asscreedkinkmeme | Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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I love this fill. I love how it is written, the length of each chapter, and how you write the characters! I love everything about this, and by gods I cannot wait for more!

Sorry guys, I just found out I got into Uni and only have a bit over a week to find a place and move before it starts, so the next part will be a bit longer but I haven't forgotten :)

The above post was not made by writer!Anon currently working on the fill, just to be clear to OP. :)

Author!Anon, you should feel free to post your link if it is relevant. I'm sure OP won't mind and I'd like to take a look at it, too.

Ooooo...buildup to some more delishness.

How awful it must be to see objects once in the Homestead already installed in Charles's manor. Not knowing if his home had been further desecrated, and having to trust in Charles's word as to the condition of his friends...

Poor Connor's stuck between a rock and a hard place. Poor baby.

Generally not that fond of typing while traveling, but this story’s eating up my brain. :) And apparently, writing angst while on a plane helps with motion sickness. o.O Who knew?

Warning: kinda graphic spousal rape/non-con, dehumanizing thoughts, basically Charles Lee

Master of the House

Chapter 4 - Of Considerations Lost

Despite having secured an agreement from James and James’s Omega to help him in his endeavors with Connor, Charles felt ill at ease. A slight sour, bitter taste lingered in his mouth, not unlike the one that plagued him when he had learned that Master Kenway had had a child with that...woman. It plagued him all through his ride back to his manor and lingered through a silent solitary supper.

The feeling was soon joined by another unpleasant sensation. As he began nibbling through a plateful of cheese, Charles’s gaze fell upon the empty chair assigned to his Omega at these meals and suddenly lost his appetite. He pushed away the plate and nursed his teacup, deep in contemplation.

Seeing James and his own Omega had been, as loath as he was to admit it, a revelation. That such natural enemies could live peacefully, almost happily, despite the situation that brought them together...!

Vaguely, Charles entertained the notion that James had betrayed the Order, but brushed the notion away. The man may be a pacifist at heart and a bit too sentimental, but he was absolutely devoted to the Order. It was Master Kenway himself who discovered him amongst the lower ranked members and elevated him to his current position. The very qualities that Charles himself lacked, an ability to sympathize with commoners, a willingness to learn about and adopt inferior manners and beliefs, a flexibility about his person and approach, these made him the perfect outreach to the masses that the Order needed to control, particularly if Charles was to be placed into a position of power within the new forming government.

He was, Charles mused, much as William Johnson had been, before Connor had assassinated him.

Thoughts of his wife brought his mind back to the conundrum he had been contemplating, and he stared into his teacup as if the swirling dark liquid held all the answers he sought.

It was extraordinary. James’s Omega may have been willful when James had suggested the man help Charles with Connor, but Charles had eyes. He had seen the way the man leaned into his Alpha, his willingness to be in James’s company, the way he instinctively sought James’s assurance.

That James’s natural charm with those lesser than he could allow him to master his wife without reducing him into the shell that Connor had become...

Charles glanced again at the empty chair and, for the first time, wondered if his plan might become more than what he had originally sought.

It was true that his Omega was of inferior stock on his mother’s side. Charles grimaced in distaste at the thought of the woman. But his paternal line was impeccable. And during his captivity, Charles had, despite himself, began to see more and more of Master Kenway in him. His wife, he was forced to admit, had great business acumen and had managed the Davenport estate admirably. Whether it was from pure luck or keen foresight, the boy had, if Charles’s reports were correct, single-handedly discovered the necessary talents to revive the place and negotiated its return to magnificence.

The boy was also, Charles’s interrogators had informed him after a couple of months with that French chef Assassin, well-versed in a few foreign languages from the continent. French was a given, especially with the French’s involvement with the Natives during the French-Indian War, but that the boy had a rudimentary working knowledge of German from little time he had spent with one of the other Assassins...

That was Master Kenway’s keen intelligence, no doubt. And the boy was physically desirable, of similar shape and form to Master Kenway. He was smaller and shorter than the Grandmaster, but that could be attributed to his Omega nature.

What would it be like, Charles wondered, if Connor would lean into him the way James’s Omega had sought his Alpha? What would it be like if Connor actively sought to give him pleasure during their couplings instead of lying passively on the bed? What would it be like if Connor did not resist their kisses?

For a moment, Charles allowed himself to imagine. Long lingering kisses, the lowering of that tempting body onto a soft bed, long legs wrapping about him as the lithe body arched passionately into his wider, larger frame and a light alto voice crying out... “George!”

It was as if a bucket of cold water had been tossed on him. His erection deflated, and his fists clenched in anger.

The boy was a sentimental fool who could not get over the death of his beloved Washington, Charles reminded himself. He was nothing like Master Kenway. Master Kenway would never collapse over the death of a fool. He would never let himself be in such a state where he lay insensate due to sheer sentiment. It was clear that the boy could never be Master Kenway’s equal.

Abruptly, he stood and, dabbing his lips with a napkin, signaled the servants to begin clearing the table.

With a furious stride, he made his way to the room he wife lay in.

He slammed open the door, startling the maids who had been tidying the room and, with a barked shout, ordered them out.

For a second, he stopped and stared transfixed at the boy lying on the bed, gazing at streaks of orange in the sky as the sun set behind the trees.

He was beautiful, this boy Charles had stolen, but he frustrated every single one of Charles’s designs and every last one of Charles’s plans.

And that was intolerable.

Anger mounted again, and he roughly removed his belt, tossing the leather into a corner. His waistcoat followed next, and then he turned his attention to his breeches and undergarments, stripping them from his body in brusque, perfunctory movements. When, at least, he was bare save for a thin shirt, he fell upon the boy.

Hogwash, he thought as he ripped the sheets off the lax body and spread the boys thighs.

Utter hogwash, his mind bit off bitterly as he coated his fingers with grease and fat and smeared them at the boy’s entrance.

Complete and useless hogwash, he raged as he angrily thrust in.

It was idiotic, mad, sheer lunacy! Clearly, James and James’s Omega had rattled his brain.

He gripped Connor’s thighs tightly, fingers digging into the boy’s soft, vulnerable flesh and undoubtedly leaving bruises as he set a punishing pace.

What was he going on about, thinking of Connor as if the boy was a person meriting his consideration? As if the boy would ever cooperate with him without duress?

The bed shook and groaned with the strength of his thrusts, in tune with the pulsing of his rage.

His original plan was undoubtedly the best one. He would allow James’s Omega to coax Connor out of his shell, but once the boy was back to a semblance of himself and had birthed him a healthy male Alpha, he would send Clipper back to James, and things would be as they should be.

He pulled out of the boy, flipped him about and savagely plunged back in.

What did he care if Connor never returned his advances? What would he care if the boy spent the rest of his days as a mindless spoils rather than a true wife?

He gasped as an involuntary twitch caused the constricting channel to hug him. He dug cruel fingers into the firm round buttocks and quickened his pace.

Yes, yes, yes! This was best. He would have his heir! He would have a brilliant and capable Alpha son of Master Kenway’s line to call his own and, together, they shall bring the Order to new heights! And its mother? Well, its mother would be his whore for as long as he remained breathing. A pretty thing to sate his needs and potentially birth him more worthy children.

He moaned and gasped and groaned as the friction became unbearable, as heat gathered low in his loins and built with fiery heat.

With a cry, he emptied himself into the boy, sweet relief rushing over him as he collapsed onto a cool, smooth back.

He grasped the boy and rolled to the side, spooning the smaller body with his larger one. One hand snaked around the lithe waist, splaying itself possessively across Connor’s belly, rubbing it softly, gently in contrast to the hard fucking he had just given its owner.

Charles sighed. Contentedly or perhaps with just a bit of bitterness, he did not know. He did not think he cared.

Charles fell asleep still deeply embedded within his wife.

Also...//raises hand//

Not OP from the convo above would also like to read this!

A/N: So if I remember correctly this was my first Maltair fic I've ever written. Also one of the first I've written in English. Betaed by the wonderful TheAllPowerfulOz. I thought I just post the fic instead of the link and stay 'anon'.

Summary: If Altair had known that Malik would be his downfall he would've never made friends with the other boy. But after all love was a luxury they both couldn't afford. In the end the only thing that was left was the little question of 'what if'.

Sometimes, so it seemed to him, in moments like these he thought he was particularly close to the world; maybe because every leap could mean death – one slip and it was over. In moments like these when he was falling, the wind brought tears to his eyes and he felt unique, complete and free - alive. For a few seconds time stood still as his heart was beating wildly inside his chest. One moment of absolute bliss; only a short one though.

When he fell back first into the hay, he stayed there for a few seconds to savor the rush further, a little bit longer. When he closed his eyes he had the feeling as if he could taste the clouds and the world was silent; so silent that he believed he could hear the flapping of a butterfly's wings. He was one, one with the world and all of its wonders and animals and for the blink of an eye his heart pulsed in total sync with the heartbeat of every single human being. The chains of his fate, his destiny were forgotten and all the screams of the poor souls that he had killed went silent and the eyes that had starred at him while his targets took their last breaths, stopped following him.

For only one moment.

Because time didn't stand still and the blood was still on his hands. His weapons and equipment pressed into his body and the cold fist of fear took a hold of his heart once more and urged him to get up to move again.

His body started to react before his mind began to work again. With tense muscles he rolled over his side and jumped from the hay wagon out on the busy streets of Jerusalem. When he turned around he faced a group of women. As he stood suddenly in front of them, two of them let a surprised high-pitched scream loose and he pulled his hood deep into his face. With a wave of his hand he brushed the last remaining hay from his clothes and turned into a less busy side street and pressed himself deep into the shadows of a line of houses.

With his back against up a wall he waited for hurried shouts of bored guards who followed their task to patrol the streets of Jerusalem only half-heartedly on a hot summer-day like today, but they also were easy to draw their blades to shed some blood. But all he could hear were the goings-on of Jerusalem's citizens and the sound of muttering voices which reminded him of a swarm of bees.

His gaze fell on the opposite wall of a building and before he wasted any more of his time his hands grasped for the first protrusion and he climbed quickly up the front before he pulled himself over the edge It was hot on this afternoon, too hot as if he wanted to run above the roofs and be exposed to the sun, but the aggressiveness of the guards left him with no other choice. On a day like this only those who absolutely had to who couldn't afford to stay in the cool shadows of their homes left their houses. He again could refrain from guards who started to lose their minds from the heat

He leaped from roof to roof and his shadow was flying above the earth. He lost his balance once and caught the edge of a roof-garden just in time and pulled himself up. He cursed silently as the pain from his hand collapsed like a wave over his body. The few archers he met were seeking the shadows of walls and nearby roofs and he suppressed a grin as he crept behind their backs and kept going unnoticed.

Sweat was running over his face and his clothes were sticking to his body by the time he let himself fall through the roof-opening of the Jerusalem's bureau. For a moment he stood still and breathed deeply before he yanked his hood down and shook his head, small droplets of sweat flew in every direction.

"You lousy dog!"

He recognized the voice and Altair closed his eyes as a barley visible smile was creeping over his face.

"Safety and peace". His words sounded rough as his throat was dry and he hadn't used his voice for hours. He opened his eyes and turned around slowly. His gaze fell upon Malik who hadn't outgrown boyhood yet, and he watched him standing with bare chest near the water fountain in the courtyard while he let the cold water run over his hands and arms.

Malik snorted. "Well, hardly since you're here now." He eyed him from head to toe. "You stink." he grimaced before he held his head underneath the fountain and let the water flow over his shoulders and back. The grey clothes of a novice laid next to his feet. Altair turned to his side and shifted his weight to lean backwards to peer around the corner of the bureau's entrance.

"The rafiq, is he here?", he asked Malik without looking at him.

"The heat," he answered and took up the clothes by his feet and rubbed his head with them to dry his hair, "— is getting to the old man. He's resting."

Altair gritted his teeth and his hands closed to fists. He couldn't afford any more delays. For a second he thought of just getting the feather that lay behind the counter by himself. He had all the information he needed, he knew that his target would be vulnerable the most at sunset – he couldn't wait for the old man and his permission to accomplish his task!

He felt Malik getting closer and he stopped just one step behind him. He held his robe in his hands as droplets of water ran over his throat down to his chest, his black hair tossed. Where he had used the clothes to dry his hair the grey fabric was slightly darker. Altair starred at him.

"If the heat's getting to the old man maybe he should make room for a younger one", he snarled. "Time's running out."

An ugly grin lifted the corners of Malik's mouth. "Three months an assassin and you're full of arrogance. Altair, it's good to see that you're still the same bastard."

Altair suddenly lifted his head and glared into Malik's dark eyes but soon they softened. "It's good to see you my friend." He thought for a moment if he should give the other man an embrace and as he watched Malik's fingers faintly twitching neither of them stirred, he knew Malik was thinking about the same but neither of them acted. Silence laid upon them like a dark cloud and he could hear the shouts of the merchants from the nearby market carried to them by the wind. Altair's look fell on his left hand where three months ago had been his ring-finger and all that remained was a stump which wasn't healed yet and still ached with dull pain. "What brings you to Jerusalem?" he finally asked Malik and his voice cut through the silence like a knife.

Malik fumbled with the sleeves of his clothes before he pushed them over his head and straightened them out so they fell properly over his chest.

"Assignment from my master," he answered and Altair almost didn't understand him because he had spoken so fast. He knew how much it made the older man feel aggrieved that he had been allowed to take the tests that would let him become an assassin while Malik was still learning.

"Your robe," Malik said finally and Altair looked up, "it's torn." He gestured to his right hip.

"Just a beggar", Altair explained and turned to his side to take the fabric between his hands to look at it thorough. "He was confused, probably by the heat. He asked for money and held on to me. As I wouldn't give him anything he asked if I was afraid. I told him 'No'."

Malik looked up.

"He laughed and called me stupid."

"He was right", Malik said.

Altair scoffed. "He was an old man, just a fool."

"Then he was wise."

Altair blinked with his eyes for a few times and looked at Malik. He asked himself where the days had gone where they acted careless around each other, about the time when their friendship had been innocent and wasn't stained by blood. Gone in the shadows of reality, he guessed. After all in the life of an assassin there was no room for friendship or love – it was a lonely, hard and short life. Each of them knew that just a little too well. Altair had never known is mother and he had lost his father far too early. Malik, just like Altair, had been born into the Order of the Assassin's. Even before Malik was conceived his fate had been sealed – Altair was no exception. Their lives had one purpose and one purpose only: to serve the Order, to live for and by the Creed and to murder for it. That was their purpose till the end of their days. Only a few, only the best lived long enough to die a natural death. Altair's father died by the blade of a traitor. On that day he swore to himself that he would be the best of all the assassins and damn, he was the best. Al Mualim himself, the Grand-Master of the Order, had chosen him as his pupil. Al Mualim had watched his training, trained him personally, pushed and challenged him. When Al Mualim would tell him 'Run' he'd run. Altair would run until his feet started to bleed, until his skin showed blisters from the sun burning down on him and until he threw up. When the other novices achieved good results, Altair's were never good enough. When Malik and his brother Kadar laid in their beds and slept exhausted by the efforts of the day, Altair sat at his Master's desk and learned the languages of countries far away while a candle gave some light.

Altair watched Malik's face thoughtfully. When they were young they shared a deep friendship. They rarely tried to surpass one another, instead they tried to learn by the mistakes of the other. Malik had always been better at swordplay than him, but the younger one's stamina was by far better than Malik's. They had learned and fought side by side. In those years they had spent together they created an iron front no one could break. But when Malik hit his seventeenth birthday he was chosen by a Master-Assassin to become his novice. Only three days later Malik left on a black stallion. Altair remembered all too well how he had sat secretly on a cliff to wish his friend farewell.

"Malik! Wait, Malik", he had screamed and waved wildly with his arms to get noticed. Malik pulled hard the reins of his horse and it stopped in a cloud of dust. "Altair", he hissed at him and starred at the boy above him, "What are you doing here? You're supposed to clear out the stables." His face was an angry mask but a smile had stole its way into his voice.

"Where are you going?", he had asked him and wished for the ground to open and swallow him as he heard his voice breaking. Those last few weeks his body had changed. There grew hair were none had been before, his shoulders were broader and his voice had started to change – now his words sounded like the squawk of a raven. Restless he shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

Malik was his friend, his only friend and in the last years there hadn't passed a day they didn't spent together. Altair would have never admitted it, but if Malik left he would feel just as lonely as he had when his father had died. "Go back Altair! The master sent me on a mission." And he had pressed his heals in his horse's flanks and rode away at a fast speed without leaving another word or a goodbye. Altair had noticed how much pride swung within Malik's voice. "But Malik!", he had called after him and thought about to jump down the cliff but it was too high and Malik was already too far gone. He could only watch how the boy was swallowed by the horizon.

In the first few weeks Malik had been gone, he and Kadar, Malik's younger brother of five years, had missed him and shared their sorrow. It wasn't like Altair and Kadar shared a deep friendship. He and Malik had spent many hours tormenting the boy or played a prank on him when they were children. Still, Altair knew that Kadar was a good fighter and he respected him for that. He just could never break the ice that had formed over them before a friendship had had a chance. But it took more than two years for the older brother to return. At that point Al Mualim had already taken Altair as a novice. Since then their friendship had never been the same as it had been before Malik's departure. Their training had forced a wedge between them they couldn't bypass it.

Before the memories could return to him completely, Altair pushed them quickly to the side.

He shook his head as if he wanted to shed the chains of the past, but the knot that had built inside his chest wouldn't loose. "I see, the words about my promotion has reached even you. Haven't you been in Damascus?", he asked and started to loosen the straps of his weapon-belt.

"Indeed. I arrived three hours ago and wait for further instructions."

His throwing knives fell to the ground and Altair stopped with his sword in his hands before he laid it on the floor carefully. He sat down and started to remove his boots.

"Didn't you have a mission you wanted to accomplish as soon as possible?", Malik asked and watched Altair while he was slowly stripping of his clothes.

"The sun's about to settle and since the old man would rather sleep than follow his duties as a rafiq I might as well clean myself and get some rest", he answered.

"Show some respect to your elders, boy!" a firm voice sounded behind him and both men looked up. The cane which the old man used to hold himself up hit Altair at the back of his head. He lifted his hands in a protective manner and cursed quietly as he rubbed the spot where the cane had hit him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Malik grinning.

"Safety and Peace", he greeted finally and Altair mumbled his greetings back. "Malik, be a good boy and look on the roof if any news have arrived", he told him turning around before he vanished inside the shadows of the bureau . "You can wash yourself and eat something if you wish, Altair. After that I want to hear from you what you could find out", Altair heard his voice coming from the inside and Malik had already climbed more than the half of the wall behind him and as Altair turned around he could only see his feet being dragged over the edge of the roof.

He pulled down his trousers and walked to the water fountain to wash himself like Malik had earlier. Before he was done, Malik jumped down from the roof, three pells in his hand. Without paying him any attention he walked through the door inside the bureau. Altair could hear their voices, but couldn't make out the words. When he felt clean and alive again he pulled on his clothes without bothering to dry himself first, sat down and took some from the fruits inside the basket that stood next to the many pillows that littered the ground. As he felt sated he rose and went inside. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dim light but he recognized Malik standing at the counter hunched over a map and the old rafiq, which leaned heavy on his cane, with his back turned to Altair studying the books standing in the shelf behind the counter.

"Altair", he said without turning around.

Altair begun to speak without waiting for permission: "I could observe the target's habits for the last couple of weeks. He's the owner of the quarry near Solomon's Temple. Every evening at sunset he's sitting in his garden and drinks some tea. At the same time his private guards are switching their shifts. I could hear two of his servants talking. A couple of weeks ago he had a visitor. He was from France, at least that's what the servants said. He gave a letter to him. He never let the document out of sight ever since and wears it with him every day. .I believe his visitor could have been one of the Templar that had been seen in Jerusalem the last couple of months just like Master had said. I will go tomorrow at sunset to deal with the matters and interrogate the quarryman. He will be dead by the night."

During his flood of words the rafiq had turned and nodded approving. A smile played around his wrinkled lips which laid hidden between his long grey beard.

"I see Al Mualim did good work. It wasn't a waste to appoint you an assassin", he answered him. "If you're ready I will give you your feather. But for the night you're free of your duties."

Altair nodded barely. While he had been speaking Malik had left the bureau. For the first time in weeks, no, months, Altair had enough spare time and since Malik told him that he was waiting for further instructions he hoped that it would be possible for him to spend some time with his old friend. In the last two years, that's how long it had been since Al Mualim took Altair as his novice, he could count the weeks with one hand in which he had seen Malik and even then he was too busy with training, learning and doing chores – Malik was no different. The times in which they had trained side by side and shared a friendship ended the day Malik had ridden away without looking back.

He stepped outside and the heat of the past day hit him. Indeed Malik was sitting inside the court cleaning his weapons. He looked up as he heard Altair coming and stopped for a moment, before he continued.

"Word of your master?", he finally asked him and let himself down to the ground next to Malik. He let his elbows rest upon his knees, his hands dangling between them his fingers loosely entwined.

"No", came the reply and he lifted his sword proving and closed one eye to see over the blade. Minutes passed where Altair sat silently and Malik continued cleaning his weapons neatly. Finally he couldn't stand it any longer and he wondered why, because in the past he and Malik could spent hours without talking to each other and none of them felt uncomfortable. But now it was different. "How long has it been since the last time we saw each other?" he asked. Malik finished the cleaning of his blade, sheathed his sword and put the dirty clothe to the side. Only then did he answer:

"Shortly before your trial. Four months ago."

Altair nodded and put his lower lip between his fingers. "I thought it had been longer." He lifted his hand and rubbed his neck uncomfortably. "Malik, back then when we were younger. When the thunderstorm happened..."

"Stop. Don't." Malik's voice was icy and he gazed the opposite wall. "You swore."

"But I-"

"Not one more word! Do you hear me?" Malik stood up suddenly and glared at him with dangerous eyes. "You swore...", he repeated and his voice was merely a whisper. His eyes starred into nothingness and he cleared his throat after a while. "After all these years – why?" And he looked at him, not the whisper of a look, no, a full stare.

Altair suddenly saw all the fine changes of Malik as his glance roamed over the older man's body. His arms had more muscles and his hands were covered with calluses. He hair was still cut very short just like all the other novices did. On his chin he wore a small goatee now and the hair was as black as the ones on his head. His shoulders were broader and around his eyes were wrinkles despite his young age. The fighting and training had had him aged. His nails were bitten short and the flesh around them was infected. There was a fine scar on his throat just above his Adam's Apple, a scar he had never noticed before. Malik seemed so foreign to him at the moment.

"Malik", he said finally and his voice sounded heavy, "it has been three months since I had my trial and was accepted as an assassin into the Order. I can't and I won't tell you any details as I swore I wouldn't. But when I used the blade for the first time and lost my finger I thought I would pass out from the pain, but I remembered the time when we were children. Do you remember the winter when I was twelve?"

Malik stood above him, his arms crossed in front of his chest, but when Altair asked him the question he slowly let them drop.

"You had run over the frozen river. But the ice wasn't thick enough to hold you and it broke."

Altair nodded. "You had pulled me out. Had laid down on your stomach and took my hand." He looked Malik directly into the eyes before he rose slowly. "You ripped the wet clothes off of me and gave me yours. But I had been too long in the water and the air was too cold. I remember that I was very tired. I was angry because you kept screaming at me and all I wanted to do was to sleep. Everything hurt so very much. My toes, my fingers, my face. You urged me on to the fortress." He stopped to take a deep breath. "When I lost my finger your words from back then echoed inside my head over and over. They urged me and let me continue."

He watched Malik swallow. "A new life begun for me when I received my blade." He pushed back his sleeve and showed him the hidden blade that laid beneath leather. He laughed bitterly. "When I think about it, then you might be right after all when you said the beggar was wise. Indeed I am a fool if I believed that my old life still holds a place in my new one."

Altair turned around and he grabbed the edges of the wall. He climbed it quickly without giving Malik a chance to react to his words. He felt his eyes upon his back when he stood near the opening of the bureau, but the man didn't stop him. Altair didn't waste any time and started to run.

He leapt over roofs with high speed. He passed archers and heard shouting but it faded quickly as he jumped over urban canyons. Before the guards could do anything he was already gone. His breath burnt inside his lungs as he saw the church tower in front of him. He quickly climbed it. He granted himself some rest on a wooden bar when he finally reached it's spire . His chest rose and fell quickly and he leaned with his back against the roof. He didn't know why he had run, but suddenly it had felt impossible to stand Malik's gaze any longer. The closeness to the other man had taken away the air to breathe and he had run away like a coward. He laughed scornfully and wiped his sweaty face with one hand. In the past weeks he had often thought about Malik. Never before in the past years had the image of the man haunted his dreams so often. But what he had said was the truth. He couldn't find the right words in front of Malik and he wasn't sure if he got the message. He hopped so even though he could slap himself for it. If Master could see him now, he would be disappointed and Altair hoped dearly that the rafiq hadn't listened to their conversation.

His gaze lingered upon the horizon and he watched as the night took over the day and let himself float in his thoughts without paying any attention to his surroundings.

"You've always been faster than me. That will never change, Altair."

Altair flinched and he had almost, only almost, lost his balance. He turned around and saw Malik climbing the church tower behind him.

"An unfocused assassin is a dead assassin. Didn't they tell you that, novice?"

A smile stood upon his face, a full sincere smile Altair hadn't seen in years. When Malik came closer Altair swung his right leg over the right side of the bar and did the same with his left. Malik moved one hand over the other on the stony surface until he could pull himself over the panel as well. He mirrored Altair's sitting position, his back turned to the chasm behind him as Altair still leaned with his back against the church's roof. Both men faced each other and Malik's right leg swung nervously fore and back, his hands between his thighs his arms outstretched.

He sighed finally as an eagle flew above their heads and let a high-pitched scream loose.

"Altair... do you still remember how we pictured our lives when we were younger? You and I against the evil of the world. There shouldn't be any country where they didn't fear our names. No one should do injustice without fearing to die by our blades. Women and glory should lay to our feet, feasts should be celebrated in our honor. And now? Four weeks ago I had to jump into a manure pit while I was chased by guards. Get rid of that stupid grin, it wasn't as funny as it sounded. I almost died. It took me days to get rid of the smell. I slept between goats and their filth. Days go by where I don't eat because I don't have the money to pay for it."

He smiled sadly and Altair realized that he didn't miss the years as an novice not even slightly, because unlike as an assassin novices weren't allowed to have any possessions including money. All too often he himself had to sleep in the open, wherever it was raining or snowing. There was one time when he had traveled for a couple of weeks and it had rained for days. The rain had caused a river to burst it banks. Normally the water was only as high as his waist but with the rain of the last days it was too high for him to pass it safely. To turn around would have cost him weeks. He had waited for days until the water fell, his supplies were long gone and he was forced to kill and slaughter his horse so he wouldn't starve. No, he didn't miss those times and he felt with Malik.

"So you see", Malik said finally and the smile upon his lips died, "reality is different. And you're right when you say that you gained a new life. I have too. We both have. For the friend you are to me, let me give you some advice: live here and now and don't look back. Let the past go or it will hold on to you forever. We are assassins and we can't show any weakness because it could mean our deaths. I shouldn't have been able to sneak up on you like I had. You were lost in your thoughts, not focused." He stopped for a moment and starred at his hands. "You are my brother, Altair. And yes, time changes. But you will always be my friend, my brother. No more, no less."

Altair's glance fell on Malik's mouth and he watched how the tip of his tongue darted out to wet his lips and suddenly his throat went very dry. He knew that Malik was right, that it were Malik who taught him once more an important lesson. Malik's hand hit him playfully on his thigh and stopped the tracks of his thoughts that started to build inside of his head.

"Come on then", he said after a while. "A race for the old times sake." And he got up and stood on the panel in front of Altair, only his toes touching it while his heels hovered in air. Malik grinned at him and spread his arms. "Go", he said softly and let himself fall.

Altair starred at the spot where Malik had stood for a few seconds before he leapt and as he fell, this time it wasn't the wind that brought tears to his eyes.

"Will you spend the night at the bureau?", Malik asked him and stuffed one of the dates in his mouth while he propped himself up on his elbows on one of the bigger pillows.

Altair mustered him and took a fig. "Where else?" he asked him with his mouth full and crossed his legs underneath him naked toes wiggling.

Malik hid his mouth behind the hand in which he held another date. "How old are you now? Eighteen. Most men in that age prefer to spend the night with a woman in their arms."

Altair almost choked and he starred to the side as he felt the heat rise to his cheeks. For a moment nothing happened, Malik continued eating starring at him before his eyes went wide. His jaw fell and when he passed the first shock he started laughing.

"No!", he forced out between chuckles and let the dates fall. "You're kidding, right?" He leaned over so his face was only inches away from Altair's. He starred at him with amusement in his eyes. "You're still-"

"Be still already", Altair swiped at him and his head snapped around to throw an angry glare at Malik. His cheeks were very visibly red. His fingers fumbled with the hem of his clothes. "It's not any of your business", he growled and took another fig. Malik leaned back and nodded silently and Altair sighed heavily in relief for Malik would let go of the topic as fast as it had come up. Altair pushed the plate with the fruits away and let himself fall on his back in the pillows his hands crossed behind his head and starred at the night sky. An uncomfortable silence fell over them.

"So you have never shared a bed with a woman?" Malik's voice cut through the stillness and Altair felt how all the muscles in his body tensed. He ground his teeth and closed his eyes. He would just ignore Malik – that sounded like a good plan and sooner or later his friend would get tired of the topic. Unfortunately Malik thought very differently and didn't have in the slightest interest to speak about something different and didn't notice how tense Altair was or just chose to ignore it – maybe he really wanted to talk about sex, maybe he just enjoyed tormenting Altair with his virginity.

"Why? Has the master never taught you about anatomy or the function of the body?"

Altair shut his eyes tightly. If he would just think about it hard enough, maybe he would wake up in his chamber back at Masyaf. He could almost hear Malik's thoughts before he even spoke them.

"Ah, maybe it's that! You're not able to perform, is it? Maybe you should go see a doctor about that, I heard there are ways to-"

But he couldn't fight it any longer before his anger overthrew him. "Why are you still talking?", he hissed at him angrily and turned to his side facing the wall. "I don't have any interest in it, that's all." He pushed his hand under his chin and pulled his legs to his chest. But if there was something Altair didn't miss about his childhood then it was Malik and how he held on to a topic like a mosquito would attach itself to ones skin and wouldn't let go.

"No interest?", he snarled. "When I was seventeen my master sent me to a brothel because I kept focusing on women and not on my target as I was supposed to. There was this one woman with the biggest-" And finally embarrassment showed in his voice and he stopped mid-sentence. Altair felt his gaze on his back.

"Don't tell me you never ever had the desire to bury your face in a woman's bosom to feel her soft skin."

"No...", Altair murmured and it sounded as helpless as the mew of a newborn kitten. Malik laughed and it sounded like the barking of a dog.

"No interest – how do you find relief then? Maybe you should try it, there are brothels here, go there find a woman and maybe-"

"I'm not interested in women, Malik!" It forced itself out before he knew it was coming and he shot up to a sitting position. His shoulders trembled, his breathing came erratic and his eyes were wide open. He didn't just say that, did he? Within a few seconds Altair knew, just knew all to well, that Malik was thinking about the same memory he was– when he was sixteen and Malik eighteen. He didn't want it but he had just shared a secret that no one should ever know because it couldn't just end with him forced out of the Order but with him stoned to death. He didn't dare to turn around, didn't dare to meet the look of the other man.

"After all these years? Still?", Malik finally asked and his voice sounded as soft as a blanket that wrapped itself around Altair's body but the coldness that crept up inside his heart had laid iteself above him like a shadow. He shook uncontrollably.

"You had said-" Altair stopped as his voice failed and he wet his lips. "You had let me swear to tell no one about it. I haven't. Then be so kind and do the same."

And Altair let himself fall back on the pillows and he found a restless sleep.

On the next morning when the sun baked his face Altair woke up and Malik had been long gone. It was in the middle of the night when a carrier pigeon came and brought the instructions of his master for his new assignment and he set off right away. Altair had the whole day to pass and had set off near sunset to interrogate and eliminate his target – successfully. Only that his success brought more questions than answers with it and on the next morning he had departed to return to Al Mualim to bring him the news personally.

Six months later, Altair was in Acre, he heard that Malik had succeeded at his trail to become an assassin.

Two years passed before he saw Malik again and Altair had spent the last year in France, sent by Al Mualim who wished for him to gather information about an artifact, something like a treasure, which the Templar were looking for, and his master had the suspicion that it wouldn't take them much longer to find it. Finally, at the age of twenty, he came back to Masyaf and had been promoted to Master-Assassin. It was the first time for a man that young of age to gain the title and he felt proud. And as much as he wished for Malik to be at his side in that moment, he hadn't been there.

A few weeks after his promotion it was in the middle of the night when he returned from a mission back to his chambers in Masyaf and when he opened his door, he saw a figure sitting on his bed. Within the blink of an eye his hands found the hilt of a throwing knife but before he could throw them, the figure started to speak.

"You're back." It was Malik and his voice was quiet. Altair let his hands down and shut the door behind him. It was full moon and a cloudless night and the silver light fell through his windows into his small chambers and put Malik's face in shadows.

"Obviously", Altair replied and leaned with his back at the door.

"Congratulations", said Malik and rose. He stood still in front of the bed. "I've heard that you're a master now."

Altair starred at him through the darkness and the memories of their last meeting back in Jerusalem were so near that he almost thought it had been yesterday.

"The youngest master-assassin Masyaf has ever seen. You must be proud."

"Indeed." Altair took one step in front of him and found that the white robes of an assassin looked good on Malik. He pulled his fingerless gloves from every single digit. The stump, where one his ring-finger had been, had ceased to hurt a long time ago.

"Al Mualim spoke to me", Malik explained to him. "Kadar and I shall come with you to Jerusalem next week."

"That I've heard." Altair's voice sounded cold and he didn't know why a lump of ice had built inside his stomach. In the past two years he had missed Malik more than ever before and now, so suddenly, Malik stood in front of him and his face and voice showed no emotion. Maybe, so he thought, because in the meantime he had watched so many of his brothers die. Altair had let go of the people who were dear to him with every single death he had witnessed, . He had left the past behind him, but he had also forgot about it. Maybe, just maybe, he had put Malik's advice into practice too good – more than he had intended to. Altair had cut right through the strings that had them connected within their friendship. He could see vaguely how Malik smiled.

"Kadar is excited. I told him that it's an honor to fight by your side."

Altair scoffed and his hands closed and opened rhythmically. "Of course it is", was his reply and his voice was full of arrogance.

Malik took one step nearer to him and stopped at arm's length in front of him. "Altair, may I ask you a question?"

Altair nodded barely.

"Is this the life you had hoped for? At least you earned the glory we both wished for when we were children."

Altair lifted his head and glared at him. Malik's question pulled him right back into the past and he was angry, because in the last two years he had tried so hard to get rid of it, to forget everything that had happened and just look forward. Why did Malik do this to him for he knew how hard it had been for him? "Wishes and hopes don't have a place in my life anymore, Malik, therefore it doesn't matter if my hopes are fulfilled or not."

Malik starred at his feet as he heard Altair's words. "You have changed, my friend", he told him quietly and didn't dare to look at Altair. "I just hope our friendship hasn't."

Altair glared at him. "Hope will be your downfall. Don't be a fool."

Malik took a silent breath and took a step around Altair, his hand upon the door-handle, but he didn't push it down just yet. "I can see the sacrifices you've made to become a master, Altair. Unfortunately it seems that I am among them."

And before he could push down the handle Altair grasped his arms
and threw him onto the bed. With his back against the mattress Malik kept still as he starred in shock at Altair, who pushed one of his knees next to his hip and hovered above him. "Don't put false words into my mouth, Malik. Weren't you the one who told me to live in the Here and Now? Well, I did nothing but that and in my last year in France I finally understood that the people I hold dear are nothing more than moments who fly by and shatter as easily as glass." His breath came erratic and brushed over Malik's face.

"Tell me", Malik started and looked up at him, "do you regret those moments." His last words, not a question but a statement. And Altair felt such hate at that moment that he thought he was burned alive.

"The only thing I regret is what I had swore to you three years ago."

Within the next few seconds after he had spoken the words that had ate at him for years, Altair saw that Malik understood. Back then when he was sixteen and Malik had been eighteen and had just come back after almost two years, they had crept their way out of the fortress. Altair could almost see the images of those moments play behind Malik's eyes.

"I missed you", he had said and was surprised at the words. He never would had thought he was capable to show such weakness. He'd never felt stronger. Malik had been sitting next to him, his head tilted back to watch the stars.

"Yeah... me too", he had said after a while and Altair almost didn't dare to look at him as he had turned around to face him.

"Have you killed someone yet?" For a moment Altair had heard how Malik's breath stopped his face an emotionless mask. His fingers had pulled out the grass underneath him while he waited for the older boy to find the right words to give him an answer. The crickets had chirped and a gust of wind tousled Altair's hair. He had waited.

"I have."

The words had been a whisper just the breath of a long fainted memory.

On an open field they had been surprised by a thunderstorm and together they had run through rain to a small stable to seek shelter. Out of breath and soaked to the bones they had laid next to each other while the goats behind them were bleating in surprise. His hands had been laying on his stomach as he had waited for his breath to settle. It had been dark as he heard the raindrops fell on the roof. Straw was tickling him as he had heard Malik lying next to him breathing fast and he had turned on his side. With every second his eyesight got better and soon he saw the outlines of Malik sprawled on the floor next to him. The first thunderbolts had been tearing through the sky and illuminated the night. With every flash Altair had watched to droplets of rain falling from Malik's hair running down his throat. He had felt the heat starting in his cheeks traveling further down his body to collect in his lower stomach.

It had been the same heat he had felt whenever he had watched the men practicing with their swords inside the training's circle. When their chests had been bare, sweat running down their stomachs Altair had had a... hard time to cover his embarrassment. He remembered when he had been fifteen, and Al Mualim had taught him how a man was able to bless a woman with a baby. He had asked him if it were also possible for two men to seek each other's affinity. He had been told that it was a sin, blasphemy and would be punished with death. He had asked himself for a long time what were wrong with him. Why he had such thoughts when he had laid in his bed at night his mind traveling to regions that were forbidden. It was then that Altair had remembered the Creed.

Nothing is true.

Everything is permitted.

He couldn't hold back any longer. He had kissed the other boy as he had propped himself on his elbows and leaned over. It had been innocent, really, just a brush of lips against lips. Malik had been surprised and pushed him back, out of breath, but Altair had seen the blush on his face. For a few seconds nothing had happened, but when the first thunder rolled above their heads through the night, Malik had took him by the shoulders and pushed him into the straw and his lips had found his. It was a kiss, a full-blown kiss with tongue and teeth. His jaw had been forced open when Malik had hold his face between his hands, his thumb pressing down. Within seconds Altair had lost the control and their hands roamed over each others bodies. It had almost looked like a fight when they stripped themselves of their shirts and Malik had cursed under his breath while Altair wasn't able to form any words. They had been laying next to each other with bare chests. One of Malik's legs was draped over Altair's while he was hovering above him. His hands had loosened his trousers, his fingers eager to disappear into them.

Malik's tongue and teeth had found the juncture of Altair's neck where it joined his shoulder and he knew that this wasn't the first time Malik had done something like that. Jealousy tore through his body like the thunderbolts in the sky as Altair asked himself who it had been Malik had shared this with.

But when the boy's fingers wrapped themselves around his flesh and a thumb was brushing gently, he had to close his eyes and all of his thoughts were gone as lust threatened to burn him alive. A low moan escaped his lips and his hips had arched into Malik's hands. The other boy had been chuckling lowly and Altair could had come right then and there. His hands twisted the straw underneath him as he threw his head back. He didn't know how he could fight what Malik were doing to him. He had wanted it to last forever but after all he was just a boy, only sixteen years old and inexperienced. A firm knot had started to built inside his stomach, the tips of his fingers and his toes started to tingle and Altair had felt like as if he was pulled inside his body before a great force pushed him out again and his very soul exploded in a white light.

His flesh went slowly limp inside Malik's hand while he was starring at him. He had laid there, gasping and feeling the wet on his stomach. It took him a while as he was still overcome with the strength of his orgasm, but when he had moved again and looked down at his body he saw and felt Malik's arousal pressing against his thigh. With trembling fingers he had touched the boy's trousers and opened them slowly as he had looked Malik in the eye. For the first time in his life Altair had touched another man. Not just a man but his best friend. The excitement he felt was almost too much to bare. His breath hitched. He had licked his lips as they had went dry and Malik used the opportunity to give him another kiss. This time though it had been more gentle, a slowly but intense kiss that grew with every second. He hadn't dare to look down as he had started to stroke Malik and he had felt awkward when he had hold him inside his hand. After all this had been very new to him but Altair was certain when this was over he wanted to do it over and over again. With Malik.

It took Malik longer than Altair to achieve his climax and Altair thought it was because he had been far more experienced than him. It had made him feel a little embarrassed. But at least it didn't took a thought or dream anymore for him to come without touching himself at all. Malik's breath had brushed his face and he had heard the soft moans and groans right next to his ear. Somehow it had made him feel proud that it was him, Altair, who could bring Malik to make such sounds. It was then that he had decided to hear those sounds again. That he wanted to kiss Malik again. That maybe next time they could do more – but for now this was enough.

When Malik had come and Altair had felt his semen covering his hand, the other boy had rolled off of him and laid on his back, panting while one of his arms covered his eyes. The thunderstorm had moved on and for a moment the only thing they could hear were their erratic breaths and the chirping of the crickets outside. The goats moved behind them, chewing and bleating. Reality had come slowly back to Altair with every breath he took.

His body felt loose and relaxed and the heat that had rushed through his body went slowly away. Instead it had been replaced with something else, something dark and cold. It was called remorse. What they had done were wrong and even though Altair didn't thought that something that had felt that wonderful could be bad, he knew that in the eyes of all the others he and Malik were godless sinners. It could mean his death. He could die for what they had done. He would never become an assassin, he wouldn't die in battle. No. They would stone him to death like if he was nothing more than an animal.

But – it had felt wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. And wasn't it the creed that told him nothing was true? Everything was permitted? Those few minutes he had laid next to Malik, panting and satisfied he had felt at peace. For the first time in his life he had felt at peace and close to the world, unique, complete and free, alive. When he had laid in Malik's arms time had stood still and the only thing he had felt was his heart beating wildly inside his chest. One moment of absolute bliss. He had been one, one with the world and everything that had troubled him was gone.

No. Something as beautiful as this couldn't be bad, couldn't be a sin. Not this. Not love.

In the end it had been Altair who spoke first. "Malik-" but he didn't came any further as he felt how Malik had grabbed his throat and wrapped his finger around it, but he didn't yet add pressure to his hold.

His face had been only inches away from that of Altair. "If you're thinking about to tell anyone about this then I will cut your throat, I swear! It was wrong Altair, a sin! We are both men,
we shouldn't have done that. Swear to me you won't speak about this ever again!" And Altair had starred at him with wide eyes, confused and hurt, but when Malik's fingers pressed down he forced the answer between his lips that should change everything.

"I swear! Malik, I can't breath, I swear! Do you hear me?" And Malik had let go of him, stood up and pulled on his shirt. He had just left.

Now in his chamber in Masyaf Altair saw anger flashing behind Malik's eyes where he laid beneath him on the bed. "It was a sin, Altair", he told him and repeated the word he had spoken to him four years ago. "And still, when you had confessed to me that you prefer men instead of women I hold onto our friendship in those years we spent apart. I've never judged you for your blasphemous choice and I've never told anyone."

The back of Altair's hand met Malik's cheek and the force of it throw his head to the side. Immediately Malik's eyes found those of Altair and he starred at him angrily, his face nothing but an ugly mask. "How dare you-"

"How dare you to lie at my face!", Altair scoffed and interrupted him. "You've never judged me because of our friendship or out of pity, but because you feel the same!" Altair's hands grabbed his wrists and pinned them to the mattress as Malik tried to get up. "Since that night in the stable you've treated me differently and made sure not to come near me and you were very successful with it; to be honest you were so successful that we've hardly see each other in years."

Malik's face went soft and he looked at Altair intense. "It was a mistake. I shouldn't have returned the affection like I did then. And I am sorry when I gave you false hopes, but even if I would feel the same as you, what would happened then? Would we have left the order to live in shame? Always hiding from the looks of the other, from the eyes of god? When you truly believe that then it was a mistake by Al Mualim to pronounce you an assassin, a master even, and then you're nothing more than a dumb farmer's boy."

Altair let go of one of his wrists and he lifted his hand and closed it to a fist and for half a second he thought about punching Malik in the face, over and over gain. But he didn't do anything and instead stay bent over the other man's face. His lower lip quivered and he felt the rush he felt before he performed the final blow upon one of his targets. But this man underneath him wasn't one of his targets, but the man that was his best friend during childhood and he hated himself for that.

"You can't blame me all alone, Altair. You've tried to run away from this as well."

Altair listened attentively and with trembling fingers he lowered his fist. "Was that – a confession?"

But Malik snorted at the question. "So arrogant, you only hear what you want to hear, Altair. No, it wasn't. Now let me go."

But Altair didn't let go, instead he just starred down at Malik and he suddenly understood. It laid in front of him, all he had to do was to outstretch his fingers and take it. "You are right", Altair said and his voice was merely a whisper, "I was on the run. But only because I couldn't accept the facts. I didn't understand it." He got up and took a step away from the bed, so that Malik could get up as well and he sat on the bed. He rubbed his wrists. "Do you remember, two years ago, the beggar I told you about? He had asked me if I was afraid and I told him 'no'. You knew it back then, Malik. It was a lie. I was afraid, a lot. I was afraid to die during a mission and regret my life. All those years I believed I would regret trying to forget our night together. No, I realize that it wasn't true. I do not fear anymore. I don't have anything to regret, you made very clear that there's nothing to do so." He turned away from Malik. "I just hope that one day we're both free. Maybe not with a look. Maybe not with words. But with our mind." It was silent for a very long time and the minutes passed. At some point Altair heard the rustling of fabric and Malik's steps behind him. He didn't see it when Malik pushed down the handle of his door, only heard it closing behind the man and Altair finally let loose the tears that had backed up behind the lump in his throat while he had lied to Malik.

One week later Altair, Kadar and Malik had departed for their way to Jerusalem. Altair had hide any little bit of emotion behind a mask of pride and arrogance. Only when Robert de Sable had thrown him through the wall underneath Solomon's Temple and he had heard the screams of Kadar and Malik, he finally saw his mistakes and he knew that he could never do enough atone for his sins, or rid himself of the guilt that laid heavy on his shoulders.

He had ridden back to Masyaf and had told Al Mualim about his failure. When Malik had suddenly appeared behind him his eyes full of hate as they starred at Altair, there was nothing left to feel. Neither pride nor regret or guilt. Everything that was left was emptiness that threatened to swallow him. He had followed his masters orders just like in trance and he didn't feel joy as he had put the Templar to flight to safe Masyaf. While Al Mualim had stood in front of him two assassins to each side of Altair having a hold of him, all he could think about was how he could suppress the tears and Altair, the arrogant, stoic Master-Assassin, came back in all its glory to hide his true feelings.

The knife hit him unexpected. To his surprise he didn't feel the pain. A figure caught his eye and he looked up to see Malik standing in one of the windows of the fortress, watching him. It was the last he saw as his surroundings suddenly fell into ruin like a shattered sheet of glass. The colors turned into black and white and the shapes of Al Mualim in front of him and of the two guards to his sides vanished. Suddenly he found himself in an empty white room. For a brief seconds he thought it was what death felt like but then he could hear a woman's voice from far away.

"His heart's rate is critical! We have to get him out of that, now!"

Everything went black and suddenly there were hands all over his body, pulling and shaking him.

"Clay?! Clay, can you hear me?"

It was the voice of the woman and Altair opened his eyes. He starred at her face hovering above him, he blonde hair framing it.

"Clay, please, say something, anything." She kept talking to him and he knew it was English, but it just didn't made any sense. Nothing made any sense anymore.

"Let go of me", he shouted at her and pulled away from the hands. For the first time he spotted his surroundings, a white room and next to him stood a man, wearing white clothes. He was laying on a strange table and he saw things he couldn't believe. "What is this sorcery?", he demanded to know and rose to a sitting position. He looked down his body, but his white assassin's robes were gone. He wore strange clothes made from material he had never seen before. He caught his breath when his glance got to his hands. He had ten fingers.

"Clay, I don't speak Arabic. You have to speak English with me." He could hear the worry in hear voice.

Clay?

What a strange name but at the same time he felt something inside him move as he repeated the foreign word inside his head. He stood up hastily and his legs almost gave away, he had to hold onto the table to not fall.

"Maybe you should lay down. You've spent a long time in the Animus. Come on, I help you."

He understood her words although she had an odd accent but they didn't make any sense. He felt like as if he was inside a dream and could only watch. He felt a hand on his arm and for the blink of an eye a movie started to play inside his head and showed him the life of a child that grew from a boy to a man and he saw and heard things, foreign things, which he didn't know and didn't have words for. Everything happened so fast. But his legs started to move by their own as he was lead into another room with a bed inside.

"Get some rest", the woman told him in a kind voice as he suddenly knew that her name was Lucy. How he knew her name he couldn't tell. He let her help him into the bed and as she pulled a blanket over his body he saw how the man from before also entered the room holding a strange looking device with a long thin needle at one end in his hands

"He will sleep better with this", he heard him say and watched helpless how he bent down and exposed his right arm. He saw but couldn't feel how the needle disappeared beneath his skin. Seconds later he felt his lids grow heavy, his eyes closed on their own and he was pulled into a dreamless sleep while his last thoughts went to Malik.

He regretted it.

"Clay has killed himself."

"I know. That bounces us back with our progress, but we could gather a lot of information's through him."

"We left him too long in the Animus, Dr. Vidic. I believe he thought he was Altair. He had spoken Arabic, damn it! It was the fucking Bleeding Effect!"

"Ms. Stillmann, when your emotions are getting in the way of your work I begin to wonder if you're the right person for this kind of job after all."

"N-No, Sir. No... It's just that-"

"Good. Subject seventeen has already arrived. I would say we begin with the memories where we left off with subject sixteen. I suggest we should skip those, well, emotional moments and focusing on those who are important to us in the future."

"You've already found a new ancestor?"

"Indeed. His name is Desmond Miles."

Wow, anon, you've read my head-cannon. I always thought that Connor would be multilingual since America is a diverse population, and he would be the one gathering information even if it was spoken / written in different languages. Wouldn't be surprised if he also picked up Spanish or Italian, since Achilles mentioned that with his fairer skin he could pass off as either one (nevermind the Native Clothes he was wearing) before the Boston Massacre that Haytham and Lee had started.

Moving on. Almost feel for Charles who has nothing but one-sided relationships between father and son. And of course poor Connor - not sure if he feels the pain from the violation, with his mind so far gone - but taken advantage of in his helpless state /pets Connor/

BTW Had some questions about the Omegaverse and current timeline:

1. Since Charles and Connor are now mates, does Connor still see Charles as red when switching to Eagle Vision? Probably not blue, maybe gold or white?

2. Does Church still betray the Templars even after Charles becomes the Commander and Chief?

i love you, anon. this prompt feels so right in my code that ill write it uvu

OP- if your filling this I will wait patiently for you to feel better.

Outwardly, Connor tries to sit still and to keep his face neutral; but on the inside he is an anxious mess. Tea that a maid had served (at exactly four-thirty) does help with his nerves. At first the steaming cup of Earl Grey is too bitter for his tastes. So he adds milk and honey to sweeten the tea up as much as he can, before draining it. The liquid warms his body going down, and ceases his trembling. A small, quiet, sigh of contentment escapes his lips. However, when Connor sets the empty cup back down on its saucer, he tenses up again as those hawk-like blue watch him from the other side of the desk. His husband regarded him silently, over the rim of his own cup, taking only a sip before speaking.

"Have you ever performed fellatio on another man?"

The question was asked so casually, that it takes a long moment for Connor to register it in his mind, before he sputters angrily with a rosy blush staining his cheeks. "Of course not! What sort of question is that?!"

"An educational one," Charles responded quite seriously. "I need to know how much experience you have in regards to giving and receiving pleasure. It seems you are painfully lacking. As your Alpha, I will need to instruct you."

Connor frowned, his golden-brown gaze narrowing.

"No."

Charles blinked, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"No?"

His mortal enemy actually looked stunned by the rejection, and the Assassin felt a little bolder as he lifted his chin up in defiance. Being the child of two Alphas, he had always been a willful Omega. So stubborn and bold, that many believed Connor to be an Alpha himself (not that he ever corrected them). After all not many Omegas were known to question authority, start revolutions, captain ships, or charge into battle and assassinate enemy commanders in front of their platoons.

The only time Connor actually remembers letting his guard down in public was whenever he was with Washington. Perhaps it was when Sam Adams had introduced them, that he actually acted the part of a subservient Omega, completely forgetting his ire for Lee who had also been in the same room at that time. The Commander had never asked him; but Connor was certain he had known by the way Connor was ready to follow him and carry out orders without hesitation. Of course the Templars had taken notice of their interactions. Still, he would stand his ground and let Charles know that he wasn't going to be the malleable mate the power-hungry Templar had hoped for.

"You wanted only a child from me," Connor reminded while folding his arms across his chest. "There is no reason why I need to be the one to satisfy your other fetishes. You can visit a pleasure house in the city for that, or find another Omega."

Charles' expression darkened considerably, and Connor could not help but inwardly panic. He struggled to keep his gaze steady, wondering if he had spoke too rashly. It was difficult to be civil with the man who held the lives of his loved ones in the palm of his hand.

"Perhaps you're right," his husband finally spoke after a long moment, his tone harsh and menacing. "I should find another Omega; but one to make an example out of."

He swallowed hard, watching the General rise from his seat. "And I happen to know of one in particular," Charles mused as he began to pace. "That other Omega you recruited into your pack, the one who survived with those two Alphas. What was that boy's name... Clipper? Perhaps I should give him to one of my men to tame, so that I can show you how a true Omega is supposed to behave."

The warmth from the tea he had consumed earlier was long gone, and Connor felt as if his blood had turned to ice. In his mind he vividly remembered the young man - the same age as he - who had sought him out among the crowds of Boston, pleading for his assistance to stop the British recruiters from forcing men (mostly young boys) into a war they wanted no part of. After working together to stop the Templar recruiter in command, he knew Clipper Wilkinson was a kindred spirit. A fellow Omega, a brother-in-arms who wanted peace through freedom and independence. When he asked, the youth eagerly joined the Assassins without hesitation. He enthusiastically soaked up the lessons Connor had taught in both combat and philosophy; utilizing them well in his missions. Although impressed, he had asked why the novice pushed himself so hard, and Clipper surprised him with his answer:

'I want to fight with you someday, sir.'

Connor had been stunned, honored even, that the other young man thought so highly of him and wanted to follow in his footsteps; now he would... into hell.

"Please," he begged quietly while glancing up at Charles. "Please don't..."

His tormentor's lips quirked in amusement, reaching out and to undo the cravat around his throat. Cold fingers pressed against the bite scar, and Connor flinched, but understood the message. He slowly pushed himself out of the chair, kneeling before his Alpha in submission.

A/N: Sorry no smut, had to add this bit of emotional blackmail in.

Useful slenderblogs/vlogs to look at, most important to least in terms of this fic: Marble Hornets, Tutorial, Tribe Twelve, EverymanHYBRID, Can You See The Words, Whispering Faith (which is a rakeblog but pretty good ok)

He waited for Charles' footsteps to reach the floor below before quietly leaving the bedroom. He was not so naive to believe he could just trust the word of assassins. Charles might well have turned against the order- he'd need to use his second sight to make sure.

He crept into the room across the hall- it was another bedroom, with suspiciously new furniture and piles of rugs and blankets on the floor. Presumably, this was where the other members of the Brotherhood were staying. On the far side of the room lay a second door, and if Haytham's memory served him correctly, then there was a small storage room beyond that door, with a staircase leading up to the attic. There would probably be nothing of use up there, but he would certainly investigate later.

He closed the door, and moved on. The doors beyond the stairs were a small library and a large bedroom. He squinted at some of the decorations on the walls. Was that Mohawk handiwork, or another tribe? He didn't know. Presumably, this was his son's room. A son he hadn't even known he'd had.

He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in the scent of the room. Clean, with notes of something earthy and of herbal concoctions, just like Ziio. He stepped away from the room with difficulty, closing the door.

Charles still hadn't come back upstairs. Nine minutes was ample time for a brief explanation, wasn't it? Had there been a complication? He didn't particularly want to go to the cellar room that had been the hub of the headquarters last time he'd been here. It would probably spell certain death.

Haytham resisted the urge to curse rather loudly, and made his way to the room that had been the study the last time he had been here. Luckily for him, the same desk stood in the room, though the shelves and surfaces were more cluttered. Books and papers were scattered everywhere, ink pictures and diagrams pinned to the walls.

Haytham glanced at them- trees, rivers, cities, rain… All were dark and messy, and as he gazed at them longer, he saw a connection. Each sketch had a hastily-scrawled figure, man-shaped but impossibly tall. In some pictures he was cloaked, in others he wore a hat. In each picture he was clothed in black, and in every single one the detail did not extend to the face, which had been left blank.

A cold chill ran down his spine, and he moved on, quickly.

The books all seemed to be fables and fairy tales, most of them in German, Polish and one of the Cyrillic languages. Haytham could not make heads or tails of the stories, but they all seemed to be about forests, if the pictures were anything to go by.

He sighed. So the Brotherhood were obsessed with folk tales? What of the enemy Charles had spoken about? This alliance was obviously a waste of time.

There had to be a clue as to what was happening somewhere.

Haytham gritted his teeth, and spun around, to search a different room. At that moment, however, he heard loud footsteps in the hall, and Charles' voice.

"I'll be surprised if Haytham hasn't already wandered off," Charles muttered, and Haytham stepped back slightly, until his back touched a bookshelf. He leant forward until he could see the hall, and in his second sight Charles still glowed blue, though the glow was far brighter than he ever remembered. Still, blue was blue. The hooded man behind him was red, but it was a pale sort of red, very nearly pink, really. So the news of the alliance might well be true- last time he had looked upon an assassin with his second sight, they had been a bloody, dark red.

They went upstairs, and Haytham smirked when he heard Charles curse. He oughtn't've taken so long with explaining things to the Brotherhood, if indeed that was all he had been doing.

Haytham hastily folded his arms behind his back and leant over the desk, as though inspecting the nonsense scattered about. Footsteps thundered downstairs, and Charles' breathless voice called out in relief.

"There you are! Didn't I ask you to wait upstairs?"

Haytham turned his head slightly and smiled politely. He straightened his back, slowly.

"You know I have never been the sort of man to wait. Since you took so long, I decided to take the liberty of investigating matters for myself."

Charles understood the warning tone in his voice, and started (finally!) to explain.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, Haytham. It took longer than I thought to explain the situation, and to plan what to do next. You lost your memory while on a rather important mission, you see."

"Oh?" Haytham said. Charles looked uncomfortable and continued.

"It was reconnaissance. We had a target of the enemy, and you were watching it. Of course, before it attacked the victim, you attacked it, but it reacted to your pistol shot impossibly quickly. According to Connor-- that is, according to your son-- it reacted badly, and tried to strangle you to death. It was only when its victim was snatched away that it took its attention from you. Somehow, that incident wiped the past seventeen months or so from your memory."

Haytham frowned. Out of all the odd things in Charles' tale, one thing stood out as the most odd.

"It?"

Charles nodded, and gestured to the man who stood in the doorway behind him.

"Connor, I think it would be best if you took over at this point."

Everything stopped for a moment, in Haytham's eyes.

The man behind Lee was tall, perhaps half an inch taller than Haytham himself. He was clearly very strong, his hooded robes doing little to hide all that dense muscle. His skin, as expected, was lighter than Ziio's had been, though nobody would mistake him for a white man, not even a sun-kissed Spaniard. He wasn't sure exactly what he thought of this man, aside from that he was rather too old to be his son. After all, it had only been fifteen-- no, seventeen, damn amnesia-- years since he had last spent a night with Ziio. This man was clearly in his mid-twenties at youngest.

"I was expecting somebody younger," was all Haytham could manage. Charles rolled his eyes.

"I look old for my age," the man-- no, Connor, wasn't it?-- rumbled, his voice deep and smooth. "We have had this conversation before."

"Best not repeat it until later," Charles said. "We need to explain the enemy."

Connor nodded, and took his hood down. Haytham could now, if he concentrated, see something of himself in the man's face. A similar jaw, the set of the eyes, a little in the shape of the mouth and nose.

…Or he could see something of any other white European, the more cynical part of Haytham's mind hissed, and he ignored it. Now was not the time for such doubts.

"It is a story," Connor said, carefully enunciating each word. "Like the Pied Piper of Hamlein, it was originally told to scare children into behaving. The tall, faceless man in the rain and the forest. It is real."

Haytham blinked. Surely he couldn't've just heard what he…?

"I beg your pardon?" he asked.

"We do not know where it came from, or why it is here, but it is. The disappearances started a little over a year ago. All children, all after periods of disturbed behaviour. All found dead, with smiles on their faces and most of their internal organs gone."

"Are you being entirely serious?" Haytham demanded, when Connor paused. "This 'enemy' Charles was talking about is a shared delusion? A creature from a German storybook? It's more likely to be a serial killer, you fool."

Connor looked slightly annoyed.

"It is a monster. I have seen it, and so have you. You merely do not remember. If it were a man, we would not need an alliance."

Charles put a hand on Haytham's shoulder. He batted it away, annoyed.

"Tell me, exactly how stupid do you think I am? I am not the kind of idiot who buys into stories of monsters in the night."

"Need I remind you, Haytham, that you believe in the Ones Who Came Before?" Charles snapped.

"Well--" Haytham said, taken aback. "That's different, it's science, but--"

"But what? If this were some kind of elaborate scheme to deceive you, why would we use such a silly story? Surely we'd make up something more believable." Charles grabbed one of Haytham's wrists, and looked into his eyes, as if searching for something that was not there. "You're an intelligent man, Haytham. Probably the most intelligent I have ever met. Think about this for five bloody minutes, and then tell me I'm lying to you. Have I ever tried to deceive you like this before?"

Haytham was speechless for a moment. Admittedly, yes, Charles had some good points, but how on earth could he be expected to believe something so far-fetched? Fairy tales were fairy tales!

"If it's the same creature from folklore," Haytham said, raising the only objection he could think of at that moment in time. "Why did the killings only begin recently? Surely they'd be spread out, across time itself? Or at least there would be a history of such killings."

Charles took a step back, and released Haytham's wrist.

"Now you're starting to understand," Charles said, a relieved smile at the corner of his lips. "I'll fetch us some Scotch."

Supporting this idea, I want this so badly.

Church betrayed the Templars in original timeline for his own gain, so he would probably have betrayed the Templars here too and been taken out by Haytham.

I imagine that Connor stills sees Charles as red since, for all intents and purposes, Charles is still his enemy. He can't do anything about it, but the relationship is neither a willing nor wanted one on Connor's part and their goals are very, very different.

Glad it works with head-canon. :D I always thought that, given the amount of trading + relationships with the French, it'd make sense for Connor to know that language extremely well. And since one of the recruits is German, it also made sense that Connor was attempting to learn a bit of German.

Good idea about the Italian/Spanish. :)

Oh don't apologize. This was deliciously eeeevvvvviiiiiiilllllll.

Very nice use of emotional blackmail and expertly wielded. Oh Connor...we're really putting him through the ringer in these stories, aren't we?

btw, LOVE the detail you put in about both Haytham and Ziio being Alphas. Sooo true and, if omegaverse were IC, Ziio would totally be one! And it's an excellent explanation for why Connor is so...not-omega-like.

O.O

Lovely, lovely plot. OP is loving the almost detective-like storytelling at the beginning and Haytham's disbelief. Very good point about TWCB, though. If Haytham believes in them, why not Slenderman as well? :)

And oh, is Haytham one paranoid bastard. Charles betraying the Order? pish. It's such an amusing look into the Grandmaster's mind, and it shows just why he's the Grandmaster. That being said, can't wait for more Haytham and Connor interactions! OP finds Haytham's doubt incredibly amusing for some reason.

Yeah this day has been pretty awful for Connor, as Charles begins to de-claw him.

I'm not sure if it was mentioned in Shaun's archives, but I believe Ziio was intended to be the next clan mother of her people - which is probably why Silas had given Ziio her own escort (that Haytham ambushed), and I also love that Ziio sort of bossed Haytham around...

Ziio: FOLLOW
Haytham: O-Okay... please have my child

:p

Okay, Charles remaining red makes sense since eagle vision is based on the perceptions of the person using it.

The reason why I asked about Church, was because I was wondering if Charles would be the one who had team up with Haytham and maybe even Biddle to track the traitor down, giving Clipper and Connor some alone time.

So this is officially the first part of the end anons. I’m very glad that I had such wonderful comments from all of you and had fun filling this prompt. (And yes OP it seems that Haytham cannot ever thank Connor for saving his ass lol) There will be at least two more parts after this to wrap up anything and of course a bad ending.. Enjoy the update!

***

Connor nearly collapsed when Washington punched him in the same place he had ages ago. He stumbled lightly as Haytham charged past him to meet the tyrant in a clash of steel. His stomach threatened to empty any of its remaining contents as he panted heavily to catch his breath. He had no idea exactly how long this little sword fight was taking, but it felt like hours on his already weak body. His movements were becoming agonizingly slow, barely being able to lift his dagger in response to the sudden assault from Washington’s blade. Haytham almost let him get cut to ribbons before he leapt in front to defend him from the quick movements of the other man.

“Come on, Connor.” Haytham grunted as he pushed back the older man who growled lowly in anger. Connor barely had the energy to scowl at him let alone snap back at the man that he was trying his hardest. Haytham hadn’t been even come close to the deprivation his body suffered under Washington’s imprisonment. His father still possessed the same muscular advantage and long lasting endurance, yet he was letting Connor do most of the attacking. What was he thinking? Did he want them to lose? Was he waiting until Connor fell unconscious or managed to stumble off the cliff in a tired induced haze? Maybe waiting until Washington managed to slip the Apple out of his pouch and try to grab it in the split second before he used it? Whatever his father was planning to even attempt was incredibly risky and potentially dangerous. He wasn’t about to put the homestead in danger for his father’s sure to fail plan. Washington flashed him a malicious grin as he was slapped back once more after trying desperately to have his blade meet the thick, calloused skin of the former Commander’s arm.

“Easy there Connor. I don’t wish to hurt you any more than I have.” The tyrant purred with a lust filled glint making him shudder in disgust and the nausea that had disappeared return. There was now way he would let this man take him back to the imprisonment that he had suffered silently under for years. He would die before he let this man touch him again, this was the last night he’d ever have to worry about being abused in such a torturous way for the rest of his life.

Haytham seemed to act upon that too, lashing out for a moment with a quick flurry of his feet, slicing open the cloth on the former Commander’s chest before stepping back with a glare. He side-stepped the fury fueled swing of the sword from Washington who was no doubt infuriated by his now ruined King’s uniform. A small smirk spread across Haytham’s lips as he grabbed Washington’s arm and pulled him forward, stabbing the man in the shoulder. The man howled and leapt back, gripping his shoulder with his free hand as he focused his icy, blue gaze onto Haytham.

It felt nice for once to be out of the crazed man’s glare, if even for a moment.

Connor leapt forward with newly returned vigor--nothing compared to when he had began this fight, but enough to land another possible strike onto Washington--blindly stabbing until he felt his knife clang with the man’s sword. He heard what sounded like a chuckle come from the other man and he frowned lightly, mentally throwing every insult he knew at him. He wanted to land another hit on the man if anything before he possibly died from exhaustion or even Washington cutting him down accidentally. This would be his last stand, it was either him or Washington, he would kill him or die trying.

And that was final.

Haytham looked annoyed when he came to his defensive again making him wonder for a moment if Haytham had the same plan in mind and was irritated at the idea of Connor killing the tyrant instead. Letting out a sigh in response to the absurdity of the thought he shot forward, only to once again be caught in a sudden block. The sounds of cannons continued to roar in the distance, cracking of wood and screaming men made him flinch lightly. He hoped the Aquila and her crew were all right under the attack of Washington’s forces. Although the men had, had their fair of extremely skewered naval battles with odds highly in favor of the enemy they came out as the victors, hoping those battles served as practice for this one. He believed in Faulkner’s capabilities as captain for this fight, the man had always been from what he could tell an amazing first mate, but there was literally no telling what could happen in a situation such as this. At least the Apple was not playing apart in this.

Connor held back the sharp yelp of pain that had threatened to spill from his lips when a harsh blow was delivered to his gut with such pain-filled intensity his vision flashed white for a moment. His body screamed at him as he once again picked himself up, lifting the small knife that weighed akin to that of the cannon balls being fired in the bay. They needed to end this fight now, somehow, he didn’t care, he was going to run out of energy in a moment and when that happened would Haytham be able to hold his own? His father hadn’t seemed to be losing energy as quickly as he, despite his advantage in endurance, but his swordsmanship since he entered the fight had been extremely sloppy. He wonders if it is due to the fact one of his hands is permanently mangled from being shot earlier as well as the pain in his shoulder from the same kind of wound. Haytham however had been able to fight amazingly well in the past despite possessing more grievous wounds than he had now. Perhaps this was another ploy to lure Washington into a false sense of security? Connor could only wonder what his father’s intentions may prove in the future because as of that moment there was no plan and had never been one. He wishes that Haytham, rather than trying to sleep, had tried to come up with a plan with him should a situation like this arisen. It was too late for that kind of thinking now however, what’s done is done. All they had to do now was work together in keeping Washington from winning this fight, perhaps if they killed him here the battle in the bay would be theirs as well, considering Washington’s men were just a bunch of puppets on strings for their wicked master. To get rid of Washington now meant a secure victory for them and the promise of the homesteaders safety from a terrible death that the tyrant had no doubt planned for all of them by keeping Connor here in secrecy. He could not let his innocent friends’ blood be shed for a fight that they played no part in, over an artifact they knew nothing of, over war that they owned no knowledge of.

Connor grunted in pain as he fell to the ground once more, wanting to do nothing but curl up into a ball and plead for the pain to go away and the fight to be over. The labored breathing of his father and Washington was silenced over the loud cannons in the distance, making him wonder if the two men were even fighting in the first place. How did they have the strength to even continue battling each other after all this time? The strength had completely left him, leaving him a panting sack of skin upon the ground, barely having the energy to get his stolen breath back.

“Get up Connor.” His father demanded with a light voice, lacking its usual snapping tone. Well at least he wasn’t being yelled at for having his strength gone. He looked away from them and back towards the hill that lead down to the bay. He had to warn Achilles to get out of there, help the homestead residents flee, he couldn’t let them go down with him now that his endurance was stolen from him. He reached forward, digging his fingers into the ground attempting to pull himself along the dirt and half-melting snow. A dagger suddenly found its way into his hand, lacking the power to even cry out in pain all he could do was stare at it in shock.

“Don’t even think about it.” Washington snarled before he was cut off by Haytham pushing him back. Slowly reaching forward he gripped the leather hilt of the small but possibly deadly weapon, easing it up inch by inch. His arm trembled violently as it pulled the knife from his skin, the hand feeling as if it had caught fire from the slicing of skin and muscle the blade left in its wake. The dagger felt like lead in his hand as he finally pulled in free and dropped it beside him, impaling itself into the now blood soaked ground by his hand. He panted heavily, carefully pulling his hand back to himself and cradling it, locking his eyes ahead at the hill. He knew that if he fainted a fate uglier than death awaited him but he simply lacked the power to push forward, his will was intact but there was only so much his mind could do when his body was left in shambles. He called out to Achilles in his mind, begging him to go somewhere safe, then to Kanen'tó:kon if he was even still alive to take their people away, go as far as they could away from here and never return, to finally be safe from Washington’s sadistic anger. He felt his eye lids grow heavy and fought to keep them open, not yet willing to grow unaware to the world and awake back in chains as he did those many years ago.

The figures that appeared almost came from nowhere--he supposes he must have blinked very slowly to miss their sudden appearance as they crept up upon them. Well more like limped he realized as they grew closer, one of the figures was drenched with red and practically being dragged by the other for support. Connor immediately recognized the figure in the white robes as they drew closer, panting for breath as he trudged through the snow. Kanen'tó:kon looked to be relived, if for only a moment, when he saw Connor laying their on the ground--alive--before he turned his attention to the two fighting men. They were too focused in their fight to notice the men, who were still a few meters away as they approached, silently moving to join Connor. That was when he discovered the identity of bloodied man, a sickly looking Charles Lee. If this had been any other time Connor would have loathed the fact that it was that man coming to his rescue, however as he looked over the man his anger fizzled out quicker than it ignited. The man was as white as the snow around him, black mustache standing out as black as night against his skin, his eyes were droopy and clouding, wincing ever so slightly as Kanen'tó:kon adjusted himself with each move up the hill. They paused for a moment only for his friend to lay Lee’s body against a nearby rock, barely able to catch a few whispered voices before the younger man stood up and started creeping over to him, much faster now without the dead weight of a man upon his shoulder. He put a finger to his lips when Connor began to open his mouth, to try and question just what exactly he was doing before the man drew his tomahawk and dove at Washington who’s back was turned, blade raised.

The instant before the blade hit his throat the tyrant had grabbed Haytham and snapped around towards Kanen'tó:kon, throwing his father into him causing them both to stumble back. Connor felt his heart seize up as Washington reached for the pouch holding the artifact at his side, scrambling to get up despite being assaulted by a wave of vertigo and lead-filled limbs he shakily got to his feet and charged the man. It wasn’t like he didn’t expect to be punched out of the way again, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less when the man slammed him against a nearby tree. The next thing he knew was that the sword Washington had been using was stabbed into the wood a hair away from his neck, sticking through his bunched up hood behind him.

“Don’t move.” Washington said lowly with a furious glare. “You’ve been disobeying enough today Connor.” With that he turned away from him and back to the tangled mess of limbs upon the ground of Haytham and Kanen'tó:kon. The snow around them was splattered with blood, the tomahawk that had been raised to strike down Washington now resided in his father’s arm. Haytham grunted and pulled out the wound with a hiss as Kanen'tó:kon struggled to get out from under him to defend them from Washington. His heart stuttered at seeing the tomahawk stuck in Haytham’s arm, but the wound looked shallow enough to prevent him from completely losing his arm, Kanen'tó:kon must have tried to pull the weapon away a second too late.
Washington was on them before they could get back up, kicking Haytham over and pinning Kanen'tó:kon down with his boot to his throat.

“I have had enough of all of your antics you worthless savage.” Washington snarled before glancing over at Haytham who gripped his shoulder arm tightly. “You’re the first to go, Haytham.”

Connor struggled as the man gripped Haytham’s collar and pulled him up before reaching for the Apple upon his side. The artifact flashed gold, before Washington put Haytham down who now stood on his own accord before he was joined by Kanen'tó:kon. Both of their faces contorted in fury, struggling against the invisible ropes that Washington now had in his grip. He smiled and started walking, the other two followed him with a matched pace as they approached the cliff. Connor reached over to the blade and gripped its cool metal as he tugged, slicing open his already wounded hand in the process. He had to stop him, he couldn’t let Washington take any more lives! But he was stuck, trapped, the sword was immovable for his weak body. He kicked his feet as he struggled, trying to instead tear the cloth to free himself when he spotted his blade at his feet. It was his only chance. Carefully angling his feet forward he pushed the blade over with his other foot as he attempted to lift up to his waiting hands. Come one, come on! He glanced up in horror as the tyrant prepared to push them over.

He hadn’t expected Charles to leap forward.

The man must have crawled over during the chaos, completely unknown to all of them let alone Washington as he shoved Kanen'tó:kon’s tomahawk into Washington’s back making the man howl. He whipped around eyes ablaze as he raised the Apple to control Charles too, until the man gave him a powerful shove that sent him back over the cliff face. Washington let go of the Apple in shock as he fell back, reaching forward to grab onto something to catch him, that nearest thing being Lee. Charles instead offered no sturdiness and gave a feral smirk to the panicked face of Washington before the two fell backwards, Haytham shooting forward and just missing the tail of Charles’ coat, now free from Washington’s control. Kanen'tó:kon shouted what was probably the falling man’s name, but no sound reached Connor’s ears as his world quickly faded to back, leaving him with the lasting image of his father and friend staring down at the sea in shock.

It seemed even if it meant death Charles Lee still managed to take away everything from him.

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