#shamelesspsychicpursebuscuit

[author-morgan]

Eivor has really started grow on me (honestly that boy is 🥵 - could I ask for a Eivor/reader where the reader misinterprets a moment between Eivor and Randvi and gets upset, thank you 😊

here you go! sorry it took so long. I'm finally getting caught up on everything. hope you like it! as always, @mrsragnarlodbrok helped develop the plot. m!Eivor x fem!Reader

“DO YOU EVER miss Norway?” Ceolbert asks, untangling his fishing line. The young ætheling has been in Ravensthorpe for no less than a full moon’s cycle. He’s good company —eager to help and learn under your and Randvi’s tutelage. The River Nene burbles past the growing settlement, flowing out to the sea. A fish takes the bait, a piece of three-day-old bread, and you start hauling in the line. A small perch is on the hook, too small to worry with. You free the fish and let it back into the river, searching for a larger catch to add to the evening’s pot of stew.

“At times,” you answer —knowing you miss the snowcapped peaks, the winter lights dancing in the sky, and the pink-purple sunrises most of all. England is not so poor a substitute, with green rolling hills, pale sea cliffs, and the lonely ruins of a once-great civilization. “But all my friends and those who I love is here now” —you smile— “what more could I ask for than to be among them?” And for you, home will always be where they are, regardless of where in the world you may lay your head to sleep. Though, of late, Ravensthorpe has felt a little less like home with Sigurd and Eivor gone so often.

Ceolbert echoes your smile. He’s heard stories from Eivor and his brother about you, and now that he’s grown to know you, he realizes none of them held any embellishments. Despite only being a handful of years older than him, there is already a dignified shrewdness surrounding you, especially when compared to his compatriots. You’ve already taught him a great deal, and he’s eager to learn more. “Eivor often spoke of your wisdom,” he notes.

“So,” you muse, “he does listen.” The young ætheling laughs and starts pulling in a decent size brown trout to add to the basket. You often cursed Eivor for his stubbornness and how it seems he often disregards your counsel in favor of the more reckless options, but it does soothe your heart to know he remembers your words —even if he does not listen. There’s a tug on your line, and you begin to pull in the catch, a bullhead just the right size to join the evening pot. 

A familiar squawk draws your attention to the sky —a raven circles above before diving down, eager to make off with a small fish or two from the basket. But you know the raven and his oil-slick colored feathers, and instead of making off with one of your daily catches, he settles on your shoulder and begins to preen his belly. “Hello, Sýnin,” you greet, offering one of the bait worms as a snack. Casting your line out into the river again, you wait for another fish to bite; knowing where Sýnin goes, Eivor will not be far behind. But until then, it feels like time has slowed. 

You spot the sails emblazoned with the Raven Clan’s sigil coming around one of the river's bends, and Ceolbert notices how you seem to light up —and your smile when you first spot Eivor Wolfsmal standing at the prowl. The ætheling takes your fishing line and the basket holding the day’s catch and starts back toward the heart of the settlement as you make your way to the docks.

“Eivor!” He steps from the longship, not sparing a moment before engulfing you in his arms. You press your face into his scarred neck and breathe a long sigh —now Ravensthorpe feels like home again. Eivor’s lips brush against your temple before he parts, keeping you close at his side as the others unburden the longship with goods and supplies. “How did you get on in East Anglia?” This journey was not planned, but one made in haste after Rued’s Clan attacked in the night, an offense he could not let stand.

He drapes his arm over your shoulders. “The Raven Clan has new friends,” Eivor tells you. Oswald is an unlikely ally for sure, but one who will answer the call should it ever sound. 

“That is good to hear” —you smile. “We must celebrate,” you tell him, knowing the people would want to hear of his tales, just as they had when he returned from treating with the Sons of Ragnar. The thought of readying a feast sets your mind racing with a long list of chores. 

Eivor shakes his head and steps in front of you. He settles his hands on your cheeks, thumbs running over your cheekbones. It nigh stops your heart, and then he smiles. “Ah,” Eivor sighs, “seeing you once more is enough for me.” He steps closer and bends at the waist, pressing his lips —cracked and wind-chapped— to your forehead. And he’s home again.  

RAVENSTHORPE FEASTS IN celebration. It is good to have new friends —new allies in what would be a hostile land. The evening passes with boisterous tales of battle, roast boar, and Tekla’s mead. It is good to have everyone, save Sigurd, present once more too. You sit back, leaning against one of the great wooden pillars of the longhouse, and let out a long and tired sigh, wondering how much longer it would be before you end up like Revna beside you —slumped over on the table and fast asleep.

Nigh everyone is far enough into their tankards and ale horns for the night that they will not notice Eivor’s absence. His gaze flits around the longhouse, finding you sitting at the far end with Sýnin perched on your shoulder. The raven croaks at his approach and ruffles his feathers. You look up at Eivor and smile —and his heart swells and flutters with the sight. Sýnin hops from your shoulder to Eivor’s then settles in the rafters above.

“Come with me,” he whispers at your ear, offering his hand. His fingers curl around yours when you place your hand into his, and you only hope the warmth rising to your cheeks can be blamed on the mead.

Eivor leads you to the waterfall just behind the longhouse. It’s one of your favorite spots to come in the settlement —the constant rush of the water is enough to soothe your heart and mind, and the rippling pool has served as a place you often frequent to reflect.

Tonight, a full moon turns the water silver. Eivor eases his hand from yours and reaches behind him, pulling out a small earthen vase with a piece of fabric stretched over the opening. He pulls back the fabric, and a dozen little insects take flight toward the water —lighting up with a yellow-green glow. “They’re called fireflies,” Eivor explains, extending his hand over the water’s edge. One of the sparking bugs lands in his palm, and he reaches for your hand, letting the firefly crawl from his hand to yours.

You watch the bright flashes of light —like tiny stars— and smile, yet another wonder of England. “How lovely,” you muse aloud, holding your hand out for the firefly to rejoin its brethren. They flutter around the waterfall, twinkling in the night. You sit, and Eivor sits next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours —it sets your heart aflutter, but you gather the courage and lean your head on his shoulder. Instinctively, Eivor wraps his arm around your waist, holding you close to his side. “Can I expect you to stay a while this time?” You ask, hoping he will not have to leave again so quickly.

He shifts and presses his cheek to the crown of your head. “Until Sigurd sends for me,” Eivor tells you, watching the fireflies flit around above.

IT’S ONLY TWO days after his return that you see Eivor and Randvi ride from Ravensthorpe in the early hours of the morn. Seeing him go without a word makes your heart fall. It isn’t like Eivor to go off without telling you, and given one of the late-night conversations you’d had with Randvi in Sigurd’s absence —well, you refuse to dwell on the thoughts. Ceolbert leaves the stables from helping Rowan when he sees you approach, crestfallen though you try to hide it. “Did they say where they’re going?” You ask, looking toward the east and the direction Eivor and Randvi had gone.

“Grantebridge,” Ceolbert answers, still unsure why they were going there unless Soma had sent a message —but you nor anyone else had mentioned receiving anything from the jarlskona. He looks between you and the morning sky and tries to think of something that might help cheer you up. “There’s an orchard to the north,” the ætheling supplements, hoping he can help remedy the crushing waves of despondency which have overtaken you so quickly. “Perhaps we could go?” He asks. “It’s only a short ride.”

You smile, and Ceolbert can see it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Very well,” you agree. Rowan helps saddle two horses —one speckled and one chestnut— and the two of you ride out before midday. It’s a slow and steady ride across the hills and rivers to the orchard just south of Ledecestre. A bramble of unkempt trees heavy with green-red apples too tart to eat raw but good for stewing and baking. It’s easy to fill two small sacks, just enough for Tarben to make a pie or two.

Ceolbert secures his sack of apples to his saddle and pulls himself back into the saddle as you do so, starting back to Ravensthorpe. The ætheling asks about a story from childhood that Eivor told him at the feast —he’d fallen from the roof of the longhouse in Fornburg and on his arse, right in front of you, only you’d been carrying a basket of deer offal.

The memory makes you smile and laugh, the first time you’ve genuinely done so today. You dropped the basket in surprise —it landed on Eivor, spilling guts and blood over him. It took several washes to clean the stench from his clothes and hair. Ceolbert glance at you and smiles too, and from the fondness in your voice, he thinks it’s obvious. “You love him, don’t you?”

Yes, but for some reason, you struggle to say it aloud, Regardless, Ceolbert can tell, and despite what you may think, he believes Eivor loves you too —if only you could both see it. You look ahead at the winding road, wishing to change the subject away from your feelings, away from Eivor. “They say Ivarr the Boneless was also your mentor.” You’ve heard stories of Ivarr Ragnarsson from other Northmen and Saxons alike, part of you envies Eivor and Sigurd for getting to meet the renowned Sons of Ragnar —let alone being able to call them friends. Ceolbert nods. “Will you tell me about him?” He nods and weaves a tale of his time with Ivarr, helping distract you from the woes of life. 

The sun is close to setting when you and Ceolbert return to the stables of Ravensthorpe, passing off your horses to Rowan. “I’ll have Tarben make us a pie,” you tell the boy, collecting the small sacks of apples to take to the bakery. But hooves thud, fast approaching —Eivor and Randvi have returned. You do not stay to greet them, quickly slipping away.

“Ceolbert,” Eivor greets, leading his dark mount back into one of the stalls. “Where is…” his voice trails off as he turns to look for you, wondering where you’d gone.

“She was here a moment ago,” Ceolbert says, turning to look around the stables, but you’re already gone, and so is Eivor when he turns back.

EIVOR FINDS YOU sitting beneath one of the great trees near Valka’s hut —knees pulled up to your chest as your look over the ripping pool of water. He kneels in front of you and reaches out, rough fingertips brushing along your jaw to gently lift your chin and gaze. Tearstains are not the sight he wishes to see. Eivor frowns, brushing away the dampness under your eyes with his thumb. “Why are you crying?” You do not answer. “Has something happened?” He asks, unsure what could cause this bout —just last night, you and he were both laughing and drinking without care.

“I am not sure,” you admit. It's heartbreak and a tinge of betrayal. With his return, you had thought, had hoped, but it seems it’s only foolish and childish wishes. You meet his gaze, clear and blue like the sky, and feel a lump grow in your throat. Sýnin croaks from the branches above —the raven has refused to let you be alone since he first perched on your knee and dropped a smooth river pebble in your lap after finding you so distraught. The raven croaks again, and Eivor’s eyes flit up to see a pair of beady dark eyes staring down at him. Sýnin takes your side in whatever quarrel this may be. 

His frown deepens. “You can tell me anything,” Eivor breathes. You’re his best friend —have been since the two of you were children all those years ago. 

But I can’t, you think, not wanting to risk a lifelong friendship over a dream. You inhale shakily and shake your head, pushing his hands away. “I need a moment, is all.” It’s a trembling whisper, and Eivor does not want to leave you in this state, but he relents, knowing nothing good will come of forced words. You always gave him time and space when asked for it; the least he can do is offer the same. He sighs and stands, hesitant to leave —a look back, and he sees Sýnin swoop down and perch on your shoulder, offering a golden oak leaf.  

Eivor goes to the longhouse and grabs an empty cup, filling it from the cask of ale before taking a seat at the table across from Ceolbert —picking at a hunk of bread and slab of pickled fish. “Do you know what’s upset her?” He asks the ætheling, thinking the boy might know given the time he’s spent under your guidance. 

“I” —Ceolbert looks down into his cup of ale. He didn’t think it would be difficult for Eivor to figure out. Almost all of Ravensthorpe knows. Everyone but him. Ceolbert frowns. “I do not think it is my place to say,” he tells Eivor. 

It feels like Thor has brought Mjölnir down upon his chest when the realization hits him —and suddenly, everything makes sense now, or at least he thinks it does. Eivor feels his heart clench, then fall into the pit of his stomach, and all he can say is a soft, nigh inaudible: “oh.”

IT’S ONLY A short ride to the south, near the border of Grantebridgescire, but Eivor convinces you to go with him even in the dead of night. He cannot bear the thought of you being upset —let alone upset with him. You’re quiet, unusually so, but when he pulls the reigns of his horse to a stop by the edge of the mire, you gasp —albeit softly. Skirting over the still surface of the water and into the air are hundreds of fireflies, all flashing and twinkling like little stars come to settle in the darkness. He dismounts and helps you down too. “There are so many,” you breathe, smiling. 

Eivor stands behind you, his hands settling on your waist, chin resting on your shoulder to watch the fireflies with you. But the closeness and how your heart begins to ache and beat quicker, it’s too much to bear after today. You shake your head and step away from him, feeling dampness prick at your eyes again. “I wish you would not play so carelessly with my heart, Eivor,” you tell him, hugging yourself. 

“It’s not careless,” he whispers, gently pulling you back to him. Eivor takes your hands, his gaze drawn downward to see how perfectly your hand fits in his —as though the gods always meant for the two of you to be together. And then he looks at you, eyes shining in the moonlight, glimmering with the reflection of fireflies flitting around his head and yours. 

It makes your breath catch —how he looks at you. How he’s always looked at you. “You’ve always been at my side,” he tells you. It’s the truth, even when he was a boy and at odds with Sigurd, you were there —you were always there, and he’s been a fool not to tell you sooner. “It’s only ever been you.” Eivor lets your hands go but is quick to take your face into his hands, thumbs brushing over your cheeks with gentle reverence.

“I love you.” But he gives you no time to respond or react even as one of his hands slips back into your hair and he leans forward. Eivor’s lips find your own. His kiss is everything you’ve dreamt of and more —a sweet paradox with his rough but gentle lips and the tickle of his golden beard. 

He pulls away too soon but only to watch the soft smile overtake your lips. You comb your fingers through his beard and lean toward him, arms draping over his shoulders, fingers locking at the nape of his neck. You kiss him back, and he wraps his arms around your middle, keeping you close to him —where he had always kept you in his heart. 

“Ek ann þér,” you breathe against his lips, and a weight lifts from your heart at finally being able to tell him. You can feel his lips twitch into a smile against your own. When you part, it’s to turn back to watch the fireflies, and now Eivor’s arms are around your middle, his nose nuzzled into your neck. You lean back into him and sigh, almost thinking this is all a dream, but Sýnin’s low croak from the trees above is enough to assure you it’s real. 

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#Eivor #Eivor Wolfsmal #Eivor x Reader #m!Eivor #m!Eivor x Reader #male Eivor #male Eivor x Reader #Eivor Imagine #Eivor Fanfiction #Assassin's Creed Valhalla #Assassin's Creed #requested #shamelesspsychicpursebuscuit #lil-monitsu #my writing #remember if you liked this pleases reblog it #also can we appreciate how stunning he looks #valhalla finally gave me some decent lighting and it was a cutscene #also i call these lightning bugs bc thats just how we do in the south