Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ rivals

in which eivor fails miserably at stealth

HE'S NOT NEARLY as quiet as he believes himself to be —heavy footfalls lumbering along the cobbled streets. "All of England will hear us approaching if you keep that up," you remark, sliding along the shadows silently. Eivor holds out his arms as though saying he cannot help it —he's a warrior after all, not an assassin who lurks in the dark. You shake your head, annoyed, already knowing this quest will end in folly but pull him into the shrubs regardless. At least you'd be able to say you tried.

"Can't believe Sigurd told you to come," you lament, voice hardly a whisper. You didn't need help, and Sigurd knows that. "I have this under control." Everything was going swimmingly until Eivor Wolfsmal showed up at your camp uninvited —though you suppose Sýnin bears part of the blame for being the one to find you first.

Eivor leans in, his gaze darting between you and the two guards patrolling the fortress walls. Two well-timed shots with your bows would take care of them without raising alarm. But it's too tempting not to stoke the flames of the petty feud and competition that's been raging between the two of you for years now. His breath tickles the back of your neck, making the hairs there stand on end. "Is that why I found you with a knife to your throat in an alleyway?" He whispers in your ear.

You turn to face him quicker than the crack of a whip. He's impossibly close —there's only so much room in the hedges to hide after all. The glint of mischief in his clear blue eyes is unmistakable, even in the dim light of the stars and moon. This is akin to a game to him, and the irritation etched into your frown and furrowed brows only make his lips quirk upward. "I said I had it under control, Eivor," you snap, pressing against his shoulder. Even in the darkness, he can see the warmth flood your cheeks.

"Insufferable," he grumbles, shifting. "Not even a modicum of gratitude." A branch snaps under his foot.

"Quiet!" You hiss, covering his mouth with your hand. "The guards will hear if you don't keep your trap shut."

But it's too late. "Oi!" A guard shouts, holding his torch aloft. "Who's there?" The moonlight and flames catch the glint of metal on Eivor's leathers and mail. "There in the bushes!" He cries, one torch turning to several, and then the fortress gates begin to creak as they're raised. You dart out of the shrubs, pulling Eivor along and back toward the center of the city. "After them!" Behind you is the shuffle of boots, spears, and shields.

"Well done, Eivor," you remark, no shortage of scorn in your voice as you look back over your shoulder at him and the group of soldiers in pursuit. Standing your ground would only draw more attention, more men. You need to vanish.

Turning a corner, you almost run into a merchant with and his cart of apples, but Eivor reaches out, hand curling around your wrist, and pulls you into a dim crevice away from the main street and market. He presses you against the stone building —hands splayed out on either side of your head. You glance to the side, seeing the soldiers looking in the vendor stalls and under heaps of fabric. It is a good hiding place but not foolproof.

"Kiss me," you say without thinking. Eivor stares at you, brows furrowed, mouth agape —unsure if he'd heard you correctly when you can barely tolerate his presence. But the look in your eyes is no jest. You want him to kiss you now, and your fingers twist into the leather baldric crossing his chest, tugging him closer.

He won't give you the satisfaction and turns his cheek in haughty distaste at the thought, even though his heart is racing at the thought of having your lips upon his. The soldiers are closing in. He flexes his fingers, wondering if he should just take up arms and carve a path to the city walls. "I'd rather die than kiss you," Eivor says, gaze flitting back to you —his clear blue eyes betray him, but lingering softness does not take the sting from his words.

"Maybe that can be arranged," you hiss, eyes cutting through him, "especially if you keep this–" But Eivor doesn't give you a chance to finish the sentence. He cradles the back of your head with one hand. The other pressed into the curve of your back, and out of instinct, you twine your arms around his neck. His lips are soft and warm and gentle and move, just barely, against yours. When you do not pull or shy away, Eivor's lips tug into a half-smile, and you are left to his mercy with a flutter in your chest.

Despite circumstance, his kiss is no less sweet than you'd imagined. The soldiers must have spotted the two of you because, in the haze of your mind, you hear an amused just two lovebirds and shared laughter among them. Eivor is the first to part, nigh breathless as he stares down at you. "Are they still there?" You ask, breaking him from his trance.

"Just the two in the market now," he responds, knowing you're not in the clear just yet. Eivor takes too long to act this time, and you surge forward, pressing your lips to his again —it feels right. His hands fall to your hips this time, and the surprise of it elicits a low groan from the back of his throat. You slip your fingers into the hair at the back of his neck, though when you part to skim the market again, Eivor doesn't bother looking. His focus is still on you —body humming from the shared kisses. He turns your gaze back to him and takes your lips again, just for good measure. Soft and slow. Gods, he thinks, this feels right. When you both part for a final time, the soldiers are gone. "How did you know that would work?" He asks, oddly breathless.

"I didn't," you admit, rather sheepishly given the way you'd just kissed him, unable to hide the flush on your cheeks —you're certain he can probably hear your heart pounding too, each beat like a hammer stroke from Thor. But then you smile, reaching up to card your fingers through his close-cropped beard. "You're a good kisser, though," you tell him, amused.

Eivor shakes his head, smiling. "Unbelievable," he grouses, snaking his arms around your waist. You won't get away from him so easily now. This time, there's no urgency in his kiss, and he takes the time to savor the taste of honey and ale lingering on your tongue and lips. And he can't help but think Sigurd knew what he was doing when he sent him after you.