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sapphic-woes · 1 year

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The Zealot pt.1

A/N: Look it's really hard to describe this fic, but think Havi!Eivor but it's you who has a secret entity inside you that Fulke sets free via torture lol.

Word Count: 3k. AO3 Link

_________________

The ___ does not tire. It does not sleep. Flowers wither, seasons change, the stars die out.

Still, it remains.

A searing pain. It's hot on your thigh. Your mouth is open in a blood curdling scream. No–it twists with a sneer, goading her to do more? What's going on? It hurts so much. It feels like nothing. Does she really think this is enough to awaken me? Am I…awake?

The air is toxic with burning flesh. It heals. It melts. It molds. You go back under.

The ___ was born of the Sire's desire.

"Remarkable." Drool mixed with crimson drips from your mouth. Your vision is blurry, and your head feels like it was smashed in with a war hammer. There's a sharp pain in your chest as you breathe, no doubt a broken rib. The black spots scattering across your vision clears, and you're met with bright, intrigued blue eyes.

So blue you can see the harrowing frost within them.

Fulke. You would have never believed it if anyone told you this was the woman's true nature. She spoke of God in a charismatic, mesmerizing way, with her glorious grandeur and convictive gaze. Her teachings were sound, and her company was like sweet honey on your lips. You became her disciple because she believed in you–or so she said–certain that you were destined for greatness.

If only you'd known what such “greatness” entailed. Perhaps you would have been able to escape her grasp.

Or at least, the hot, bright red knife cutting into your skin.

"Tell me what you are." You shake your head. You hiss sob. You frantically plead as she brings the tip of the knife back up again. You answered this question before, and you've said every answer you can possibly think of…but still, she isn’t satisfied.

"I-I don’t know what you want–but I'll be whatever you wish! Please, p-please Fulke I–!" Slow and steady, she lets the hot metal pierce, melting through your skin. It divides tissue and muscle with ease. Your cries pierce the walls, but there's no one to hear them other than the woman beside you. Fulke watches you with wild eyes, slicing down your thigh without shifting her focus.

"Let it clear your mind. Let it set you free." You don’t understand. You never understood Fulke anyway. Not in her puzzling inquiries, or her roundabout speech. Not in the way she'd thread her fingers through your hair, leaning down to brush her lips against your ear with a playful whisper.

"Tell me what you are!" Now, her voice is a frightening roar.

"I s-swear Fulke, I do not know–!" Your lurch forward. You snarl. Your eyes burn with something ghastly. There's a pounding in your head, a ringing in your ears. Your thigh is slick with blood and fiery with pain. It doesn't get any better when Fulke digs her own fingers into the wound and claws, demanding you embrace the "truth." Blood oozes out in waves, sickening squelches filling your ears as she plunges in and out, thick fingers torturing your flesh. It hurts! It hurts, it hurts it–

Where is my Sire? You black out.

The ___ snaps your neck toward Fulke, and the ___watches the paladin's eyes widen with a spark of joy. A shiver rocks through your body, but the ___ pays no mind. You may be afraid, but the ___ is not. How can a being that cannot die fear death?

Instead, the ___ leans forward to bare your teeth in Fulke's face, a mixture of blood and spit hitting her cheek.

"The ___ serves none but the Sire. None." Before Fulke can answer, the ___ goes back under.

You snap awake. Tears well up in your eyes as your vision comes back. Not again. With the pain being too much for you to bear, you keep fading in and out of consciousness. But was Fulke always this close to you?

"Huh? Uh–" With a sudden tsk from Fulke, your skin is torn apart. Her rough jerk with the knife makes thick red blood spill out onto the floor. Your voice cracks with an agonizing yell, and you beg for the pain to subside.

"F-Fulke please! I truly do not know what you want–" Your consciousness fades again, and instead of sniffling, you growl so sharply Fulke jumps. It's an ominous and animalistic rumble, and you furiously jerk at your chains, kicking your legs as if a knife isn’t embedded there.

"It is the sword. It is the spear. The hand of the Sire. Always, the ____ remains. I remain."

"Yes! Yes that's it, you–you who is trapped in this measly prison of flesh! You who have persisted, who have remained…and I do the honor of awakening you." Your eyebrows furrow with confusion. What was Fulke talking about? It seems you can hardly stay awake during the torture to know. You mumble Fulke’s name, but she doesn’t respond, fervently muttering to herself as she unceremoniously jerks the knife out of your leg.

“Ugh!” You wince, panting as you feel blood ooze from the wound. You need to close it somehow, before you lose too much blood and–

The wound…what happened to the wound?

“Now then.” You flinch, abruptly looking up from the wonder of your healed leg to see Fulke with an odd bottle in her hand. She opens it, and the smell makes you gag–certain whatever is inside is toxic.

“Let’s see how fast you can heal from acid, shall we?”

_______________

On the seventh day, you feel it shatter. The fragile consciousness of the mortal girl born into this body.

So it begins. You think as you open your eyes, feeling your severed fingers slowly growing back. The world is different from last time you walked upon it. It’s aged. You can tell by the structure you find yourself awakened in, regardless of the blood and guts splattered about. Surely, it’s been quite a few centuries since you were last here.

“Y/N?” You're called a name you do not know. You assume it was yours before you became you and "you" shattered. As was the nature of your existence. You stole and did not return. Not unless your sire commanded you to.

My Sire. You look up, staring into bright, intriguing blue eyes. So blue you can see heaven in them.

Fulke. The one who awakened you stands tentatively. You bow your head in a greeting.

“Sire.”

“So it’s true.” Fulke speaks, fingers wet with that girl’s your blood, moving to tilt your face up. She moves it back and forth, examining you with sharp precision. “You are not Isu, but something different?”

“I am the Zealot.” Fulke frowns, nose scrunching up in confusion. You find it adorable.

“Where do you come from?” You sigh, listening to the shifting octaves of her voice. It’s a perfect melody, and you let yourself keel into her touch. She does not discourage you.

“I have no origin. I was not, now I am.” You speak as if that explained everything, and Fulke sighs, mumbling to herself about going over her scrolls.

“Then…this Zealot you claim to be. What do you do?” You smile, happy she asked more about you. You shift eagerly in your chair, ignoring the clack of chains as you sit up straighter.

“I am my Sire’s will. Her fury and her desire.” Fulke blinks, seeming to just realize your use of the title.

“Sire…am I–did awakening you make me–”

“You are the sole purpose of my existence. The object of my worship.” You close your eyes, humming softly, “For you, I would burn this land down to ashes. I’d destroy every last remnant of their false god. I would make them understand the wrath of the Forgotten One, and the sin of ostracizing you.” You open your eyes, fixing Fulke with a dark, promising stare.

“Should you order me to, that is.”

They’re cracks of blue lightning, those fervent, wild eyes. They shine like priceless jewels, glowing with ambition. Fulke slowly nods at first, but then her mouth twists into a sinister grin–and with it she throws her head back in a full on laugh, fingers brushing through her hair. How hauntingly beautiful. Your chest flutters at the sight, full of butterflies at her obvious joy. You watch as she strides over to you, grabbing a fistful of your hair to jerk your head back.

“How ironic that I, a heretic, is graced by the Isu with a zealot?” Her grip is wonderfully merciless, and the heat of her body is addicting. She’s pleasantly intimidating as she sneers, giving you her first command of many.

“Tell me again. What am I called?” You let out a breath, loving how she speaks down to you. With this proximity your lips brush against the metal of her armor and against the blood of your past self. It makes you shiver with delight, and you speak a prayer to her flesh and bone.

“You are my Sire. My god…and I, the Zealot who worships at your feet.”

_______________

Fulke uses you well. You like that about her. Then again, you like everything about Fulke.

“You’re back?” You stand at the doorway of her room, body in one hand and a relic in the other. Mud, blood, and some substances you can’t identify cover your body from head to toe. Of course, you do not mind. You nod, attempting to take a step inside before Fulke raises her eyebrow.

“Little lamb,” you flush at the nickname, having earned it after being so obedient, “what did I tell you before?” Oh, she minds.

You let go of the body with a thump, waving your hand immediately. The dirt and grim dissolve into thin air, and you resume dragging a now clean body into her room.

“Forgive me,” you sheepishly say, coming before Fulke to kneel and offer the relic, “at the sight of you, I was filled with longing and had forgotten your commands.”

Fulke’s eyes sparkle, taking the relic and eyeing it with awe. It was much easier to send you out in search of relics than her without raising suspicion of her heresy. Plus, you were capable of finding more relics than she could do alone. However, Fulke had never anticipated you’d be this resourceful.

“Is that so?” She says absentmindedly, still studying the relic. With her free hand, she brushes calloused fingers through your hair, as if she were petting a dog. You close your eyes in bliss, melting against her knee as you practically purr. This task had taken you some days to complete, and you feel as if your insides had been rotting without her.

“Have I fulfilled your will?” You murmur, ready to do more if she was unsatisfied. Fulke lets out a soft laugh, fingers tickling the back of your neck. You shudder with delight, looking up to meet her warm gaze.

“You have. As always my lamb–you have done what no other has done for me.” Ah. Her happiness is electric, making you giggle with joy of your own. After following your Sire for some time, you learned that Fulke was utterly alone. Sure, she was a part of the Order of the Ancients, and even King Alfrred respected her–but in her desire to uncover the truth of this world?

She was without allies, and that made her lonely despite being so revered. My lovely Sire, isolated from the rest of the world.

“And I shall do it again,” You vow, moving to hold the hand in your hair and press your lips against her knuckles. The flesh is worn, it's rough–carrying the proof of her toiling work, the proof of her resolve. Savoring her warmth, you sigh. You would do whatever it took to protect Fulke's dreams, and make them come to life. Such was your duty as the Zealot.

“Wherever you lead me my Sire, I will follow.”

_______________

You're unsure when it started.

Perhaps it's after you're bested by this “Eivor.” The two fools–Basim and Sigurd–had wanted one of Fulke's relics, but not for Fulke’s own goals, and so she had sent you to kill them. It was the first time a mission failed, and Eivor left you beheaded in the woods.

You hate beheadings. It takes forever for your head to reattach itself again.

When Fulke finds you hours later, head just about to fully connect back onto your neck, she hits the ground with a strangled gasp.

Her eyes.

Those mesmerizing blue eyes. They were delicate back then. So wide and glistening with what you'd recently learned were tears. However, Fulke did not let her teardrops fall.

Instead, she silently gathered you up into her arms and carried you back home.

_______________

After that Fulke is different. Somehow.

Before, things were clearly defined as master and servant. Fulke sent you out on a task, and you returned upon its completion. She rewarded you with the one thing you desired: to bask in her presence, and you were content with this routine.

Such was the way of the Zealot. You exist for her goals, and you yearn for her happiness. Nothing more, nothing less…

“My Sire, forgive me but…what are you doing?” At least, it used to be.

The situation is unfamiliar. Pressed against the wall, your heart pounds against the bars of your ribcage. Fulke stands–no, corners you–looming with an unpredictable edge.

You're dwarfed by her, and you nervously swallow. The Zealot does not feel nervous. But then, what is this hammering in your chest? You’ve never processed Fulke's full height like this, feeling awfully tiny under the weight of her stare. This vessel…it's too small.

Or perhaps Fulke was simply too tall, too wide, and too…well, big. Even her alluring voice seems too much for you, and you shiver as Fulke mutters.

“Studying you. Am I not allowed?” Like this? But why?

Fulke confuses you. Ever since she saw your neck half sliced open, she changed. Despite knowing how quickly you heal, she insisted you stay in bed for days. She completely abandoned kidnapping Sigurd, which she had told you she'd plan to do after killing Eivor. She stayed by your bedside until she deemed you able to walk again, and after that?

She never stopped touching you.

It isn't in the way you know. Without completing a mission, Fulke never rewards you. But she does now, and it's all the time.

In the mornings, her lips brush the crown of your head while her fingers intertwine with your own. She whispers good morning little lamb with a slightly rough voice, and you forget how to breathe. Throughout the day, her hands regularly gravitate to your hips, lingering over your thighs. But why? Fulke's interactions leave you dizzy, and this case isn't any different, hot as you force out an answer.

"Of course Sire. If–if it helps with your work, um." You tentatively speak, and Fulke encouragingly hums, fingers tracing the curve of your neck, her touch makes you jerk in surprise. "Ah! Uh, please feel free to…study me…?" Fulke smiles softly with a tinge of mischief, and you swallow.

"It won't help. Not in the slightest, actually." You blink, eyebrows furrowing.

Huh?

"Sire, forgive me for asking, but then why–"

"Fulke." You sharply inhale as she pushes flush against you, making your neck crane back just to meet her gaze. "I want you to call me Fulke."

You stand like a fish out of water, finding the idea absurd. The Zealot doesn't call their Sire by their name. However, Fulke has no problem convincing you otherwise.

The towering woman simply raises an eyebrow, and her voice is a low, commanding drawl.

"Say it." You don't know whether your shiver is from fear or awe.

"...Fulke," her hum of approval makes your heart skip a beat. Her large hands brush over your cheek, and you swear she smirks when you quiver in response.

"Would you believe me if I say I've had a change of heart? I thought I needed you to carry out my plans, to use you as a pawn…but when I saw you like that…" Fulke's deep eyes are like crashing waves, threatening to pull you under. It’s a stare that tingles your entire body. This is something I do not know. What was this feeling? You're hot, breaths growing heavy as Fulke murmurs.

"It hit me. Just how much you mean to me. Y/N…" her hands cup your cheeks, easily covering both sides of your head. Fulke’s long fingers are like sparks on your skin, and you worry you'll burn her with how hot you are.

"I want to kiss you." What?

“I–what–uh–” Your insides are a flustered mess. How could such a simple sentence be so damning? Your cheeks feel like they’ll melt off your face, mouth dry as you stutter. Fulke lets out a breathless chuckle, taking in your reaction.

"…Now even more so. Will you let me, little lamb? Or should I continue to gaze until you do?" I don’t understand. You simply lived to fulfill another's wish. There was nothing to want from you, let alone anything to love. Love was something only a person could have…

…Yet here Fulke was, asking you to love her.

"I, no–the Zealot–it lives to–" A finger presses against your lips, making your words die in your throat. Fulke stares into your eyes as though searching through your soul. She speaks with such conviction you can't help but tremble.

"I'm not asking the Zealot, I'm asking you. What do you want? What do you desire from me?"

Have I ever been asked that before?

You can hardly speak. The words feel hard to say without guidance. Without a role. To say what you wanted, when you didn’t know if you were a person?

"I…" The Zealot was born of the Sire's desire. I am the sword. I am the spear. I am the…I am…I…

…What am I?

"I–I want, I need…" You heave, hands gripping Fulke's wrists as you try to understand what this burning is. It makes you restless, panicked even. How could you desire what the Sire did not? You did not want anything but Fulke to be happy, so what was this yearning? What was this pain?

What do I need?

"That's it love, say what you want. You're allowed to have desires and chase after them. You're more than a tool or pawn… You're a person."

I am? You gap up at Fulke. You had never heard such words before. You didn't think they'd ever apply to you. Yet warmth fills your chest, and you don't realize you're crying till she wipes your tears away. Fulke smiles, gentle as she whispers.

"It's okay. Tell me, little lamb. I will do everything you ask. Everything." Her words are the final nail in the coffin, and the words rush out in a frenzy.

"I want you to pet me. Tell m-me I've been good." You're bawling, clinging onto Fulke as she hugs you tight. She hums in encouragement, lips brushing against your temple.

"You have been good. So good to me love. My precious baby." Her immediate compliance makes you melt, leaning into her body. You look up, and whatever expression on your face makes Fulke groan, eyes dark with lust.

"What else? Tell me." She knows the answer. You both do. Yet it's necessary to speak aloud. To have it come into existence.

"Kiss me. I want you Fulke. Make me yours, hold me–" Her lips capture your own before you can finish the last word. It's a possessive dance, and you grow weak under the will of her devilish tongue.

Fulke hardly relents. She takes and takes from you–your strength, your burning core, the very air you breathed–as though fervent to claim the entirety of your being. The kiss lingers when she pulls away, haunting your lips with a hunger for more. The paladin seems to be plagued with the same ghost, heaving as she gazes down at you.

"You've done well. Now…let me take care of the rest."

#fulke x reader #fulke ac valhalla #assassin's creed #ac valhalla #i dunno what else to tag #but like. yea i have some wild concepts sometimes #dont ask when the second part will come this took like two months lolol

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torntruth · 10 months

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-- PROMO MASTERLIST :

[ FULKE THE PALADIN ] , assassin's creed: valhalla. [ QUIET ] , metal gear solid. [ AMY WARE ] , dead island 2. [ CLAIRE REDFIELD ] , resident evil. [ EVIE FRYE ] , assassin's creed: syndicate. [ CAITLYN KIRAMMAN ] , arcane / league of legends. [ CATRA ] , she-ra. [ MARY-SUE SMITH ], original character. [ RANDVI ALVDOTTIR ], assassin's creed: valhalla. [ AMICIA DE RUNE ], a plague tale.

-- only reblog promos for aesthetic or because you like a character? here's a few choices!

#promo masterlist

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mass-effect-galaxy · 11 months

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youtube

Assassin’s Creed Valhalla Cinematic 9: The Paladin's Stone

Sigrud summons Eivor to Oxenefordscire where he is about to forge an alliance with the local thegn Geadric. Geadric's rule is opposed by the powerful Lady Eadwyn. Despite the upcoming fight, Sigrud seems to be more interested in finding a collector of artifacts by the name of Fulke.

But why? And what has Basim to do with Sigrud's strange behavior?

#assassins creed valhalla #assassin's creed valhalla #ac valhalla #eivor varinsdóttir #eivor varinsdottir #ac eivor #female eivor #basim #ac basim #Youtube

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returnofdedsec · 2 years

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Rip to paladin fulke 💔 it’s hard 2 be a weird girl in this society (1100s england)

#izt

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vespyrtine · 3 years

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I’m sorry I have a crush on paladin Fulke

#can she be my girlfriend #fulke #ac valhalla #assassin's creed #assassinscreedvalhalla #paladin fulke #spoilers #I simp so hard smh

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assassinscreed-photomode · 3 years

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----------------- an experiment in aesthetics ----------------- ------------------ Valhalla x Kae Tempest ------------------

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st-just · 3 years

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Paladin Fulk by Pierre Raveneau

#art #concept art #assassins creed #assassins creed valhalla #character #fantasy #warrior #paladin #Pierre Raveneau

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idonotbitemythumbatyou · 3 years

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The Great Work

When Eivor is traded for a temporary peace, the Paladin Fulke takes her into her care, and assumes the holy task of awakening the dormant god within her.

image by @assassinscreed-photomode

#Fulke #female eivor #My fic #this is a dark one so PLEASE #read the warnings #assassins creed valhalla

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hysterialevi · 3 years

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Hagall - A Sigurd/Male Eivor Fanfic

**SPOILERS FOR SUTHSEXE ARC BELOW**

Fanfic summary: After rescuing Sigurd from Fulke's cruelties, Eivor works on helping his brother recover from his trauma.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

KINGDOM OF SUTHSEXE

BAELFRITH

Hair as red as fire. Eyes as cold as ice. A wrath that burned brighter than Surtr’s mythical sword.

The Saxons watched in terror as the Norse warrior carved his way through their settlement, tearing apart its very foundation in an attempt to find the woman who took his arm.

He shouted in a Devilish tongue that none of them understood, and with every guardsman that he cut down, the more the ground seemed to vanish underneath a new layer of blood.

There were fresh corpses scattered all over the village, and due to the flames that ravaged the settlement, most of its people now lay buried beneath a tombstone of ash, their faces frozen in fear as the world around them burned like a pyre.

It was Hell on earth, and only one man had caused it.

“BRING ME FULKE!” The viking roared above all the chaos, swinging his sword into another guard as he headed for the longhouse. “I know she’s here!”

Stomping his way up the hill that led to the longhouse’s entrance, the Norse refused to stop for anything as he stormed through a crowd of terrified civilians, all of them scurrying away in fear upon noticing his presence.

“Flee, everyone!” A Saxon man yelled in horror. “Flee for your lives! The Devil himself is in Baelfrith!”

Ignoring the panicked screams of the villagers, the viking continued on his fervent path for vengeance and planted a firm foot in the door of the longhouse, breaking it free from its hinges as it wildly swung open.

There were only a few people inside -- most notably, the thegn of this settlement -- and with no one around to stop him, the viking hurried into the building, ready to get the information he needed.

Just before he could progress however, a familiar voice called out to the Norse, halting him in his tracks.

“Sigurd!” Eivor exclaimed, jogging up to the man. “Wait!”

The viking turned around to face his brother, his gaze still wild from the recent battle.

“What is it?” He asked sharply, sounding more harsh than he intended.

Eivor furrowed his brow in concern, unable to hide the worry he felt.

“I just...” the younger man took a breath, trying to calm himself down, “...I want you to think about this, brother. Are you certain this is what you want to do? Interrogating Aldrich, I mean.”

The older man obviously didn’t share his partner’s skepticism. “Why wouldn’t it be? Thegn Aldrich can tell us where Fulke is hiding. He’s protecting her. I know he is.”

Eivor’s fear quickly turned into frustration. “And you really think he’s going to help us? After we just burned down his settlement and slaughtered his people? I love you, Sigurd, but this...” he gestured at the destruction around them, “this is not who you are.”

Sigurd stepped closer to Eivor, his figure towering over him.

“Then you haven’t been paying attention.” He said lowly. “We are warriors, Eivor. Sons of Odin. We are born and bred for Valhalla. We do not cower in the shadows like a rat, or hide in the grass like a snake! Fulke wrought every conceivable violation upon me, and so I will not rest until I throw her into the jaws of Garmr myself!”

Sigurd leaned forward, his voice rumbling like magma in his throat. “Either lend me your aid now, or return to Ravensthorpe. I will collect Fulke’s head, with or without you.”

The younger man shook his head in disapproval. “...There is no honor in this, Sigurd. You know that. You are not a barbarian, nor are you a murderer. But you are blinded by your hatred. Listen to me--” Eivor gripped him by the shoulders, “--Fulke isn’t worth it!”

His brother scoffed, shrugging his hands off. “You really think you can judge me? Or must I remind you of all the years you spent seeking revenge against Kjotve? What about when you endangered your crew simply to go after him? My methods may be brutal, Eivor, but do not pretend that you would not replicate them. Your claim to a virtuous disposition is meaningless, for we both know you are no better.”

Eivor sighed in annoyance. “Which is exactly why I know this isn’t worth it! My hatred for Kjotve tore me apart for years, Sigurd. It led me down a path that changed me for the worse, and I do not wish to see you lose yourself either.”

“You weren’t there, Eivor!” Sigurd insisted. “You did not see what Fulke did to me. She...” the man paused for a moment, trying to hold himself together, “...she took... everything from me. My strength, my dignity, my freedom. Fulke is nothing more than a witch in human form, and honor demands that I bring her to retribution. You can fight by my side, or watch from the shadows like a coward. It matters not.” He threw a cautionary glare at the other man. “But do not get in my way.”

Standing there in silence, Eivor watched hopelessly as his brother lost himself in his rage, consumed by a hatred that no one in their clan had ever seen before. He knew the man was hurting inside, and he knew it wasn’t Sigurd’s fault, but to see him lash out in such a violent manner... it broke Eivor’s heart.

Sigurd was a good man. A good leader. He cared deeply for his people, and had already sacrificed so much to keep them afloat. But to witness him undo all of his work in the name of killing Fulke -- a single woman -- Eivor knew he had to stop him sooner or later.

He did not want to fight against Sigurd as Valka predicted he would, but for his brother’s own sake, he feared he would have no choice.

Noticing the abrupt shift in his brother’s mood, Sigurd felt a sudden sense of guilt clutching at his chest as he took on a gentler tone, uttering a brief apology.

“F-Forgive me, my love...” he whispered, “that was... unworthy of me. I apologize. But I fear my point still stands. I can’t just walk away from this. I...” Sigurd glanced down at his amputated arm, doing his best to block out the abhorrent memories that came with it, “...I need to kill Fulke.”

Eivor sighed in defeat, not wishing to argue with his brother any further. “...If that’s truly what you wish, then I will stand by you, Sigurd. All the way to the end.” He placed a hand on the man’s cheek, gazing at him affectionately. “But please... do not forget who you are.”

Sigurd nodded reassuringly. “I won’t.”

Returning to the task at hand, the older man separated their embrace and brought his attention back to the longhouse, eager to get some answers from Thegn Aldrich as Eivor followed from behind.

At the moment, the elderly nobleman was cowering behind the safety of his throne and had no more than a pitiful dagger to defend himself, somehow enhancing his already pathetic display.

Most of the civilians who once stood by his side had fled the safety of the longhouse, and the closer Sigurd got to him, the more Aldrich’s grasp on the dagger seemed to shake.

“No!” The Saxon cried out in fear. “Leave me be, Dane! Stay back!”

The thegn wildly swung his blade in an attempt to cut Sigurd, only to receive a fist to the face when the viking swatted the weapon out of his grip.

The dagger went flying off to the side and landed on the stone floor with a metallic clang, leaving Aldrich completely defenseless as he backed away from the Norse in panic.

“Filthy fucking pagan...!” He hissed under his breath. “Rendering a man defenseless in his own home -- slaughtering innocents! God will see you punished for your sins, Dane! Whether you believe in Him or not, He will condemn you and all your kind to Hell for the suffering you’ve inflicted on our people! You will--”

“--Enough of your piety!” Sigurd barked, striking the thegn once again.

Eivor flinched at the aggressive action, having to restrain himself from interfering.

“Brother...!” He warned in a hushed tone, causing Sigurd to glare at him.

“Stay out of this, Eivor.” He demanded before returning his focus to the thegn. “...Tell me where Paladin Fulke is! I know you’re hiding her!”

Aldrich stammered out a response. “M-Madwoman Fulke? That’s why you’re here? You wish to find her?”

Sigurd prowled closer to the Saxon, staring him down as a lion would its prey.

“I wish to kill her.”

The nobleman glowered at that. “Lord above... you Northmen and your thirst for violence. Is it any wonder that England crumbles under the hardships of war? We should’ve set you heathens to the torch the minute you set foot on our shores.”

Sigurd instantly raised his sword up to Aldrich’s throat, holding it dangerously close to his skin.

“Watch... your tongue, Saxon. Lest I tear it out through your teeth. Now, tell me where Fulke is! I grow weary of your rambling.”

Still, Aldrich remained obstinate. “That heretic is far away from here, and safely in the hands of God. She is to be tried by true Christians, and brought to justice in an appropriate manner. I will not let her fate fall into the hands of a bunch of barbarians!”

Sigurd gently pressed the blade into his neck, applying just enough pressure so that a few beads of blood began to form.

“...It’s not your decision to make.”

Aldrich nailed his gaze onto the sword, his teeth starting to chatter as small droplets of blood trickled down his skin.

“And who are you to decide, Dane? You who walks among the hellfire. What makes you think you’re any more suited?”

Sigurd grinned darkly. “Is the fate of your own life not already in my hands?”

When the thegn offered nothing but silence in return, the redheaded Norse took a few steps forward, carrying on with his interrogation.

“This is your last chance, Aldrich. Tell me where to find Paladin Fulke, and I might leave enough of a body for your kin to bury. Otherwise, I will personally see to it that my skalds use your bones to beat their war drums. Your head will adorn the tallest pike in my village, and I will spread your lungs into wings so that you may fly with the same birds that feast on your corpse.”

“Sigurd...!” Eivor said once again, causing the man to sigh in frustration.

“What?” He snapped.

“What are you doing?” The younger man questioned. “This is not who we are!”

The viking ignored his brother’s pleas, growing tired of their quarrel. “Enough, Eivor! You may be my brother, but do not forget who is jarl! My word is law, and if I wish for someone to be killed, I expect you to help me swing the sword! Now for the last time, stay out of this...!”

Sigurd turned to Aldrich, impatiently awaiting the man’s reply.

“And you! What say you? Will you tell me where Fulke is? Or shall I take my axe to your spine?”

The Saxon scowled at the Norse, refusing to give in.

“...Devil take you, Dane.” He spat at Sigurd’s feet.

The Norse warrior chuckled at the gesture, his temperament alarmingly calm.

“A foolish idea, thegn.”

Deciding not to hold back anymore, Sigurd suddenly threw a punch at Aldrich’s face and knocked the man flat on the ground, continuing to beat the Saxon as he helplessly crawled away.

“Sigurd!” Eivor blurted out in shock, unsure of what to do.

But the viking didn’t stop. Instead, he simply approached Aldrich and carried on with his assault as the thegn desperately tried to get back up on his feet, latching onto any piece of furniture that would support his weight.

“Sir Regnward...!” The Saxon shouted, calling out to his housecarl. “Cut this Dane down immediately! I want him killed!”

There was no answer.

“Sir Regnward!” Aldrich repeated in his absence, his voice trembling now. “For God’s sake, Cedric, where are you...?!”

Sigurd planted a boot on top of the thegn’s hand, grinding it into the floor.

“Your housecarl is dead, thegn!” He exclaimed, his tone dripping with venom. “He lies outside with a sword buried in his heart, just as you soon will.”

The Saxon whimpered under the pressure of Sigurd’s boot, frantically trying to wiggle his way out of the man’s hold, but to no avail.

“Please...!” He begged, his jaw clenched in agony. “Leave me be...! There’s nothing more I can offer you!”

Sigurd crouched on the floor, staring at Aldrich directly in the eye. “Are you as dense as you are cowardly? Tell me where Fulke is, and all this stops. It’s a simple concept, really.”

But still, the Saxon refused. “If I tell you, they’ll have me hanged!”

“And if you don’t,” The Norse growled, “I’ll do worse.”

Leaning closer to the thegn as he crushed the man’s hand, Sigurd prepared to punch Aldrich again and clenched his fist, only to find himself being dragged away from the Saxon when Eivor suddenly decided to intervene.

“Sigurd!” The younger man said. “Enough!”

The redheaded viking regained his footing, glaring furiously at his brother.

“Eivor! How many times must I tell you to stay out of it?”

“As many as you wish,” he replied, “but regardless, I cannot just stand by and do nothing while you torment these people! We will find Fulke, brother, but not like this. Not ever like this.”

Eivor turned to the fallen Saxon, gesturing to the longhouse’s ruined door.

“Take what people you have left and flee, thegn. There is nothing more for you in Baelfrith.”

Aldrich pushed himself off the floor and gripped his hand in a nursing hold, nodding appreciatively at his savior.

“Bless you, Dane. Bless you...!”

“Do not mistake my mercy for acceptance. If I see you or any of your other people near our clan after this, you won’t be walking away next time.”

It pained Eivor to speak to a defenseless man in such a way, but for the sake of not completely throwing his loyalty for Sigurd out the window, he figured he had to prevent the Saxons from seeking vengeance somehow.

“Oh, you won’t,” Aldrich promised. “I swear it.”

Scurrying off without another word said, the lone thegn hurriedly made his way out the longhouse as Eivor stayed behind, standing amidst all the chaos his brother had sowed.

He wasn’t sure if he did the right thing, allowing Aldrich to escape. The man appeared sincere enough in his promise to leave the Raven Clan alone, but as past experiences would have taught Eivor, no one could be trusted in a time of war.

For all he knew, the thegn could’ve been planning for revenge. He had enough survivors to rally a small fyrd, and it didn’t seem entirely impossible that the man would attempt some sort of retaliation.

Still, despite his uncertainties, the young viking was glad to have prevented further bloodshed. There was no love lost between him and self-righteous Saxons, but regardless, Eivor did not wish to see anymore unnecessary death.

There had been far too much of it already.

Turning back to address his brother, Eivor halted in his steps when he found the sullen man sitting quietly on Aldrich’s throne, his head hanging low in despondency.

His brow was furrowed in deep thought, and the closer Eivor walked to the solemn jarl, the more he was able to see the exhaustion creasing his lover’s face.

Sigurd didn’t look well at all.

A grim shadow seemed to loom over the man’s conscience like a dark cloud, and with the sound of wild flames crackling outside, Eivor only wondered how long it would be until Sigurd’s actions reflected the little sanity he preserved.

“Sigurd...?” He said worriedly, kneeling in front of the man so that he was eye-level with him. “Are you well, brother?”

The forlorn viking glanced up at Eivor, his expression heavy with remorse. There was no longer any strength in his face as there was before, and the dark circles outlining his sockets only seemed to harden his gaze.

“...What’s happening to me, Eivor?” Sigurd whispered, his tone devoid of any emotion. “That woman, Fulke... she turned me into a monster.”

The younger man cupped his partner’s face in his hands, looking at him affectionately.

“No, Sigurd...” Eivor comforted, “you are not a monster. Nor are you a saint. You are only human. Like the rest of us.”

The other man chuckled morosely at the statement. “...Human. If only you knew the irony of your words, brother. Fulke spent all our time together trying to convince me otherwise. She believes I am born of the gods. One of the... Ancient Ones. She believes that--”

“--What Fulke believes doesn’t matter.” Eivor insisted. “She’s a madwoman, Sigurd. A snake. And she will do anything she can to twist your mind, regardless of the cost.”

Eivor caressed Sigurd’s cheek, attempting to console the older man.

“But hear me when I say this. No matter how you see yourself, Sigurd -- no matter how long it takes for you to recover from this pain -- remember, you will always be someone who’s cherished among our clan. You will always be my most trusted friend, and my most loved companion.”

Eivor placed a kiss on the other man’s lips, afterwards resting the bridge of his nose against Sigurd’s.

“I love you. And don’t you ever forget that.”

Sigurd brought a hand up to one of Eivor’s arms, holding him gently in place.

“Freyja knows I don’t deserve you.” He replied softly. “After everything I’ve done, I’m not certain I deserve anyone.”

“Don’t say that,” Eivor reassured. “There is still hope for you, Sigurd. You’re not beyond redemption yet. But I can’t heal you by myself. Ultimately, your own recovery rests with yourself in the end.”

The younger man stepped back and rose from the floor, reaching a hand out to Sigurd.

“But I won’t abandon you. From here to Valhalla, I’ll always be at your side.”

The older man grabbed Eivor’s hand, pulling himself up from the throne as the two of them savored a brief moment of peace.

“I know,” Sigurd said earnestly. “And I won’t disappoint you, my love. I promise.”

Walking alongside each other, the peculiar couple removed themselves from the morbid scene and returned to the hellfire outside, prepared to face whatever threats awaited them in the chaos.

By now, the ferocious flames had dug into the very heart of Baelfrith and consumed its soul, leaving nothing but a sea of fire that drowned everything in its path.

There were golden specks of light flickering throughout the pillars of smoke, and with nothing more than a pile of corpses to commemorate the life that once thrived in this settlement, Eivor felt a new sense of grief tugging at his conscience.

All this destruction, all this ruin... it was entirely their fault. So many innocent lives had been condemned within a single day, and the blood would forever stain their hands.

But despite the tragedy, Eivor knew he couldn’t give up. Sigurd’s old self was barely hanging by a thread at the moment, and the younger man feared he would fall without someone there to help guide him.

So, without saying a word, Eivor simply reached over and took his lover’s hand into his grasp, holding him close as they traversed through the flames.

He didn’t know how he was going to help Sigurd recover from his pain, or the torment that Fulke put him through, but one thing was for certain.

Fulke was going to have to kill Eivor if she ever intended laying her hands on Sigurd again. He would always protect that man at all costs, no matter what happened, and even if it meant he would lose his own life, he was prepared to defend Sigurd.

All the way to the end.

#assassin's creed valhalla #assassin's creed fanfiction #ac valhalla #ac valhalla fanfic #sigurd styrbjornson #eivor wolfsmal #sigurd x eivor #sigurd x male eivor #eivor wolfkissed #male eivor

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sapphic-woes · 11 months

Text

To Bind the Body

A/N: A part of the 1k commisions! @wunderschon-lieblich suggested some kind of continuation of Fulke x Zealot!Reader So ofc I decided to be absolutely deranged. MINORS DNI | CW: BLOOD & GORE

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If you could describe Fulke as anything, she was salt ground into your wounds. Fiery and overwhelming, pain great enough to make you breathless and sweet as the blood on your tongue.

Fulke is a plea from your lips. She's your punishment. A cursed savior.

She is salt cleansing you from the inside, tearing flesh from bone. She invades you like a virus, infecting every tissue with the cruelty of her hand. She was never gentle, nor was she kind, but regardless, it was good.

Sever my body into pieces. Mold me into what you desire. Again and again, as many times as it takes. Break the bone and drain the blood.

Make me belong to you, my sire.

You loved her anger, her cruelty, and her pain. Perhaps it was because you were her Zealot, but all of Fulke tasted divine, even when her kisses were soaked in blood.

It's metallic and hot against your lips, her movements carnal in nature. There is force before there is love. A claim that has been made. Yet you're certain pain has never been so gentle. Fulke is poisonous for the mind. She leads you astray.

You crave her regardless.

You're doubled over. Jolts of pain skyrocketing through your body. You're coughing from the sharp kick she gave to your sternum. You don't know whether you're laughing or crying.

It may be both. As is her pleasure and pain.

"Such a lovely expression." Her voice is enough to instill fear into your heart. That dry sneer mixed with excitement. She's enjoying this. Your torture was her pleasure, and her pleasure was your doctrine.

"Sire…" You flinch as Fulke squats. Her large, calloused hand reaches out to caress your cheek. Even crouched, she's a looming presence, and you shiver, not daring to look up.

"Sire I can't…breathe…!"

Suddenly, Fulke grabs a fistful of your hair, jerking your head back. The sight is holy. Her vibrant blue.

Bright like cracks of lightning, dark as a thunderous sky. Her eyes are terrifyingly beautiful.

My Sire.

She kisses you with no remorse. No care for the pain she's inflicted on you. Spit and blood mix together, exchanging in a savage display of power. You keel into her touch, eager to taste more of her lips. Already your chest is healing, but you want the pain to last. You need her to remind you. You need her to sear it into your brain. That you are hers, and hers alone.

Of course, Fulke does not disappoint.

Your back is pressed against the floor, wrists held together above your head. Fulke casts a shadow over you, her smile like a bad omen on her lips.

"Now…where shall I mark you today?" Fulke snorts, a wry smile on her face, "Then again, is there even a place where my blade hasn't already met your skin?"

Your healing powers denied any wound Fulke inflicted on you to last, but that didn't stop the paladin. No–rather, she merely saw it as a reason to cut you up repeatedly, night after night, to brand the memory of her ownership into your mind.

It was twisted. An action spurred on by pure animalistic greed. Yet you loved every second of it.

"...Hm...here." Her large, rough hand caresses your lower stomach. Her eyes are burning with lust and hunger, and her smile causes shivers to run up your spin.

"For women, this place is sacred. So many have come to the church and asked me to bless their wombs, all believing that their false god destined them to give birth. Such pitiful lives. Bound by a fate merely given by man…"

Fulke speaks slowly, taking her knife out to lay the cool metal flat against your skin. She smiles when you flinch, pleased by your quivering.

"But I shall bind you to me, my little lamb. Your fate, your flesh, your desires…" Fulke's eyes gleam. The blade sinks down into your skin. Pain erupts over your body, and pleasure blooms in the depths of your heart.

"Beautiful…" Fulke mutters, watching your flesh split apart by the force of her blade. Ribbons of blood run past your waist, pooling onto the floor. Tears fill your eyes, blurring the vision of your sire above you. The pain is excruciating, enough to make your teeth grind and voice come out in a poorly suppressed cry. However, you're also unable to mask your smile.

It was good. To see Fulke giddy over your submission to her, to see her indulge in your body. Each wound was a vow, blood the conduit of your love. You wanted Fulke to partake in it, lips trembling in a weak plea. Your sire didn't need to decipher the words, she knew what you needed.

"Sire…!" You moan as her tongue delves into your wounds, causing sparks of pain and pleasure to rock through your body. Was it possible to fuck a person's wound? The slit of your injuries tingles as Fulke savagely indulges herself, lips smeared with your blood. It feels good in a hedonist way, as if you both were sinking into the depths of depravity.

"You're so sweet, love." You let out a cry when Fulke bites into one of your many gashes, forcing out another ribbon of blood. Your heat throbs at the action, looking down to meet Fulke's gaze.

Could love be so merciless? You aren't sure if she wants to cherish you, or eat you alive. Either is fine with you.

"F-Fulke, I can't anymore, I need–ah!" Without warning, Fulke thrusts two fingers deep into your sodden cunt, smiling in amusement.

"I know, love. I know." Her calm demeanor contrasts the strength of her movements, ruthless as she has her way with you. Fulke watches you melt intently as she fucks you, as though you're a specimen for her to study. Blue eyes wildly take in every twitch of your body and the slow healing of your wounds. They memorize which places make you shudder, and the paladin isn't hesitant to hit them over and over.

"Fulke! I-I'm–" Before your final wound can fully heal, Fulke takes her free hand to thrust her fingers into the gash, moving in tandem with her fingers, already pleasuring your heat. You can't help but shudder with a moan, feeling the pain send you over the edge.

You come with a cry, seeing stars you aren't sure are from blood loss or ecstasy. But considering what had just happened?

It was most likely both.

#fulke x reader #fulke ac valhalla #ac valhalla #bibis comms #i fucking will not apologize #theres smth about blood and consumption and sacrifice ok #something abt depravity that gets me

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