Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ hot stew

eivor is perhaps the worst patient you've had the pleasure of knowing, luckily, he's wiggled his way into your heart.

"BE CAREFUL, EIVOR," you tell him standing on the docks as he helps pack one of the longships for the summer raids. He has only just recovered from a rancid cut on his calf not even a fortnight ago. The stubborn fool tried to hide the wound until you saw him emptying his stomach outside the feast hall and staggering back toward his small home on the outskirts of the village without having touched a single drop of ale.

His lips twitch into a smile beneath his golden beard. "Always am," he replies, confident. As the healer's apprentice you know even the strongest of men can be brought down by a single arrow. You worry for Eivor Wolfsmal and all the warriors setting off today, but Eivor is both obstinate and cocksure, two traits often leading to injury in battle. He knows you worry though, and after loading the last barrel of water into the ship, Eivor reaches for your hands —delicate against his rough paws. "I promise," he says, voice softer than before.

Pleased with his oath, you smile and take another step closer, rising up on your toes —lips ghosting over his scarred cheeks. A promise and a farewell until next you meet. His clear eyes slip close at the featherlight touch and his heart skips a beat but the words on his tongue fade back into silence. He had fancied you for years, but never knew the right words to say —the timing never felt right either. A red-pink flush of color spans across his cheeks. Eivor lowers his gaze and steps back, letting your hands slip from his as others brush past you to-and-from the ships.

The longships set off from the docks into the Kattegat before the sun rises, but Sýnin lingers at your side for a moment longer. Eivor looks back from the stern, watching as his home and you shrink on the horizon. You sit on the end of the dock, bare feet skimming the cool, dark water until the small fleet of longships passes out of sight.

Sighing, you retreat back into the village and to help the healer, Ingibjǫrg. There is still work to be done, even in times of peace. Ingibjǫrg had been kind enough to take you in as her apprentice at a young age —starting with simple tasks like gathering herbs and flowers, grinding poultices, and caring for the cautery tools. Though now, she trusts you to work at her side as an equal, but the old crone still fondly calls you her apprentice.

Time passes slowly during the raiding season. The women and elders are more diligent than their hotheaded sons and daughters, leading to few and minor injuries to care for during the days. It gives you ample time to sure-up the stores of supplies when the ships return. On a narrow trail overlooking the harbor, you spot the first of the longships, a scarlet sail emerging from the evening mist —then a second and third. The call of a great horn announces their return as you race back down the trail and along the rocky shore toward the docks. 

All of the longships return, docking along the wharf and the victorious warriors disembark with their newfound riches and reunite with waiting spouses and children —few have been lost to battle this time. You search for Eivor, having seen Sýnin pass overhead and heard the raven's call. You find him and three others bearing Arne on a makeshift stretcher with scraps of linen and wool bound tightly around his leg and middle. He offers a fleeting smile as you usher them to Ingibjǫrg.

Moving Arne onto a cot near the hearth, all but Eivor take their leave. You quickly help Ingibjǫrg do away with the soiled dressings and strip him of his broken mail and clothes. Neither of the wounds are severe, though they have begun to fester. He whimpers when she lays a hot cloth over each of the gashes, but you turn your attention to Eivor —shuffling on his feet. "Eivor?" You ask, noticing the sweat on his brow and the pallid color of his cheeks.

"I'm fine," he assures you, noting the concern in your tone and kind eyes. Eivor doesn't like it when people worry over him, especially you —you have enough to worry over with helping Ingibjǫrg.