Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ eivor's wingman

if eivor won't act, then synin will.

A RAVEN SWOOPS down from the grey sky and perches on your shoulder. He ruffles his feathers after the flight and drops a stalk of purple iris in your open, waiting hand. The raven croaks —a low rasping gurgle. "Thank you, Sýnin," you muse, scritching the dark feathers under his neck. For weeks now, the raven has been bringing you flowers and small trinkets. You've amassed a small collection of things from him and pages filled with drying blooms. Just yesterday, he gifted you a smooth river-stone. Sýnin croaks again before jumping from your shoulder and taking to the sky.

Eivor holds his arm out and Sýnin lands. "Did she like it?" He asks and the raven bobs his head up-and-down, hopping from foot to foot in response. Eivor Wolfsmal smiles to himself, retreating into his home to finish last-minute chores before the feast that had been called started.

YOU SLIDE NEXT to Eivor on the bench, offering him a tankard of ale. It had been a good while since you last saw him. Either he was keeping too busy to stop for a visit, or he was purposely avoiding you for some reason. You don't put much thought into it as tonight is for celebration not dawdling on woes. All that matters is the moment —and that means being with Eivor again. "Eivor," you greet, smiling. 

One of your dearest friends had pointed out his lingering gaze for most of the feast. It took all your power to hide the rush of heat to your cheeks, but at least you could blame it on the mead or the warm hearths. His hand clenches into a tight fist on the table and unwittingly, you lay your hand over his —thumb running over his scarred knuckles. The tension fades and you loosely thread your fingers with his.

Eivor has always been a silent observer, but tonight he is abnormally quiet. "Has Sýnin been behaving himself?" You ask to break the silence, already knowing the answer. During feasts, Sýnin mostly spent time amusing the children, but tonight he remains close to Eivor, reminding everyone of his presence with periodic rasping croaks from above.

"Course not," Eivor responds, eyeing the raven perched in the rafters. Sýnin ruffles his feathers as though protesting Eivor's answer and holds his head proudly. He'd been doing exactly as told —though some of the small gifts were of his own doing too.

Another tankard of ale loosens his tongue and it's easy to slip into conversations like bygone times. He speaks of his most recent hunt and asks after your practice. The old village healer and herbalist had passed on the responsibility to you —her apprentice of several long years. You'd been unfortunate enough to test your skills many times on the man sitting at your side. Eivor drapes his arm over your shoulders and it is not until the room quietens that you can hear the thundering beat of his heart near your ear.

The hour grows late, and you've told one of the kennel-masters to come at dawn to have a wound cleaned and rebound. Rising from the bench to take your leave of the mead hall, you bend forward, placing a chaste kiss to Eivor's scarred cheek. "Don't be a stranger," you tell him —hand still resting on his shoulder. A black shadow swoops down from the rafters, plucking one of the silver pins from your hair. You do not notice the missing pin and neither does Eivor until Sýnin drops the hairpiece into his drink with a splash, but you have already gone for the night.

THREE HEAVY KNOCKS on your door pulls you away from tending to the pot of stew over the hearth. It is later than usual for anyone to come looking for aid, but wiping your hands on your apron, you move to open the door. He fills up the doorway even without his heavy furs and leathers —perched on his shoulder is an indignant raven who had just received another scolding. "Eivor!" You exclaim, surprised to see him again so soon.

He holds out his hand, revealing a silver hairpin resting in his palm —one of yours. "Here," Eivor says and you take the delicate pin from him, running your thumb across the dark green stones, "this little thief plucked it from your hair at the feast." You eye Sýnin, but the raven just croaks, tilting his head from side-to-side.