#eitham

"Five days, eight at most, we'll be gone. This is far from my first raid."

"I know, but that doesn't mean I can't worry about you."

Hytham stands bundled close in Eivor's arms as the others load their weapons into the two longships waiting at the docks. Their foreheads are pressed together, Hytham stretching up to reach, sharing soft kisses and completely ignorant to their surroundings. "I worry about you when I am away, also," Eivor sighs.

Hytham smiles and takes one of Eivor's hands, intertwining their fingers over his rounded stomach. "I'm not the only one your focus should be centered on anymore."

The viking grins, his eyes alight. "The pup will be a strong one, like their father."

"And what of their other parent?"

The look on his viking's face softens considerably. "Then they will be cunning and quick, able to outsmart anyone. Who better to teach them the ways of the order than you?"

"You put too much faith in me, love," the assassin says quietly, placing a hand on Eivor's cheek.

Eivor covers Hytham's hand with his own and nuzzles into his palm. Brown eyes met steel blue, making Hytham's breath catch. "And you not enough."

They hold each other's gaze for what feels like hours, until Dag's booming voice startles them, laughing to Randvi about something only he's found hilarious.

Hytham cups Eivor's face in his hands and pulls him in for a slow kiss, the taller tightening his hold around his waist and pulling him closer. They kiss until they're out of breath, Eivor the first to pull away.

"Come back to us, my wolf," Hytham whispers, lightly scratching through his lover's beard. "Promise me."

Eivor gives a quiet chuckle and pecks his lips again and again. "I promise, elskan mín . I will always come back."

Norway is a desolate wasteland of darkness and impenetrable cold, with frost biting into the very bones of the soul. Only the smouldering fires glowing throughout the night made existence in such an unforgiving land less miserable.

Or, at the very least, that is how Hytham saw it. 

There was beauty in it, of course, even if little excused the cold. The snow-covered tundras reminded him briefly of the deserts back home, yet so crystal white that it almost seemed uncannily unreal, with thick forests unlike any of the clusters of olive trees or tropical vegetation of home, teeming with fauna like a distorted echos of the animals of the Caliphate. And when the sun rose, the normally dark land of Norway shone with a glistening light unlike anything he had ever seen before, unlike anything he could ever describe. The snowbanks sparkled like a white night sky, and for a moment, he could forget the darkness a few hours away. 

That was not even to mention the surreal green lights which lit up the sky at night. 

It had greeted them when they had sailed towards the coast of Fornburg, nearly dancing across the sky like flowing fabrics. He had been absolutely mesmerised, standing by the prow of the ship together with Basim and Sigurd. His mentor had no snarky remarks over his childish amazement; on the contrary, he seemed quite amused — or perhaps he was merely equally taken aback by the sight before them. Sigurd had taken great enjoyment in explaining the phenomena to them. It was the glow of Valkyrie armour, he had said, brightening up the night sky as they descended from their flight to take the worthy souls to Valhalla. 

He supposed it had been a positive, then, when he had been thrown against the cliff wall and, lying on the ground, looked up towards the northern lights. He had been sure of an imminent death, he was unsure if he even still was alive, but as the sounds of Kjotve’s final scream died in his ears, as the sounds of battle and war-cries turned further and further away, and as he had seen his mentor’s face peering over him, he had realized that Fate, or God, or the Valkyries, had other plans. He had failed, but he was alive.

He had not died that day, although he had yet to decide if that was a good thing. Basim had been by his side for the majority of it, even if he had been silent. His ribs had been broken, the healer said. It would be nearly impossible for them to be set correctly, heal correctly, this would be a wound that would remain. Just like that, he had thrown his life away. Perhaps Basim knew. 

But at least Eivor was alive. And the northern lights were a comfort, too. 

The healer was away for the evening, the sun had long since set and his restlessness had won over the pain, so he had put on his robes, his boots, and taken the furs that had been wrapped around him and with careful, limping steps made his way outside. He couldn’t say that he had experienced any worse injuries in his life, but he had experienced similar pain, and he had learned to grit his teeth and continue, even when his body howled in despair. A log had been placed close to the hut, a perfect place for respite until his mentor or healer came back. At least it would be, once he had brushed off the snow.

From here, near the mountain peaks, far away from the village itself, he could see the shoreline and the water, the sea, perhaps the ocean, a glistening mirror for the sky to reflect upon, dancing lights covering every surface of this part of the world. A vast shimmering nothingness where the tracks of their travel had disappeared just as soon as the ripples had been made. He should be grateful, of course, to travel. He got to see much more of the world than any of the other initiates and apprentices back in Alamut got, and yet...

“Are you supposed to be out in the cold like this?” 

Hytham flinched. He looked towards the new voice; for some reason, Eivor was merely smiling at him, as if she was teasing a long-known friend. It seemed like the drengr decided that the log was big enough for both of them, as Eivor soon sat down next to him. Hytham didn’t even think to ask what the Wolf-Kissed was doing so far away from the rest of the village. Perhaps he knew what awaited him now.

As a Hidden One, one of the first things that he had been taught was the disguise. Not a physical one, although he had learned that as well, but a mental fortification to mask emotions and fear. A way to make one’s expression perfectly blank, intentions unclear, to never give an enemy a clue about the thoughts in one’s head. Truthfully, he had never been good at it, and while Eivor was not necessarily an enemy, said disguise seemed lost as they sat next to each other. Hytham felt a sort of embarrassment, humiliation, or simple nervousness taking hold of him. Perhaps Eivor was noticing.

It was true, he had not done what he did out of stubbornness or out of pride. He leapt for Kjotve in hopes of saving Eivor for what had more and more seemed like a certain doom. Now, as if the implications of his actions had finally hit him, he just felt ashamed.

You should apologise, the little voice in his head said. She saved your life, you attempted to take her honour. Yet he merely opened and closed his mouth, unsure what to say, like a gaping fish. 

Eivor, to her credit, seemed to be more amused than anything else. 

“Relax, friend,” Eivor spoke, voice kind and easy. “I did not mean to startle you.”

Friend. After such a short amount of time, after everything, friend. 

“My apologies,” the Hidden One finally said. “For... Ah, everything.” 

A crude consolation after what he had done. Had their threads in this tapestry been weaved any differently, switched in place, had it been Eivor keeping him from avenging the unrightful death of his parents — no matter the intention — he was not sure if he would have been able to forgive her. And yet, as the tapestry currently stood, Eivor merely shook her head. While Hytham was hunched, unable to uncurl or move his torso more than necessary, Eivor stretched her legs out in front of them and leaned back, arms crossed over her chest. It was not a pose of irritation, more... Nonchalance, in a way, as she took in the view before them. On her lips played a small smile. A gentle tug from the corner of her mouth.

“No need,” Eivor said easily. “If I am entirely honest, I might have done the same in your shoes.” 

The younger man took a moment to process Eivor’s words, what she said. He had told her, some days before, his true intention with the leap, and in truth, it was... Comforting, actually. It was comforting to know, or perhaps assume, that their threads would be knotted the same way regardless of who had taken the leap. It made him feel slightly less guilty, slightly less foolish.

Still, Hytham said nothing, and instead adjusted the furs he had wrapped around him. He wondered momentarily how many creatures were skinned for such a large cloak. Maybe he was just small in comparison to the Nordic fauna. 

“What is important,” Eivor continued, “is that Kjotve is dead, and that we can put all of this behind us.” 

Her head tilted slightly, not properly turning, but she glanced back at Hytham again. Her smile widened. It was quite wolf-like, in a way, ironic considering the moniker she bore. His mentor had a certain habit of looking like a predator on the hunt, eyes peering as if always planning the most efficient way to tear his enemies apart, despite his facial expression remaining entirely neutral, wolf-like. But Eivor’s smiles and grins were little else than teeth, the physical manifestation of fangs bared. It was hard to know what was friendliness and what was threats when it felt like he was looking into the face of a hungry wolf. Eivor could tear someone apart with her maws if she so wished. 

Now, why did that make his cheeks turn warm? Yet, he just cleared his throat, tried to shake whatever that feeling was.

“Indeed.” 

As Eivor turned back to the view, neither looked at each other, and they sat in silence for a moment. It had not been too hard to learn Sigurd’s language, at the very least verbally, yet he could not say that he knew anything about how to socially traverse in this moment. None of the many languages he knew could make up for the barrier between two strangers, nor the inexperience of a man from his region attempting to converse with a foreign woman, and the aches within his soul made everything harder. Eventually, his gaze travelled from the shoreline to the sky once more. 

It was different tonight, not a mere green or blue against the dark night sky, but like a rainbow of hues merging into one as the lights travelled and moved throughout the horizon; bright blues and vivid greens, as it always were, but also strong pinks and soothing purples moving as if in a dance. No one back home would ever believe such a sight. It was... Otherworldly. Indescribable, in a sense.

“I see you like our norðrljós,” the drengr spoke then. “I suppose you don’t have that further south?” 

Hytham almost laughed. Perhaps he would have, if his ribs did not poke threateningly into his lungs. Every movement was a warning.

“No, nothing as such. Back home, we can see all the colours of the night sky, but never anything so...” He shifted slightly, momentarily forgetting that both hands were hidden under the furs, and hand gestures did nothing. “Fantastical?” 

Eivor chuckled. Hytham couldn’t help but feel the corners of his lips tug into a soft smile, too. It was fascinating how at ease he felt next to Eivor, despite everything. 

“I hope it makes up for the harsh climate,” Eivor joked, “Sigurd told me your land was hotter than the fires of Ragnarǫk itself. I cannot imagine dealing with such heat.” 

Hytham couldn’t help but snort.

“He made that opinion quite known during our travels.” He shifted slightly, relaxed slightly, and straightened a tiny bit. “In our defence, we did tell him his furs were not suited for our climate. It is hardly our fault he didn’t listen.” 

Eivor laughed again, loud and bright and warm. It was as if the sound itself warmed up Hytham’s cold, aching limbs, cradling him. He had missed gentle company. 

“He has always been particular,” she agreed. “And exaggeration has always been in his nature.” 

Oh yes, Hytham had noticed that many years ago, when he had first met the red-headed vikingr. The bravado was exasperating and amusing at the same time. Hytham offered Eivor a few inessential words in reply; they smiled, and then sat in silence once more. 

As they sat here, as the northern lights danced above them, the assassin began to realise that he started to like the other’s company. It wasn’t necessarily hard to understand why. Eivor echoed the tales Sigurd had told of her and they remained largely true; she was kind, despite everything. And as Eivor sat close to him, barely an inch of space between them, a single adjustment of their thighs would have their knees pressed together, despite all the space on either side of them. Back home, physical touch was nothing that was shied away from when it came to two people of the same sex, but the notion of a man and a woman sitting this close, in private and yet in public, nearly touching... Practically touching... Instinctually, he almost wished to pull away, almost feeling indecent for being so close to her. Yet such worries didn’t seem to apply here, either. The Norsemen didn’t seem to even have a concept of personal space. The Norsemen clung together, shifting and bumping like bees in a hive.

“I trust Sigurd told you the story of the northern lights?” Eivor asked then, steering back to the conversation from before and turning back to look at Hytham, seemingly set on steering the ship to this specific fjord. The southerner met her gaze for a moment, although he just as quickly looked away, as if looking at each other in such a moment, with the entire fjord in front of them, was too intimate. 

She is a stranger. Hytham attempted to remind himself. Whatever she says, we are not friends.

Yet he just swallowed dryly.

“He did.” 

Sigurd shared many tales during their two or so years of travel. Myths and legends were equally intertwined with history and science. Hytham never made a point of trying to distinguish between what was what when it came to the beliefs of the northern people. “The glow of Valkyrie armour, if I am not mistaken?”

Eivor nodded. When the other glanced over, he saw a smile tug on the drengr’s lips again, or perhaps still.

“Or the breath of the newly deceased drengir, depending on who you ask.”

“An omen of death, regardless.” 

Eivor snorted. 

“It sounds quite miserable when you put it that way, friend.” 

Friend again. Did the Norsemen merely throw that term around, regardless of who it was spoken to? Was it sarcasm that his ears could not yet distinguish from their foreign language? He didn’t know, and so he just shook that growing, warm feeling off, masking it as a shrug. If the blush showed on his face, perhaps he could explain it away as the cold.

“Death doesn’t have to be a bad thing, I believe that is a philosophy you are well acquainted with.” He said instead. “Sigurd told me your people celebrate death more than you mourn it.”  

That gentle smile still rested easily over Eivor’s lips.

“True.”

Another moment of silence. Whatever effort Eivor seemed to be putting into keeping the conversation going was once more wasted, it seemed. Hytham saw from the corner of his eye how the drengr shifted... Was she leaning closer? 

“I think you would have gone there, y’know,” Eivor said then, quieter than before. This time, she did not look at the other, but merely stared at the slowly dancing lights. “Valhalla, I mean.” 

Hytham could not help but feel the surprise take over his facial expression as he looked at the other, eyes wide. Yet Eivor merely looked at him from the corner of her eye and smiled again, eyes glistening with something puzzling. 

He had been told of Valhalla, of course. The All-Father’s hall where those who fell in noble battle — or at the very least, with a weapon in hand — had their eternal feast and their eternal battles, the end that the majority of the Norsemen and Danes seemed to wish for themselves. Far from the heaven he had been told about back in the Caliphate. Yet he could not help but furrow his eyebrows, knitting them tightly on his forehead. Just... Confused.

“You think so?” 

“Mmhm.”

Eivor said nothing else and did not attempt to explain her reasoning.

“I...” Hytham blinked. “I am afraid I don’t follow..?” 

Eivor seemed actually surprised for a moment, looking once more at her companion.

“You haven’t been told of Valhalla?” she asked, as if that was the most logical conclusion to Hytham’s confusion.

“I-I have, but I am unsure how…” Hytham tried to explain, but he hesitated. Basim had always been the one who knew exactly what to say, while Hytham often stuttered and struggled. Perhaps he could not blame himself too much, considering the state he was in, who he was talking to, what they were talking about. “... I am unsure how I would qualify?” 

That puzzling, puzzled look in Eivor’s eyes returned, as if the southerner was an enigma she was trying to solve. It was not merely Hytham struggling to figure out the mystery next to him.

“You might have disrespected the rules of Holmgang,” Eivor started, slowly, hoping Hytham understood, “but that is because your own duty also called for Kjotve’s blood and because you wished to save someone you thought doomed. You fought valiantly when you could.” 

Hytham’s eyebrows furrowed even further, and the words came tumbling out of his mouth faster than he could think. 

“But I didn’t fight at all, Eivor.” He hadn’t gotten a single stab in that day, the first casualty of battle. “He threw me like a sack of flour —” 

Ah, Eivor thought silently, he is like that. 

“But you fought,” the drengr argued. “You leapt for the throat of a man three times your size for a battle larger than yourself.”

She let his words linger for a moment. Then, she placed her large hand over Hytham’s knee, hoping the smaller man would process her words. The Norseman watched the furrow in his brow, listened to the raspy breathing.

“...Why are you defending what I did?” Hytham asked then. “You should be mad.” 

Eivor raised an eyebrow.

“Do you wish for me to be?” 

“No— but I...” The younger man sighed in defeat. “Forgive me, but I do not understand.” 

Forgiving is what I have been doing, Eivor thought. Still, she squeezed Hytham’s knee, a gesture she hoped would bring some comfort. 

“I did not wish for you to get hurt, Hytham.” There was something eerily serious in the drengr’s tone as she spoke this time, not the easy, gentle one used for the conversation about the weather they had just had a few minutes earlier. “I have forgiven you, and I hope you forgive yourself.” 

The simple words and their clear intention felt like an enigma, a riddle, a puzzle. Hytham cowered slightly. He felt... Small. Perhaps it was the physical, imposing size of Eivor next to him, amplified by his own hunched position, or perhaps it was the strange words that left her mouth and got his cheeks to flare with warmth. Perhaps it was the words themselves, the meanings he was forced to reckon with. Perhaps it was just the cold. Perhaps it was the fact that he was hearing such words from a stranger, one who had saved his life when he had attempted to save hers, even after he had disrespected her. The words that said he was forgiven. 

Eivor’s gentle smile soon returned to her lips. A comforting smile. It made his entire body tingle with an undeniable, consoling warmth.

“Oh.” That was the only sound that came from Hytham. It was all he managed to say. By the way the drengr’s supposed gentle smile only widened, almost a little teasingly, he suspected she knew that he was flustered. He could do little else but tighten the grip around the furs again. He wanted to say something — anything — attempt to show Eivor the kindness she had shown him—  

“Hytham!” 

Whatever words he would have attempted to speak were as lost at the call of his name. He flinched again, as he had when Eivor had found him on this log, wincing as he turned towards the sound of his mentor. Basim seemed less than pleased, standing by the door of the healing hut. How he had managed to place himself there without either of them noticing went beyond the apprentice. Basim made a sharp motion with his head, bidding Hytham inside. 

The apprentice swallowed dryly and hurried off the log, or hurried to the best of his ability, what with his injuries and frozen body, letting Eivor’s hand fall off of him. He murmured an apology to his companion, who merely watched as he limped towards the older assassin. Basim held the door open for him, letting him slink inside. He stared at Eivor for a short moment, his very gaze daring her to say something, biding her to leave. Yet when they remained there, in that heavy silence, Basim finally spoke. 

“Good night, Eivor.” 

The drengr felt no need to accept the obvious cue to leave, yet she still smiled at the other.

“Good night, Basim.” 

Basim continued to look at her, then turned and took a deep breath, although he himself was unsure if it was in relief or an attempt to calm down. Either way, he stepped inside the little cabin and closed the door behind him. 

This Basim was quite unlike the one she had met in the longhouse just a few weeks earlier. Eivor couldn’t help but wonder if Basim had always been so strict, and she just hadn’t noticed. 

---

As Basim looked into the room of the hut where his apprentice was staying, he saw that Hytham was back on the bed where he had been ordered to rest for the last few days, and the days to come. Whatever bubbling feeling — the anger or relief, whatever it was — subsided easily, and for a moment, he felt a little guilty over his harsh behaviour, seeing the way Hytham cowered as he came closer. He had been scolded enough the last few days to know what to expect.

“Hytham— ”

“I’m sorry.” 

Hytham’s interjection was quiet and mellow, although both knew he was not necessarily sure what he was apologising for. Be it having spoken to Eivor — why now that would not be allowed — or venturing into the cold night when he was supposed to be resting, sleeping. Basim sighed again. 

“Don’t be.” His tone was the best he could muster to be gentle, although his lips were pursed thin whenever he wasn’t speaking. “But do not risk your health any further.” 

He felt like he was scolding a child, quite fittingly, because Hytham felt like a child being scolded. He looked like one, too. Once he nodded, Basim turned away from him, towards the fireplace where the embers had begun to cool off, slowly poking into it, agitating the smoldering fire, before taking a few of the logs placed by the side. It was not until the fire was crackling again that he felt like he could calm down fully. Hytham avoided watching his mentor as much as he could.

“You will do yourself no service by getting smitten by the Wolf-Kissed,” the older spoke again. “Keep your distance.” 

Hytham’s face flared with heat, embarrassment sending sparks over his skin and ringing in his ears. In shock, his eyes turned to the older man, the one who was still not looking at him. 

“We—  I wasn’t— ”

“Of course you weren’t.” There was no venom in his words, none that Hytham could detect, anyway. It almost sounded comforting, like he actually trusted him. But he saw the way Basim watched him from the corner of his eye. “But remember the oaths you have sworn to.” 

The silence settled. The acolyte swallowed dryly, turning his gaze back to the floor. He had never feared Basim, but he feared the implications of his words. He feared what prejudices Basim might have harboured that he hadn’t realised he had. He feared what his mentor thought he had been doing.

“...Yes, Mentor.” 

Basim nodded, just to show his apprentice that he had heard him. Then, he sighed once more. 

“Rest,” he said. “Tomorrow, we will follow the siblings to Alrekstad and see where the althing leads. You will need to be up early.”

“Yes, Mentor.” 

Basim nodded once more, still turned away from the younger man. When he said nothing else, the apprentice began to disrobe from the furs and clothes still wrapped around him, preparing for another night filled with pain and nervousness. The mentor merely stood there, letting his gaze travel across the room until his acolyte was back in bed, furs covering his meagre body, head resting against the crude pillows. For the first time since entering the hut, Basim properly looked at him. Hytham kept his eyes closed, even as he heard Basim’s footsteps come closer, even as he flinched when he felt his mentor’s cold fingers stroking his hair for just a moment. One of those small comforts occasionally allowed between them.

“Goodnight, Hytham...” Basim murmured. “Sleep well.” 

The younger one pulled the furs tighter around him, murmuring his own quiet, barely audible ‘good night’. It satisfied him enough. With that, the mentor stepped out of the healing hut, knowing the seer would be back soon.

Eivor had disappeared into the night again, as seemed to be her habit. Above the mountain peaks glimmered the northern lights still.

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“The ones on your chest,” Eivor clarified. As Hytham looked up — his torso straightening with the movements of his head — the scars became even more prominent. Two thick, jagged but largely straight lines right under his chest, by his breasts, if one would use such words. In Eivor’s eyes, it seemed like such deliberate scarring, so parallel to each other, that it was hard to imagine them being the result of a battle. “Under your...”

He didn’t necessarily have to clarify, as the southern man looked down at his own torso, as if he had entirely forgotten he had such peculiar scars. In truth, he hadn’t, but he still seemed unprepared for Eivor’s questions. The awareness of them were always somewhere in the back of his mind, or in a proud corner of his heart, but Eivor had never questioned the scars he had seen on him before — the ones on his face, the cut to his ear, or the jagged ones on his hands — and so he had simply not assumed he would question these, either. Sometimes it was hard to know what things Norsemen would point out, and what they would silently forget. 

“Ah,” was the single sound of acknowledgement that he let out. He gazed vaguely skyward for a moment, his face — unintentionally, as usual — showing clearly that he was hesitating. His nose wrinkled slightly, brows furrowed. He had come to terms with himself, and he knew Eivor better than to assume that he would not be, especially after his apparent friendship with Azar. What made him hesitate was more so actually explaining. He didn’t necessarily feel like going into detail with everything, his childhood, the Hidden Ones... The prologue to a story he was, frankly, too lazy to tell today. “It’s a long story.” 

With that, he finished undressing. Both his boots were placed neatly by his tunic, gambeson, surcoat, and his hood, and his socks were then added to the pile. He removed his breeches too, and the only thing he kept on was the shorter, lighter pair of drawers he wore under his trousers. Why he kept them on or what the drengr might have seen if he had taken them off was yet another thing that he didn’t wish to explain. 

Eivor’s gaze was undeniably curious, and Hytham did not find it in him to be offended by the intrigue. Perhaps it would have been forgiven if he felt it perverted or offensive, but his own gaze had roamed over the bodies of the Norse people before — simple curiosity of their tattoos, their builds, strength and muscles that was so different from the people back home — and so he could not blame Eivor for being equally curious about someone from so far away, with such a different culture and standard of living than he was used to. Either way, Hytham stepped carefully into the pond, letting out a soft sigh of relief as his overheated body cooled off, even in the summer-warmed water.

“If you do not wish to speak of it, I understand,” Eivor offered then. Understanding as always, a drengr like him knew to tread carefully in the matter of scars and wounds. “But I cannot deny that I am curious.”

Hytham eased himself further into the water, until it was up to his shoulders when he sat down on one of the many rocked edges. Not as comfortable as the seats of a Hammam, but not bad, either. He considered his words for a moment, what he might be willing to reveal. 

“It is the result of a battle fought with no-one but myself,” the Hidden One explained cryptically, deliberately so, and obviously so, as a smile tugged on his lips. “Where a part of me was reborn, and came out the victor.” 

He turned to glance at Eivor, who was looking at him blankly. 

“You speak in riddles,” the Wolf-Kissed accused plainly. No bite behind the words, though, of course. Hytham smiled even more. 

“I learned from Valka.” 

Eivor huffed. 

“You spoke in riddles when you taught me the leap as well. Will you claim that that was Valka’s doing, too?” 

Hytham laughed, bright and clearly. 

“Perhaps not,” he admitted. “But like the leap, this may be a riddle you will solve in time.”

“And what trial must I succeed in to learn this riddle?” It was mostly jest, but there was something serious in Eivor’s eyes; that of a true wish to learn the answer. 

As much as he would have liked to tell him plainly, Hytham just shrugged. 

“It is a battle few fight, perhaps it is a riddle few will solve, then, too.” 

His words were teasing, and Eivor caught on immediately. The viking’s short, but charming laugh was more booming than Hytham’s.

“If you ever feel like sharing the answer,” the drengr suggested then, knowing there were considerably few questions Hytham willingly answered, “know that I am ready and willing to receive it.” 

Hytham huffed, amused. 

“Perhaps one day, my friend. But until then, know this;” he looked at Eivor intently this time, a small smile still at his lips. At ease, but fully serious. “The battle which caused them was one I knew I would win, and I did. These scars are the ones I am the most proud of.” 

Eivor looked back at him equally intently. He felt the weight in the other’s words, and knew that there must be more to them than he could ever know. 

A battle fought with no-one but himself, Eivor thought, where he was reborn. A battle he knew he would win, with scars he is proud of. 

A riddle indeed. 

“You sound like a skald, yet your metaphors seem much more hidden.” He couldn’t even begin to think what they could mean, and he considered the words Bragi and Alvis used; swan-roads, feather-fall, shield-thunder, blood-ember... Tricky for those that may not know their meanings, but undeniably clear which words were meant to mean something else. Hytham’s riddles all seemed like a big metaphor, like every word could be changed, twisted, and traded into a thousand different meanings. 

“Like everything in my life,” Hytham mused simply. “And yet I have revealed more to you on this day than I have to most of my brothers and sisters in creed.” 

To the acolyte’s surprise, Eivor’s eyes widened. 

“Truly? Hytham, I...” The drengr moved, sitting up straight again. As if the other had just confessed a grave secret to him, something of deadly importance. Eivor grasped Hytham’s hand on his, held it over the water’s edge, cradled in both of his. “I thank you for trusting me.” 

It was almost silly how serious his tone and expression had turned. Hytham had to admit, he had not imagined such a reaction: it surprised him and, frankly, flustered him. It must have been terribly obvious, too, what with how his cheeks reddened and he cast his gaze away from the other. 

“It’s... Not that serious...” he mumbled weakly. “But...”

He scrunched his nose again. What was he supposed to say? ‘Thank you for taking this earnestly? ‘Thank you for saying thank you’? It was just awkward. Eivor, to his credit, seemed to wistfully ignore that. 

Finally, Hytham sighed. 

“You are a good friend, Eivor.” He forced his gaze back to the other, despite how flustered he felt. His smile was sheepish. “Thank you for that.” 

Eivor squeezed his hand, and smiled brightly. 

The bureau was quiet, as always.

It was his own little sanctuary amidst the strange lands and stranger people, where he could hide away and feel productive, like he was of use, if not to the clan, then to the creed. Where he could be aloof, hide in plain sight, relish in the familiar comforts of shadows and being out of sight, and especially so now, when he was alone.

He hadn’t seen his mentor in weeks. He had not heard from him, Basim had always been distant, but he could not help but wonder if his silence was more than that, if this was his punishment for his failure in Norway. The thought had stung, in the beginning, almost worse than the pain of the broken ribs and the internal bleeding, to know that he was a failure and to have seen the disappointment in his master’s eyes, but time alone had healed the open wound, perhaps leaving a gnarly scar. Regardless, he had found his quiet solitude, found his peace along the English riversides and the settlement of Ravensthorpe. 

It was late, the sun had long since set, and the rain obscured any sight that was not the glowing firelights from the longhouse. A feast, as was customary, although Hytham, as usual, had decided against joining. He had been accepted well enough into the clan, but he was still a stranger unwilling to thoroughly accept his place within the settlement and its people, as he already had his own, and so, the assassin kept content at an arm’s length, and the Raven Clan seemed to agree. 

He stretched, hearing his joints popping as he did so. He spent his waken moments going over various codex pages, accounts, and information about the Order, and preened with his collection of medallions so generously gifted by the Wolf-Kissed, which meant that he was often still and rigid, unfortunately necessary for his long-term recovery, even though he longed for movement and action. Nowadays, it seemed like his only motions were rising from the bed, standing, moving throughout the bureau, and the equally dreaded and anticipated walk to the longhouse for food. 

... He was quite hungry. 

With a gentle sigh, he placed the accounts he was holding onto his desk, stretched once more, and shrugged on his hood. He missed the dry heat of Baghdad, and while he would rather take the warm late-summer rain over the cold snow of Norway, he still did not particularly enjoy the heavy moisture and being out in the rain in general. And so, as quiet as ever, he slunk out of his little hideaway and strode with uneven steps towards the feast. In and out, to merely grab a bit of food, and then be back in the safety of the Ravensthorpe Bureau. 

As he reached the open doors, prepared to take off his hood and step inside, the bellowing sounds of a war-horn echoed throughout the settlement. Invaders. He could hear the Wolf-Kissed’s voice within the hall.

‘Everyone that can fight— prepare for battle! Anyone who can’t, stay in the longhouse!’

Hytham scanned the settlement, the rain moved heavily, but the sight of a foreign ship and screaming warriors that had docked and ran up their coast was as clear as day. Soon, half-drunken vikings of the Raven Clan sprung from the hall, and he followed closely. 

He was not sure if he was battle ready, but he would be damned if he let the clan fight alone. 

Unsheathing the sword that rested by his hip, he leaped from the hillside and towards the shore, where the battle had already begun, the clashing of metal and war-cries sounding heavier than the rain. Momentarily, he cursed himself for his lack of ranged weapons, but close-combat was his specialty, he would have to make do. He slipped easily into the battlefield by Reda’s — thankfully abandoned — tent, laid his eyes on a chosen enemy, and struck. His ribs screamed with pain, but not as much as the man whose head he had just cleaved.

Onto the next, someone close by who had their attention captured by someone else, an easy victim to the blade he hid by his wrist. They were closing in, they had to be kept away from the longhouse, that much he understood, yet the mud and the constantly disturbed ground made it harder and harder to traverse, like quicksand and the slippery skin of eels. 

As he attempted to move, strong arms clasped around his neck, tightening into a chokehold. A man twice his size easily lifted him off of the ground in an attempt to break his neck. He had no choice but to drop his sword. He clawed, hands gripping with just enough force to keep the man from breaking his spine straight away, attempting to get an angle for his hidden blade, but when that proved fruitless and the man persisted, he bit down onto his bared forearm, sinking his teeth straight into the musculature, causing the attacker to howl in pain and the grip to loosen further, yet not completely.

‘In the grove’, he heard his mentor’s voice in his head, feeling the blood and sweat against his teeth, ‘you were elegant, the picture of grace. Now you fight like a vicious dog.’

He broke the skin barrier within milliseconds and managed to rip off a piece of flesh, when he heard a familiar squelching sound and his attacker’s screams dying in his ears, the edge of the spear which pierced him coming dangerously close to also spearing the assassin, its edge resting against his back. As the raider fell dead and Hytham got to his feet, Birna smiled apologetically at him as he spit out the blood and flesh. He was grateful for the rescue, but he was also grateful to not have been turned into a human meat skewer. 

Newly freed, with his weapon back in hand and blood on his tongue, the assassin could once more join the foray; he swung wildly, focused in on anyone not adorned in the signature blue of the Raven Clan, used his wrist-blade any moment he got, stabbed and slashed and hacked, yet the number of invaders never seemed to dwindle, and the old injuries were ripped open, strained and breaking and bleeding and swelling, his energy began to deplete. A short pause, a moment to breathe, another mistake. The warriors had fallen and slid in the mud, weapons laid strewn about, better to momentarily abandon and move quickly than to attempt to grab and risk the enemy getting their moment to strike, precisely what became Hytham’s salvation, as another weaponless brute charged in on him, knocking him off of his feet, making him land with a ‘thud’ and a groan before dirty hands came back to his neck. An easy opportunity, his hands were free, he lifted his wrist to prepare to strike, and—

With the howling war-cry of an angered wolf, Eivor threw herself onto the man on top of the assassin, sending them tumbling to Hytham’s side, Eivor on top. She still held her axe, and with the sheer force of brutality the Hidden One had yet to see even in vikings, she smashed the sharp edge onto the enemy's face, over and over, crushing and crushing and not stopping until the skull was thoroughly bashed in, and the face of what had once been a man was left an unrecognizable heap of gore on top of a lifeless body. 

Perhaps it was another unwise choice for Hytham to merely lay there and stare, but as Eivor got off of the corpse, kicking it slightly for good measures, and strode over to him, the victory cries of the Raven Clan rang clear. Equally breathless, Eivor dropped her axe to the side and reached her hand out for the other to take, a help Hytham graciously accepted. The Viking pulled him up with such force that the assassin landed not-so graciously against her chest, an intimacy that Eivor himself didn’t seem to even consider. 

“Are you alright?” 

Hytham moved away from the viking, tried to stand on his own two feet and straighten himself. ‘Perfectly so’ was his attempted response, but the pain in his strained voice shone through as the rain and the noise of the battle had subsided. Eivor gave him a look, one that he couldn’t read, placed a hand on his shoulder — perhaps to keep him from running off — and turned towards the rest of the clan.

“Birna, headcount. Everyone injured, get to Valka, the corpses will be dealt with afterward.” 

The commands were followed immediately, and soon the Raven clan and its warriors began to scatter once more, yet Eivor kept him firmly in place. Before he knew it, the Wolf-Kissed had turned him and began to lead him towards his bureau. 

It was in the warm light of the still-lit braziers inside of his sanctuary that Hytham recognized the damage of the battle on them. Eivor didn’t seem injured, only tired from the fight, yet her armor was covered in blood and mud and the cloth was drenched from the rain. The assassin, looking down upon himself, looked considerably worse. The blood was even clearer on his light-colored clothing, not to mention the mud from the multiple falls to the ground. He could still feel the blood and flesh in his teeth, and his face felt sticky with what could only be a mixture of sweat, dirt, and gore. A vicious dog, indeed. Perhaps not as vicious as he once was.

Eivor, still not having uttered even a word to Hytham, wasted no time in stripping from her dirty armor, leaving the tunic which had been spared, and her not-so-spared breeches, piling her battle-clothing by the door of the bureau. Then, with a simple ‘wait here’, she gathered her things and left in the direction of the longhouse. 

Wait here, he thought, where else would I go?

With Eivor momentarily gone, the young eagle decided to follow her example. His shoulder ached and protested as he moved his arms in an attempt to untie himself from his outer robe, one which was stained and wet. His normally steady hands shook from the cold and the leftover adrenaline, but he merely kicked off his leather boots, felt his feet on the steady wooden floor, and closed the second door which looked out over the docks. 

He did wear layers. It was necessary with how unused he was to the Norwegian and English weather, and now he was grateful, as he was not in mere undergarments once Eivor came back. 

In one hand, she held two buckets full of — presumably clean — water, and in the other, she held a crate that rested against her shoulder. It seemed that she had also taken the time to wash off before returning, where or how was unclear, as she was considerably less dirty when she stepped back into the bureau, and her change of clothes seemed dry enough. She placed the buckets on the floor first, then the crate, closed the last door behind her, and then she looked back at the assassin. She strode towards his desk, carefully gathered the scattered papers and placed them to the side, leaving a clear space, and then looked back at Hytham. 

“Sit.” 

Not a question. Eivor was, in all technicality, not his superior, neither by creed nor clan, but the commanding voice was enough for Hytham’s body to move by itself. He scooted up onto the desk and sat obediently, unsure why Eivor had decided for the desk and not the chair by it, although sitting down at all was a welcome rest from only gods knows how long he spent on his feet today. Eivor had yet to properly look at him.

“I’d suggest you take off your tunic.” The Wolf-Kissed spoke. She knelt by the crate and the buckets and took dry, clean rags from the straw, and dipped it in the water. Hytham’s eyebrows furrowed.

“What are you doing?” Hytham asked, perplexed. 

“Well,” Eivor continued, standing up. “I was planning on cleaning you up.” 

Hytham merely stared at her. Eivor stood still and let him process, not being able to help but finding it quite endearing how tightly the other’s brows knit together. 

“I am fully capable of cleaning myself, friend,” he said. 

“I know.” Eivor agreed, “But you took quite a tumble, so it would calm me better if I got to look over you myself.” 

He wasn’t sure if he should protest, but the viking’s blue eyes tore into him, not demanding, but almost pleading. And he couldn’t deny that he was exhausted and in pain, and while Master Basim had warned him about relying too much on help... About getting too close to Eivor...

Before he could properly begin to pull on his tunic, Eivor came closer. Placing the rag to the side, her damp hands came to Hytham’s left arm, where the hidden blade remained. She did not ask, not with words, but instead looked at Hytham, who was at eye-level thanks to the height of the desk. The assassin considered it for a moment, then nodded. 

Eivor began to gently unbuckle the straps that held the wrist-blade secure against his forearm; it might have felt less intimate if Eivor had simply undressed him completely, the removal of the wrist-blade made him feel awfully bare and exposed and it got his entire body to tingle with an uncomfortable warmth. Yet Eivor handled his arm and the blade with such care, gently placing it to the side so that Hytham still had it within reach, perhaps knowing it would calm him.

“I have to ask, Wolf-Kissed,” Hytham then spoke. “Do you treat all members of the Raven Clan so personally?” 

Eivor hummed slightly.

“No, not everyone. Not like this.” 

Hytham raised an eyebrow, an expression that was unanswered. With his arms free, Eivor began to pull at the edges of his tunic, until Hytham merely accepted the childish treatment and raised his arms over his head, letting the other pull it off him completely. Thankfully, the drengr tossed it over to his bed instead of letting it lay on the dirty floor, but as she turned back, she stopped and stared at the other’s chest. 

“... You’re still injured.” 

A statement, or perhaps trying to process the realization out loud. The bandages he still kept around his chest were mangled, but surprisingly unstained for the battle that had just happened. Hytham had to keep himself from cowering under the other’s watchful gaze.

“It is nothing I couldn’t handle,” he tried instead. 

“You almost had your neck broken, twice.” 

Hytham huffed, and almost, almost, couldn’t help but roll his eyes. 

“Did Birna have the time to tell you about that?” 

“No need, I watched you across the battlefield for most of it, but she was quicker the first time.” 

Huh. ‘Watched’, not ‘saw’. 

Hytham did his best to ignore the blushing warmth that came to his cheeks.

“Needed to make sure I did a good job, eh?” 

Eivor merely smiled. 

“I never have to make sure of that, friend. You always do.” 

Leaving the Hidden One blushing even more from the compliment, the Wolf-Kissed came closer, standing between the assassin’s legs as he sat on the desk, thankfully not having to tilt his head back too much to be able to be eye-to-eye with the other now, the taller one. The blonde one said nothing more, merely grabbing his chin with her thumb and index finger, keeping him in place. Her hands were warm. Hytham looked up at her a moment more, then, as the rag was gently placed against his cheek, he closed his eyes. 

The rag was, surprisingly, warm. How or why Eivor had decided to take a moment to get warm water, while also having time to change her own clothes and clean off, was beyond him. Perhaps it had taken longer to get out of his robes than he thought. Eivor was gentle, carefully moving the rag and scrubbing off the dirt and blood from his face, yet, as she came against a nick on his cheek, the Hidden One hissed, and Eivor stopped once more, eyebrows furrowing, quickly becoming distracted from her attempt at an apology.

“... Is that blood in your teeth?” 

Hytham opened his eyes and looked at Eivor once more. His head was tilted slightly to the side, and this time, it truly felt like the other’s eyes tore into him. His first instinct was to lie and say ‘no’, like a child that had been accused of stealing apples, or having been caught doing exactly what his superior told him not to do. It had been quite a few years since he last found himself in such a situation, yet it seemed like old habits died hard.  

“... It’s... not mine?” 

A very clever response, a second instinct that almost made him wince with embarrassment. Yet, as he glanced at Eivor, the bastard merely grinned. 

“I didn’t know you could fight so dirty.” She said, tilting the other’s head back so that she could clean the front of his face. “You fought like a true drengr. I like it.” 

Now, eye-to-eye, Hytham could feel his cheeks burning once more. He hoped his skin was dark enough to not show it, but Eivor merely continued with that silent smile as she proceeded with the washing. 

Once Hytham’s face was deemed clean enough for Eivor’s standards, the drengr momentarily left his side to wash the rag in the second bucket and wet it with clean water from the first, more hygienic than the other would have assumed that Viking medical care could be, or perhaps it was just Eivor. Soon, she was back in her place between Hytham’s legs, thumb and index back to his chin, tilting his head up to get access to his neck, where the dried handprints of the brute that attempted to strangle him covered bruising. His neck had always been sensitive, tingling with every slight sensation that was not his own, and while that sensation had been replaced with sheer pain before, he had to bite his tongue to strangle the noises threatening to escape once the warm rag came towards his throat. Eivor stopped, just as quickly as she had started.

“You alright?” 

Hytham breathed out uneasily, swallowed dryly, and nodded. 

“Yes, yes, just... Be careful.” 

Not like Eivor hadn’t been careful before, but she took the warning and nodded. To think a woman who just half an hour or so earlier had bashed a man’s skull in front of him, could handle him with such care. Wiping the rough mud away, revealing the dark purple bruises over his pulse and tendon. Her warm fingers ghosted over the handprint. 

Deep down, Eivor felt guilty. She felt guilty that it had gotten so far, that Hytham had such close calls twice, that she had not been by his side to protect him, help him, until the very end. But at the same time, she felt guilty that she thought that Hytham wasn’t capable. He was injured, yes, potentially for life, but he was still a skilled fighter, a highly trained assassin, the blood on the younger’s hands might rival that of her own, and it was not her right to think of him as incapable, not when it stung to hear Hytham so nonchalantly calling himself unnecessary and unuseful. He always said it as if it was a joke, with a smile on his lips. Eivor had no right to make him think that that was true. 

“...Eivor?” 

Hytham’s voice, warmer than firelight, broke her out of her thoughts. The drengr swallowed. 

Her hand had closed in on the other’s throat, and he had let her. It was not a tight grip, not even a grip, but it was placed loosely in the shadow of the brute’s handprint, now cleaned from mud, and her thumb brushed over the side of his neck. Quite the position, with her other hand still holding the other’s chin.

“Even the most skilled warriors get injured, Hytham,” She said instead, offering no further explanation. “I hope you know that.” 

The younger one merely continued to look up at her. He looked utterly lost, as if trying to read the drengr’s intentions on her face when he could not grasp them in her words.

“I...— Yes, of— of course...” 

Eivor seemed satisfied enough. She returned to the buckets and cleaned the rag, letting the fresh water seep through it before squeezing most of the liquid out of it. Then, she returned to Hytham. This time, she turned her attention to his arms. His right, which — besides a few rough meetings with the gravel of the ground — seemed perfectly fine, and his left, where the straps of the hidden blade had left marks and where his ring finger had long since been amputated. While Eivor scrubbed his palms, she could not help but wonder if Hytham had amputated his finger himself. 

There were only a few scuffs on either of his palms, and so, cleaning the rag between every limb, it was time for the other’s chest. It was not dirtied, but the Wolf-Kissed saw the blue, purple, now yellowed and green bruising beneath the bandages that had begun to fray and yellow. How long has it been since he last changed them? Neither knew, probably not since Basim left. Something protective had flared up in her — more than it already had — the moment she saw that he still wore those bandages, and she was filled with a need to examine him herself, see the damage Kjotve had caused and see the damage that had been done during the battle now. Hytham knew full well what that look in Eivor’s eyes meant, the expression on her face, yet he merely turned his gaze away and silently played dumb. Eivor sighed.

“Hytham.” 

Not her commanding voice, the assassin noted, yet it almost had the same effect. He was normally so calm and well-kept, sturdy and unmoving and, at times, sttoic, but now, be it the privacy of his bureau or the intimacy between them, he felt way too expressive and way too helpless. He had little choice but to look at the woman currently patching him up, yet he hesitated. 

“Please, friend... Just... Just leave it.” 

Eivor wanted to disagree. In her shoes, Hytham might have too. But he was exposed enough, cleaned enough, he had no wounds other than those he had acquired prior and the bruises on his neck and limbs, if he was allowed to set a boundary, he would draw the line here. 

“Only if you promise to see Valka tomorrow,” she tried instead. 

It was, and somehow wasn’t, a negotiation. The Wolf-Kissed always seemed to want the final word. 

“Very well,” Hytham said, “if that will please you.” 

It won’t please me as much as doing it myself, Eivor thought. But if this is what you want, so be it.

She lingered, for just a moment. A large, battle-hardened, warm hand lingered on the Hidden One’s body, having moved from his hands to rest on his shoulder. In the warm firelight, their eyes glistened, warm and comforting and alluring. Hytham felt his heart speed up, if only for a moment. Perhaps it was in this moment he fully, actually, processed the situation they were in, and his heart fluttered hard in accordance. 

“...You should return to the others.” Hytham whispered, as if afraid to break the sanctity of the moment. In the end, he was. Whatever it was, he liked Eivor, he liked her company, her attention, and deep down he preened over getting such attention from her, alone and personal and private, yet he began to fear what he might do if Eivor stayed, if her touch lingered closer. It was not something he had ever considered, not before Eivor, not with Eivor since his mentor’s chastising that cold Norwegian night. But he felt his heart beating fast, his skin flaring with every warm touch from Eivor’s hands. Perhaps this was allowed in this clan, but it felt inappropriate, dangerous. Like he could not trust himself to not give in to his instincts. Like he couldn’t trust himself to keep to his vows and the ideals he had been taught. Eivor was a friend and yet he feared the effect she had on him. The warm feeling in his stomach felt unnerving, taunting. “They... They might miss you.” 

“They can handle themselves without me,” Eivor said, equally quiet, “unless you want me to leave?” 

Despite everything, despite all the warnings that rang in his head, Hytham just swallowed dryly. 

“... I never said that.” 

Eivor smiled. Smiled. Hytham felt his cheeks turn warm, the unnerving warmth from his stomach that spread throughout his entire body, onto every limb. With the rag placed to the side, the Wolf-Kissed rested her hands against the wood of the desk, leaning closer.

Hytham was almost as tall as Eivor when he sat on the desk. And while his first instinct was to back away, lean away from the strange sensation, he stood stead-fast. Their noses almost brushed together, or perhaps they were entire inches apart, and it just felt closer. His heart hammered faster and faster, like he was suffering the consequences of his own recklessness.

“Will you be alright for the night, Hytham?” 

She was so close. He felt her warm breath against his skin, and hearing his own name spill from the drengr’s lips sent a shiver throughout his thawing body. He could do little else but nod. 

“I think so.” He attempted to smile, gentle and soft, yet it came out sheepish and nervous, “It takes more than a few brutes to take me out.” 

“Good,” the Wolf-Kissed said, grinning, “because this brute wants you to remain in one piece.” 

Before Hytham knew it, the drengr’s hands had moved from the table, now coming up to cradle his face. Warm. Warm. And if such an act of affection had not been enough, Eivor tilted his head down, and — seemingly with no hesitation — placed a lingering kiss onto his forehead. Then, she moved, parting from the other. His skin tingled still with the sensation, the warmth, the momentary feeling of her lips on his skin, yet he relished the little touch he got as Eivor — perhaps a bit unnecessarily — helped him off the desk. Yet, as if none of this had ever happened, Eivor merely moved away, grabbing the rag and the bucket of dirtied water.

“The crate has some medical supplies, if you’d need it,” she said simply, as if she hadn’t just... “I’ll leave the clean water here as well.” 

She did not want to leave Hytham without the chance to help himself, even if she assumed he had his own stash of medical things stuffed away somewhere. Yet Hytham, frozen and dumbfounded, merely nodded. With that confirmation, the drengr moved towards the door. With her hand resting on the doorknob, she turned back to her shirtless, blushing companion. All she offered was a small smile. 

“... Good night, Hytham.” 

Hytham swallowed dryly.

“Good night, Eivor...” 

And so, the drengr shot him one last smile, before she opened the door and disappeared out into the night. Soon, all Hytham heard was the brief splash of the bucket being emptied, and the footsteps slowly moving further and further away.

Now, he was left alone by the lingering firelight. Suddenly, the bureau felt so much colder, and yet the feeling of Eivor’s lips upon his forehead, her hands on his cheeks, felt like a lingering burn, warming him deep into his very soul. He felt speechless, mute, still in shock, in his head swirled a million questions, none of which he seemed to be able to answer. All he felt was the lingering warmth and the growing feeling of shame that rose in his chest, a test failed. 

He packed up for the night, organized his papers, made sure everything was as it should, before he, with much relief, pulled on his tunic, extinguished the braziers, and allowed himself into the soft comfort of his bed. And so, as he was lulled into the gentle comforts of a peaceful sleep, he could not help but to curl up, and — even as the same and fear continued to buzz in his chest — he had no choice but to allow himself to let the lingering thoughts of Eivor settle in his mind, and imagine the lingering warmth of the firelights to be the Wolf-Kissed’s own.

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