Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ better late

it takes almost dying for eivor to decide it's time to make amends.

HE KNOWS YOU are keeping something from him by the glint in your eyes —the same look from when you were but a young girl trying to sneak off with an extra slice of sweet bread or drink mead instead of watered ale at feasts. Your brother has a budding suspicion of what you're trying to keep from him, though, especially when you glance from the torn tunic sleeve splayed across your lap and smile, finding Eivor Wolfsmal making his way up the hill toward the small hut. The king's adopted son had a knack for stealing you away from chores —almost as if it had been planned. Herljof sits at your side, groaning at the dull ache in his thigh from a wound that hadn't healed cleanly. "You are not good at hiding secrets, sister," he says, nudging your arm with his elbow, "not from me."

"Do you think he likes me too?" You ask. It first felt odd to think of Eivor as anything more than a friend, but something had changed in the last year —you were certain of it. What else could explain the butterflies in your stomach when he asked you to dance at feasts now and how your heart would beat faster when he held your hand or hugged you farewell after a long afternoon of mischief.

"I think he does," he answers. All of Fornburg seemed to know, though the two of you remained oblivious. Though, perhaps, for now, it was better this way. Time would present the right path forward. "Eivor," your brother greets, but the boy doesn't take his eyes from you, further confirming what Herljof has always known.

YOUR BROTHER CANNOT help but wonder if he, and everyone else, had been wrong as time passes. He waves Eivor over in the market —he's not quite a man yet, but is far from a boy, old enough to understand his desires. "Eivor," Herljof greets, clapping him on the shoulder. "I want to speak with you," he says, nodding toward a secluded spot near the longhouse, "about my sister." But either of them notices you, out running errands to gather fresh linen and herbs for the healer, and with piqued interest, you follow behind, unseen.

Surprise and concern wash over Eivor's expression. "Is she alright?" He asks, stumbling over his words. "Has something happened?"

"No, no," Herljof laughs, soothing his worries. "She's fine. But Eivor, my sister is very fond of you." It is no secret, he'd known for years, and more recently, even Sigurd and others had taken note of the subtle changes between the two of you —both smitten with the other but without the courage to act on such feelings. But the growing despair in his little sister's heart has led Herljof to seek answers. "If you do not share those sentiments beyond friendship, then tell her." Your bother cannot bear the thought of seeing you heartbroken again —not after losing your mother and father. You peer over one of the crates, heart beating so loudly you're sure they must hear it —a thunderous drum.

Eivor glances around, his heart racing, throat tight. It sends him into a panic, unwilling to confide his feelings about you to anyone, let alone your brother. "Of course, I don't," he stammers, refusing to admit the truth. Herljof can see through it, but you can't. His words strike deep, like an arrow to the belly. "She's not my type," he adds, salt in the wound. "A healer?" You sink farther behind the stack of crates and linger for only a moment before darting back into the market, disappearing.

It's not but a few hours later that Eivor arrives for his daily routine of stealing you away from chores after you'd finished lessons with the healer and the Seer. This time, you're not sitting on the wooden steps waiting for him, though. He knocks on the doorframe, calling out your name. You remain quiet, but Eivor is persistent. "Leave me alone," you shout, attempting to hide the quiver in your voice from the tears you've cried since overhearing what he said in the market. "Just go away, Eivor!" You cry, leaving no room for him to protest again. The snow crunches under his boots as he paces back and forth before finally resigning —his footfalls fading into the distance.