Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ fever dreams

injured during a raid, eivor asks that you kiss him, for what may be the last time.

WHEN THEY TOLD you Eivor had been injured, you weren't sure what to think. They haul him into your home, and you motion for them to lay him on the bed. Injured is an understatement —Eivor Wolfsmal is half-dead, wounds festering from poor care during the return journey from England. You pull away the crusted piece of wool bound around his middle and nigh gag at the pungent malodor.

"Cnut!" Feet shuffle and drag across the floor. Your little brother appears at your side —eyes wide as he realizes who lay before him. "Bring some water and rags." He nods, scuttling away as fast as the splint on his crooked leg will allow. Returning your attention to Eivor, you begin divesting him of the soiled clothes. The only indication he's still alive is the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Water sloshes from the basin and onto the floor as Cnut sets it on the bedside table. The boy gawks at the swollen, open wound on Eivor's side. The torn, jagged flesh around it had begun rotting and the gash oozes a foul yellow-green fluid. You reach for a wet rag, wringing out the excess water before gingerly starting to clean away the debris and discharge. "Will he be okay?" Cnut asks, his small voice trembling. Eivor is the only father he's known, and truth be told you're the only mother he's ever known. Both your parents died of a spring fever when Cnut was still a suckling babe.

I don't know you think —wounds to the gut were almost always mortal. You grip onto Cnut's shoulder and hide the doubt from your tone and expression. "I think he will be." Eivor Wolfsmal was stubborn after all. He wouldn't let a wound take him from this life. Water can do so much, now it must be cleansed with fire. You hand Cnut a pair of stout daggers. "Lay these in the fire for me," he does as you ask with no complaint and returns to Eivor's side even when you start rummaging around finding supplies for a liniment and charcoal pack while the knives heat.

You lift one of the glowing blades from the hearth and return to Eivor's bedside. "Cnut, hold his shoulders." He clambers onto the bed, tugging on his leg brace. Taking a deep breath, you swallow the lump in your throat. Eir guide my hand. Týr let me brave. You press the red-hot blade against one side of the wound and the scent of burning flesh jumps into the air. Eivor's body tenses and a ragged groan passes through his lips, but he does not wake, nor does he have the strength to fight. You repeat the procedure with the second knife and by the time you spread a fresh salve over the cleaned wound the hour is late. Your little brother is fast asleep at the foot of the bed.

Kneeling at the end of the bed, you unhook the brace on Cnut's leg, brushing back his ruddy hair and kissing his forehead. He was the best apprentice you could ask for. You move to Eivor's side again and give a long sigh looking down at him before leaning down —softly kissing his cheek. Please don't leave me you think, biting down on your lip to stay the tears gathering in your eyes. Don't leave us.

Fever takes him early the next morning. You and Cnut form a snow-pack to keep his fever from growing too high. It makes for a long day and night of little rest for either of you. The village offers sacrifices to Eir and prays to the gods that Eivor be spared —he is a pillar of strength that cannot be replaced.

Nearly a week passes before his fever truly beaks and now you are certain prayers have been answered. He starts stirring as you switch out his dressings again, hand reaching out to brush against yours. His touch startles you. Eivor's clear blue eyes are focused entirely on you —his tender and diligent healer. "Please," he rasps, "kiss me even if it's just this once."

Eivor was certain the gods would take him. He had lived his life with no regrets, save one. For all the time you'd spent together, he'd never known what it was like to feel your lips against his. The longing looks you and he often share is no secret. When he isn't away there's not a single day that passes where Eivor is not at your side. You want to shake your head and continue tending to his wound, but the yearning in your heart is too much to bear.

He starts to smile as you lean forward, first caressing his scarred cheek before settling your lips against his. The kiss is hesitant at first but becomes firmer when Eivor's hand threads into your hair and he pushes himself up from the bed. He kisses you as though it's only the thought of your lips that kept him alive. Breaking apart, your rest your forehead against his, fingers carding through his beard. "No one's kissed me like that in a long time," you admit, breath shaking. A part of you had always feared you'd never be properly kissed again.

His wide and bright smile makes your heart flutter. "I'd like to kiss you more often," Eivor whispers, the backs of his fingers running down your arm.

"I'd like that, too," you tell him and Eivor pulls you flush against his uninjured side, arms wrapping around your waist. He presses his lips to yours —there's a lot of lost time to make up for. This kiss is quicker but no less sweet. You pull away, smiling. "I still need to tend your wound, Eivor," you gently remind him, and besides, there was a very eager little boy who'd been waiting for him to wake. Reluctantly, Eivor lets you up, but even so, he's still smiling because he knows there'll be many more kisses to come.