Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ a memory of the past

slowly the pieces of the puzzle fall back into place.

EIVOR FREEZES WHEN he sees the brute approaching you —already on hands and knees, scrambling to recover a broken sword out of reach. He goes for one of the throwing axes on his belt, but none remain. Eivor Wolfsmal roars, steeling himself, he carves a bloody path through those blocking his way —a mangle of limbs and wailing left in his wake.

The brute lifts you by the neck, squeezing with one hand —the other reaching for one of the daggers on his baldric. You flail aimlessly, legs kicking out and nails digging into the slick leather of his gloves, but the battle has taken its toll after a night of little sleep. Darkness seeps into your vision, mottling a twisted face with dark spots. A sharp pain erupts in your side before the darkness becomes all-consuming. Vaguely, you recognize the sensation of falling, though the impact never comes.

Blood coats his fingers —warm and red— when he falls to his knees, reaching out to touch the broken loops of your brynja. The wool and mail are stained and wet. Eivor breathes your name, a faint whisper against the background of a roaring battle. A shadow approaches with a two-handed ax raised high and ready to smite. Eivor's fingers curl around the hilt of your broken sword. Rising to his feet, he turns, driving the jagged prongs deep into the man's neck with a loud cry —he wrenches the blade free and stumbles back to you.

Wrapped around your neck is a dark, blossoming bruise of black and violet, Eivor grimaces as his fingers brush against the swollen flesh. Hlíf examines the bloody gash at your side and decides cleansing it with fire is the best course of action. The old crone pushes a set of irons into the flames, then sets a bucket of water and rag down next to Eivor. He needs no instruction to start wiping the blood and dirt away from your injured side.

It does not take long for the irons to turn red-hot. Hlíf pulls one from the flames and Eivor lays one arm across your shoulders, the other over your thighs. Her hands are withered, but steady as she lays the cautery iron over the wound. You jolt, but do not wake as the putrid scent of burning flesh fills the air. Hlíf returns the iron to the fire —she will likely need to use it again before the day's end.

"Will she be okay?" Eivor asks, still hunched over at your side and holding one of your hands. The bruise around your neck worries him, as does how hard you fell on the battlefield.

Hlíf grips onto his shoulder. "Only the gods know," she answers. "All we can do is wait." Waiting is always the hardest part. Gathering up what supplies can be spared, she returns to Eivor's side. "Take her home," Hlíf says, pressing a bundle of linen and a small tin into his hands. "Wash the wound twice a day and use this salve," she tells him and Eivor nods. He carries you from the infirmary in his arms like he had done a hundred times before, though this time there is no laughter or singing and certainly no smiles.

EIVOR POKES AT his bowl of gruel —despair has a firm hold on him and is not eager to let go. Nigh a week has passed and you still show no signs of waking. Hlíf comes to check the wound on your side. It has healed nicely, though the old healer notes something must be amiss in your mind to keep you from waking now. She tells Eivor not to give up hope —you are a fighter and the gods have not taken you yet. He prays to the gods every day and makes small sacrifices to them.

Sýnin tries his best to help too. Everyday the raven brings back wildflowers —not quite understand why you no longer ruffle his feathers and sing songs to and with him, but he thinks maybe your favorite flowers will help. Stoking the embers in the hearth back to flames, Eivor throws another two split logs onto the fire before returning to his vigilant watch at your side. He has not slept —not intentionally anyways— since the battle.