Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ it will come back

when deimos returns, his name is alexios, and he is taken with his unwavering healer. rated 18+ for smut

SPARTAN AND ATHENIAN dead litter the shores of Amphipolis –a feast for crows. Though among the dead few are luckily have clung to life. A wave of healers and physicians from both sides descend to collect those injured and those who had already taken the journey across the Styx with Charon.

You bear the mark of Athena –a servant of Athens. Combing the field of battle, you look for soldiers who wear the blue color of Athens. The first man you turn over is dead – his throat slashed and entrails exposed. Another is barely alive, having lost his hand and sustained a long and jagged gash on his calf. Shock will set in soon if he is not tended to. You hold up the silver medallion fastened around your neck –it glints in the sun and soon after two men come forward with a crude stretcher to take the soldier to the infirmary tent.

The next is beyond saving –his right eye is bulging from its socket, a minor grievance in comparison to the shattered back of his skull. He cannot speak, but his delirious eyes say it all. End this. I beg you. You'd never enjoyed this part of your duty. It didn't feel right for a healer to take life –regardless, you draw the dagger from the sheath on your belt and position the tip of the blade next to his larynx. Pushing down with your weight, the dagger sinks into flesh and then you pull the cutting edge toward you. It's a clean-cut that will grant the soldier peace before he can take another labored breath.

Rising, you find yourself drawn to a man that does not wear the colors of Sparta or Athens. A misthios, you think to yourself, but as you draw nearer you see his gold and dark steel armor is too fine to belong to a mercenary. A single arrow shaft rises from the center of his back. Kneeling, you push aside the matted locks of dark brown hair adorned with golden beads that'd fallen in front of his face. Against your hand, you can feel slow puffs of air and a pulse beneath your fingertips. He is still alive. You raise your medallion again.

Two soldiers come, though when they see who you are kneeling next to, their faces take on a deathly pallor, and fear shins in their eyes. "Take him to my tent," you instruct. If everyone is as fearful of this man as those two soldiers, no one will wish to tend to his wounds.

By the time the sun has set, those who stand a chance of surviving are within the infirmary pavilion and those who were dead or received final mercy are piled atop quickly constructed pyres. They will be sent off with Charon's obol as honorable dead.

You draw the flaps of your small pavilion close and untie the leather belt hanging on your hips, letting it fall onto a small table next to a clay washbasin. Scrubbing your hands of the day's work, you forget about the patient now residing in your quarters until you turn to your bedroll –which is half occupied at the moment. Small lanterns chase away the darkness.

The arrow had pierced the metal and leather cuirass and a gentle pull on the now broken shaft tells you it had sunk into flesh too. Frowning, you prod around the entry point –failing to see how to remove his armor without inflicting more damage. You reach back, fingers curling around the hilt of your dagger and slowly you start to whittle down the olive wood shaft. White pteruges are now stained with dried blood and mud –you set them aside and find the fastenings of the cuirass. Once the ties and hooks are free, you lift the back-plate and the tapered arrow shaft passes through with ease.

Scars crisscross his corded back, though for now, your focus returns to the arrow just to the left of his spine. The barbs had not caught on flesh, nor does it appear laced with poison and for that you are thankful. You ready your supplies –clean linen, a freshly ground poultice of thyme, sage, clove, and garlic, and a needle with silk thread should the wound need stitching.