the dark about his decision to undertake such a long and perilous voyage hurts in a way you had not thought possible.

He grips onto your arms, thumbs rubbing circles through the coarse wool sleeves of your dress. "I was going to tell you after the feast," Eivor explains, guilt already seeping into his tone. You worry about him too much as it is —he did not wish to add to those woes with the change of the seasons. Though now he knows his intentions, while good, were misguided.

"Why wait that long when you told Randvi?" It's difficult not to sound bitter. Difficult to understand why he would disclose his plans to her and Sigurd, but not you. "Am I not your wife?" Your voice cracks, and you quickly blink away the dampness gathering in your eyes. Eivor's stomach churns at seeing your distress and knowing he is the cause of it. "Do I not deserve to know when my husband will come and go?" He looks away, drawing in a slow breath. "Eivor" —you lift your hand to his scarred cheek, pulling his gaze back to you— "it no small journey to Vinland. You'll be gone for months."