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bansheeoftheforest · 28 days ago

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Lingering Firelight [ACV M!Evior x Hytham]

Last fic of the year and it ended up being for AC Valhalla! I always thought my first AC fic would be for Origins but Eivor and Hytham captured my heart. Hytham is my babygirl and I am still pissed Eivor can't romance him. As usual, if yall would like to see more of this, please leave a like, a comment, and/or reblog 🫶

Also, no promises but I would be very interested if anyone has some requests for this pairing! They are infesting my brain and there are simply not enough fics but my brain is smoll-

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Wordcount: 4,446

Summary:

“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.”

Or, a mini oneshot of Eivor cleaning Hytham after a battle.

CW: Canon typical violence and battle.

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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 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 himself onto the man on top of the assassin, sending them tumbling to Hytham’s side, Eivor on top. He still held his axe, and with the sheer force of brutality the Hidden One had yet to see even in Vikings, he 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 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 his axe to the side and reached his hand out for the other to take, a help Hytham graciously accepted. The Viking pulled him with such force that the assassin landed not-so graciously against his 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 that Hytham recognized the damage of the battle on them. Eivor didn’t seem injured, only tired from the fight, yet his 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 his dirty armor, leaving the tunic which had been spared, and his not-so-spared breeches, piling his battle-clothing by the door of the Bureau. Then, with a simple ‘wait here’, he gathered his 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 his 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, he held two buckets full of -presumably clean- water, and in the other, he held a crate that rested against his shoulder. It seemed that he had also taken the time to wash off before returning, where or how was unclear, as he was considerably less dirty when he stepped back into the bureau, and his change of clothes seemed dry enough. He placed the buckets on the floor first, then the crate, closed the last door behind him, and then he looked back at the assassin. He 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. He 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?”

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

Hytham merely stared at him. 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...

Before he could properly begin to pull on his tunic, Eivor came closer. Placing the rag to the side, his damp hands came to Hytham’s left arm, where the hidden blade remained. He 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. 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 Viking tossed it over to his bed, instead of letting it lay on the dirty floor, but as he turned back, he 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.”

“You almost had your neck broken, twice.”

He 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’.

“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 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 his thumb and index finger, keeping him in place. His hands were warm. Hytham looked up at him 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 his 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 he came against a nick on his cheek, the Hidden One hissed, and Eivor stopped once more, eyebrows furrowing, quickly becoming distracted from his 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.” He said, tilting the other’s head back so that he 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. He hoped his skin was dark enough to not show it, but Eivor merely continued with that silent smile as he proceeded with the washing.

Once Hytham’s face was deemed clean enough for Eivor’s standards, the Viking 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, he was back in his 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 he 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 he took the warning and nodded. To think a man 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. His warm fingers ghosted over the handprint.

Deep down, Eivor felt guilty. He felt guilty that it had gotten so far, that Hytham had such close calls twice, that he had not been by his side to protect him, help him, until the very end. But at the same time, he felt guilty that he 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 his own, and it was not his 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 him out of his thoughts. The drengr swallowed.

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

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

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

“I..- Yes, of course.”

Eivor seemed satisfied enough. He 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, he returned to Hytham. This time, he turned his 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, he 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 his 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. Hytham knew full well what that look in Eivor’s eyes meant, the expression on his face, yet he merely turned his gaze away and silently played dumb.

“Hytham.”

Not his commanding voice, the assassin noted, yet it almost had the same effect. He was normally so calm and well-kept, sturdy and unmoving and stoic, 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 man currently patching him up, yet he hesitated.

“Please, friend. Leave it.”

Eivor wanted to disagree. In his 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.”

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.’

He 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.

“...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 his company, his attention, and deep down he preened over getting such attention from him, alone and personal and private, yet he began to fear what he might do if Eivor stayed, if his touch lingered closer. It was not something he had ever considered, not something he even grasped or knew the implication of, but the warm feeling in his stomach felt unnerving, taunting. “They might miss you.”

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

“...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 his 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 steady fast. Their noses almost brushed together, or perhaps they were entire inches apart, and it just felt closer.

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

He was so close. He felt his warm breath against his skin, and hearing his own name spill from the Viking’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, “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 placed a lingering kiss onto his forehead. Then, he moved, parting from the other. His skin tingled still with the sensation, the warmth, 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. I’ll leave the clean water here as well.”

He did not want to leave Hytham without the chance to help himself, even if he assumed he had his own stash of medical things stuffed away somewhere. Yet Hytham merely nodded. With that confirmation, the Viking moved towards the door.

“Good night, Hytham.”

“Good night, Eivor.”

And so, the Viking shot him one last smile, before he 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, his 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. But 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, 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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#AC valhalla #Assassin's creed valhalla #Eivor wolfkissed #Hytham #Eivor x Hytham #Ac hytham #AC eivor #assassin's creed #Assassin's creed fanfic #dear god i have no idea how to tag this #Male Eivor #banshees writing #banshees fanfic

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