Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ broken kingdoms

in which ivarr the boneless finds himself smitten with a saxon princess and is surprised to see his affections are returned. 

oh Lord, oh Lord, what do I do? i've fallen for someone who's nothing like you.

THE SONS OF Ragnar are the last people on God's good Earth you wish to seek help from, but time does not slow because you want it, and the growing threat of dark and violent times soon to plague your homelands cannot be avoided any longer. You plan to keep your hands clean of the foul deeds that must be done for as long as you can. And despite seeds of doubt taking root and the feeling in your gut telling you this will only exacerbate the situation, you find yourself standing in the heart of the Ragnarssons' forward camp, having sent an envoy before your arrival —seeking an audience with Ubba and Ivarr. Rumors whispered by little birds tell you they are in the business of killing kings and lords, and they take great pleasure and pride in their work.

You know who he is by look and the way he moves alone when he approaches —the scar running the length of his face back onto his scalp unmistakable, as is the madness in his pale eyes. He waves for your vanguard to make a path, and they part for Ivarr the Boneless without a word. You lift your chin, leveling your gaze with his, having heard the Northmen can smell fear, and seeing Ivarr's twisted smile, you're inclined to believe those whispers. He circles you thrice times —a wolf sizing up his prey— before stopping in front of you, looking down his nose. "Princess," Ivarr greets, tone bordering on mocking.

Stories of his cruelty have chilled your blood in the waking hours of the night. The priests told you and many others that Ivarr the Boneless was a demon, a serpent, a spawn of the Devil himself. His deeds and lust for torture became the stories mothers would tell their children at night. But as he stands before you, eyes bright and gleaming in the setting sun, you find he is just a man —not a demon or a god-made flesh.

He looks at you carefully, attempting to discern what your expression means, what's turning the wheels of your mind. Ivarr lifts his hand, the back of his fingers almost touching your cheek when you flinch, stepping back as though fleeing a striking snake. "Do not touch me, heathen," you spit, seeing your vanguard close ranks.

"I do not bite" —Ivarr's taunting smile widens, a cage of teeth, the scar on his cheek twitching as he laughs. "Hard," he adds, an afterthought, but it gives him the chance to watch a chill run down your spine and fuel the excitement coursing in his blood.

"Ivarr!" Ubba shouts, emerging from the oiled red-linen pavilion. The look he casts to his brother is a harsh warning. Something flares up in Ivarr's eyes as he looks from you to his brother —anger, resentment, jealousy. They do not see eye to eye. Ubba walks down the path, garnering a reverence his brother did not yet have. "Mind yourself," he remarks in passing. "She is our guest." He offers a small, strained smile to you to act as a balm for Ivarr's crude behavior. Christian or pagan, you and your vanguard would be treated with respect and hospitality.

Ivarr shrugs. "Only having a bit of fun, weren't we, princess?" You glare at him, and he cannot say for sure why your harsh gaze cuts him to the quick, but it does.

"RUNNING AWAY FROM home?" Ivarr means it as an insult —to belittle your position and turn your woes into little more than a child throwing a tantrum. You lower your gaze to your hands —clasped in your lap— and push down the rush of emotion the thought of your intended brings. A cruel man, perhaps crueler than Ivarr, with his true person hidden beneath the veneer of a godly and patient man. The first time he struck you had been the moment you learned of his intentions. He bore no love for you or your people, nor would he ever. Aldfrith sought absolute power and would stop at nothing to attain it. He chose you to be his victim.