Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ gentle sins

as the daughter of edmund of east anglia, you never thought you'd fall into the political games the ragnarssons play. but sometimes, the threads of fate cannot be escaped. and sometimes, even sins can be gentle and filled with sweet innocence. 0r in which, Ivarr takes it upon himself to show you the pleasures of the flesh. rated 18+ for smut.

EDMUND OF EAST Anglia lies without his head in the fens west of Exning, and the Great Heathen Army turn their bloodthirsty and silver-hungry gaze to Northwic. The armies of East Anglia have not returned. Instead, you face the Ragnarssons' warband knocking at the city gates. But you remain steadfast and alone, praying before the altar of Christ in the church until the very end. When the walls are breached, the bishop urges you to seek better shelter, and it is only then you take to hiding behind a stack of crates in the apse—waiting for whatever may come.

The footsteps on the stone floors echo louder than any sermon in the great hall ever has as he walks down the nave. "I can smell you, Saxon." The shadow grows closer, the footsteps louder. You peer through a crack and see the Northman closing in on where you hide and squeeze your eyes shut.

"Hej, sweetling," he rasps, looking down at you, ashen brown hair covering half his face, but you can see his eyes are bright blue and burning with ruthlessness, lips kinked into a wicked smile. You move to dart past him, but he grips your arm tight, and before you can try to run again, his bloodied axe blade is at your throat—a burly tattooed arm curling around your shoulders to keep you in place. "Ivarr!" Ubba shouts; the look he gives his brother is one of harsh warning.

Ivarr the Boneless. Your eyes widen with recognition, but his smile only widens. God save me. The eldest of the two Sons of Ragnar knows who you are by look alone. The fine raiments and the silver necklace bearing the seal of King Edmund tell him you are the daughter of a king—a princess—and mayhap the solution to a newly made dilemma. "Stay your axe." Ivarr lowers the axe blade, then unfurls his arm from around your neck and pushes you toward his brother.

You clasp your hands in front of a cloth-of-gold belt and take a shaking breath as you notice the crown of East Anglia hanging from Ubba's sash. "My father is dead then?" You know it to be so already, having seen his headless body in a dream three days hence.

Ubba nods and lays his great Dane axe on one of the church pews. "Good lady," he says as gently as he can. "Will the people of East Anglia follow you?" He asks. By all rights, you should wear the crown, but the ways of England are not like those of his home.

His willingness to see you in power is a surprise. The priests have always told you the Northmen are twisted fiends, a scourge upon the Earth with nothing but lust for blood, flesh, and shining spoils. But as Ubba and his brother stand before you, you find they are just men, not the twisted demons in stories mothers tell the children to frighten them into behaving.

"I may be the daughter of a king, but I live among men," you tell him, measuring your words carefully. You were never meant to rule. It was always your fate to one day be used as a bargaining chip and made a broodmare for another king or noble. "Every ealdorman and thegn would take precedence over me in succession." That had always been the order of things. "The words of a woman are not easily followed here."

Perhaps they should be, though, Ubba Ragnarsson thinks. Regardless, someone so smooth-tongued and with so much sangfroid would undoubtedly be an invaluable asset in the weeks, months, and years to come. If nothing else, mayhap you could persuade the people of East Anglia to accept a puppet king and harmony between Saxons and Danes without more bloodshed. "Accompany us, good lady, and you will have safe quarters among our people," he promises. "I give you my word no harm will befall you." He looks at his brother as he says it. "It is your choice, though."