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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OP: Damn. Just...DAMN. Charles has completely lost it. I love how he's trying to help 'Haytham' one second and then just completely flipping out the next. I feel so bad for poor Connor.
But seriously, this fic just keeps getting better and better, I love it!

Altaïr didn’t remember much from his first experience with his heat all those years ago, only that it had been uncomfortable. No matter how much he prepared himself mentally for it, he certainly did not expect to wake the following morning the way he did.

He had thrashed around during the night and somehow rolled to the cold ground (which he was partly thankful for, considering how warm he felt). The blanket had been discarded to the side and the pillows were everywhere. His skin burned. It was nothing like he had remembered. It had been bad then, but this was something else. He was feverish, that much was obvious. He pressed his heated cheek against the ground in an attempt to cool himself, but it wasn’t enough. The robes he wore now felt too hot, too constrictive.

Of course, there was also that small nuisance between his legs as well. He pressed his groin against the cold stone, hoping it would help somehow, but it only made it worse, so he retreated. Without thinking about it, his hands moved to remove the red sash and throw it to the side, next to the blanket. He proceeded to remove his cowl and robes, also discarding them and staying only with his breeches on. Laying back down on the cold ground felt like a soft bed against his back and he hissed at the welcoming sensation. However he knew that would not be enough.

Glancing to the side he noticed the books on top of the desk he had brought to read during his stay here. He knew he wasn’t in his right state of mind to even concentrate properly on them. Such a waste of time. Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose. What a headache. Never again would he forget about the stupid suppressants.

----------

It had been a while since the sun rose in the sky and it entered through the window in a cruel manner. There were no curtains in the room, nothing Altaïr could use to protect him from it and his skin burned even more with the intensity of the sun. Noon would likely be even worse.

It must have still been relatively early in the morning when he heard a scraping noise from the other side of the door. Raising an eyebrow he took notice of the faint sound of footsteps retreating fast and disappearing entirely in the hallway and down the stairs. Gathering enough energy to get up, he moved to the door and opened it slightly. He glanced both ways and didn't see anyone, or anything, until he looked down. On his feet stood a round tray with bread, water and some herbs.

It took him a while to realize what had happened, but when he did, he took the tray inside and mentally thanked his friend for the trouble. He had hoped Malik wouldn’t actually abandon him, he never did. But he also knew what he had asked of Malik and exactly what it had implied.

While eating Altaïr thought back about his first heat. Back then he had someone help him get over it, but now... Truthfully, the only person he could think of helping him with his problem was Malik and he wasn't as disgusted at the thought as he should have been. That in itself made him worry his condition was affecting his way of thinking as well.

----------

Spending the rest of his time thinking about it was no use and it only made him all the more self conscious about the throbbing pain between his legs (he did consider offering it the comfort of his hand for a while, but that hadn't worked in the past and it only left him with a tired fist and a burn in his palm, something he never forgot about). Instead, he decided to ignore it as best as he could by focusing on something else. Reading was out of the way, so he turned to the Apple instead. He was bewitched by the wonders it contained. As soon as he had more time and things calmed down enough he'd have Malik trace the figures it showed. He was still considering the possibility of such a thing, but he was starting to believe it was, in fact, a map of a world greater than they knew. If it turned out to be true, he was not sure what to do with such a knowledge other than leave it for future generations to use.

This time he managed to pick up the sound of someone walking outside. At first he thought nothing of it as it was probably just a guard making his rounds. But as the silent footsteps seemed to approach his room instead, he raised his head.

Something inside him made him put the Apple aside to get up and walk towards the door. He stared at it as if he could see through it. He knew someone was there and he had a feeling he knew who it was.

Once again he heard the scraping sound of the wooden tray against the floor. The other person was going to leave soon.

“Malik?”

No footsteps. He wasn’t leaving. Altaïr bit his bottom lip. Tentatively he approached the door and touched the unrefined wood with the tip of his fingers. Slowly his head moved forward and he closed his eyes when it touched the door. He took in a deep breath and knew exactly what was happening to him. He was sure of it now, it was Malik, in more ways than one.

But still no response came from the other side, just an unbearable silence. For a moment he wondered if his right-hand man could sense it too. Yet all too soon the man spoke at last.

“If the order wasn’t in desperate need of a mentor right now, I swear I’d let you starve to death.”

Ragged voice, that annoying tone he knew Malik only made when he wanted to hide something, the sound of shuffling cloth. Too many years practicing eavesdropping made Altaïr pick up on every minucius detail about him. Or maybe he was already too clouded with lust to tell the difference, it didn't matter.

His free hand roamed through his chest and downwards. The one at the door closed in a tight fist. His thoughts quickly vanished of anything else when all he could think about was slipping his hand to the lock and opening the door for him. This is bad, it’s bad, it’s...

Footsteps walking away. Waking from his trance, Altaïr glared at the door as if he could melt it by willpower alone and wanted to yell Malik’s name, ask him to come back. They didn’t even need to be on the same space, he just wanted the reassuring feeling that his friend was there on the other side. But he managed to keep enough self-control to contain it.

He would not give Malik the satisfaction of knowing he was right.

----------

Truthfully, it wasn’t so bad at night. The small window provided a nice breeze, the sun didn’t burn his skin and the temperature overall fell drastically. The pillows had long since been forgotten next to the wall as all he wanted was to stay on the cold ground refreshing his skin. No matter how cold it was, it still seemed to burn. With heat, with desire, with a lot of things he really shouldn’t be thinking about.

He tried thinking back about his first heat so many years ago and how he dealt with it then. Unfortunately there wasn’t much to salvage from his first experience - it had been short as Al Mualim had found it out before Altaïr even entered the stage and he only spent a few hours in it before--

Altaïr turned his head in the door’s direction as a faint glow entered from beneath, probably from a candle. Someone was outside (and he hadn’t heard them, which meant whoever it was made sure to be imperceptible). If there was one good thing about his condition it was how sharp his senses became. His skin felt the cold stones beneath him, every solid detail of the texture as if he had never felt the ground before. He could swear even his hearing and vision became clearer, better. So he waited and breathed slowly.

He heard the person outside step forward, slowly on his tiptoes. As silently as possible, Altaïr raised from his spot and walked in their direction, wanting to get closer, wanting to open the door and invite them. Only there was something at the back of his mind telling him not to and he knew why; he knew exactly what would happen if he opened the door. But the part of him that wanted it was speaking louder.

Just then fast footsteps approached and Altaïr retreated his hand.

“What are you doing here?”

It was Malik’s voice and he didn’t seem happy.

“Patrolling. I thought I heard something up here.”

Altaïr twisted his nose in disgust at Abbas’ voice. Damn him.

“Your patrol duty is at the gate, not up here. Now get down to the dining hall or go to your room without dinner, I don’t care. But the upper floors are none of your concern.”

There was a pause and he saw Abbas’s shadow cast from beneath the door shift his weight before taking a few steps.

“I don’t take orders from you, only from the mentor, and your friend just murdered him. ”

“Yes, you do. In case you’ve forgotten, you’re still a guard and I’m still a dai and your superior. Now get your ass out of here before I do it myself.”

Abbas was noticeably uncomfortable, walking around nonstop. If Altaïr knew him well - and he did - he was probably looking for a way out or something to exploit. Whatever it was it was never a good thing.

“Why the food tray?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“The rooms in these halls have always remained vacant and open to all, why are they all locked now? What are you hiding?”

Altaïr hated not being able to see what happened behind the door. Malik was getting pissed off and he knew what his friend was capable of doing when he lost his temper. (More or less, he was the living proof of it anyway.)

“Abbas, I’m warning you.”

“What are you plotting?” Abbas’ voice was firm and low now. His shadow indicated he was near Malik and probably attempting to intimidate the other man. He threaded on dangerous ground. “First Altaïr rid us of our mentor now you’re all full of secrets. You’re both destroying this entire brotherhood, planning something against us all. I don’t think I’ll let you do it.”

This is the part Altaïr couldn’t tell what happened, but Abbas had probably touched or done something to malik that set the whole thing off. The next moment there was a loud cnoise from the wooden tray crashing on the floor along with the food. A punch was heard and then someone tumbled down the stairs - violently apparently, because there was a scream.

“You! You miserable... I can’t believe-- You’re as twisted as that rotten friend of yours! You’re all going to burn and I’ll make you pay for this.”

Abbas ran away and Altaïr opened the floor quickly, stepping outside. There were a few drops of blood along with food on the ground and definitely some on Malik’s hand as well, as he shook it slightly from the pain of crashing it right against Abbas’ nose. His right-hand man stood in front of him, facing the other way where the coward had fled.

“He’s getting dangerous.” Altaïr spoke calmly, watching the stairs as well.

“And I don’t like it. No wonder Al Mualim threw him in a dungeon once.”

“He threw me there as well.” He cast a glance at Malik, but the man didn’t turn his way.

“You’re not dangerous, just dumb. When are you going to get rid of him? Are you going to wait until he truly does something worse?”

Altaïr shook his head, even if the other man couldn’t see him. “If the master could correct him, so can I.” He wanted to try at least. If anything, he owed Abbas that much since they used to be friends.

“Then you are dumb and naïve.”

No more was spoken and a heavy silence fell in place. Still Malik wouldn’t look at him.

“Malik.”
“I’m serious, Altaïr. He is getting dangerous.” Malik turned slightly, but his head hang low, only glancing at Altaïr’s feet for a second before turning to the food mess. “Don’t ever open that door unless you’re certain it’s me.”

“You want me to open the door for you?” He raised an eyebrow and did his best to contain a cocky smile.

For a second Malik stared right at him, annoyance clear in his face, before he turned away again. “You know what I meant.” Deeming the conversation to be over, Malik walked in the stair’s direction.

“Malik.” Altaïr followed.

“I’m going to send someone to clean the mess.”

“Malik.” He fastened his pace after his friend who was already descending the stairs.

“I’ll bring you more food.”

“Malik!”

Dumb and naïve perhaps, but he had the eyes of an eagle and knew Malik better than anyone. Altaïr knew him well enough to realize that when he violently yanked Malik’s arm back and pulled him up the stairs with him in one swift movement, the other man actually let him. Even with one arm Malik was strong enough to have stopped him if he wanted to.

But Malik didn’t stop him and Altaïr had a feeling he knew why as well. He pulled the other man close enough to face him and now Malik couldn’t look away. Their eyes locked and his fist tightened against the front of Malik’s robe, pulling him closer.

Malik looked him up and down and opened his mouth to say something, but lingered a while longer before actually speaking.

“Altaïr, seriously, don’t.”

“Why?”

“Let me go.”

“Give me a reason to.”

“I could give you many, but the only one that matters right now is that you’re not thinking coherently.”

He didn’t want to. The only thought in his mind was to pull Malik with him to the room and lock them both inside. It took him a sheer amount of willpower to timidly open his hand and let him go, though his fingers still lingered on Malik’s chest and the other didn’t seem to mind it all that much. They were still close, none of them having moved, and still could feel Malik’s breath close to his face like the day before, only he didn’t seem annoyed by it anymore.

It took him even more willpower to turn around and go back to his temporary room. He waited with his back against the wood, hand on the key. Just when he was about to turn it and lock it for the rest of the night, Malik yanked it open and turned him around. The door closed again after Malik claimed his lips in a possessive kiss.

----------

This shouldn’t be much longer now, probably three or four more chapters, but I’m usually wrong about these predictions so it could turn out a lot longer or a lot shorter than that, don’t take my word for granted. There may or may not be porn on the next chapter, seriously, I suck at it.

Quizz time: can you figure out who was the one who “helped” Altaïr through his first heat? (hint, hint: the answer is in one of the parts posted until now, can you find it?)

Strange Fates

Chapter 28 - Loyalties

After the events as Charles’s home, it felt strange to be back amongst the continental army.

While the men welcomed him after his length absence, he received no such warmth from his fellow generals, and a grueling interrogation was set upon him to explain his absence.

Thankfully, Charles was no simpleton and had an apt answer for his absence. His intel on the crown’s movements, carefully tracked by his agents in the Order, made a convenient excuse. He claimed ceaseless work on their behalf, meeting with his agents and obtaining new attack locations, and, after corroboration with another one of his placed agents within the continental army, was warily let back into his position.

And Charles knew that this was the time to plan and excel and plot. The Order needed him at his best and doing everything he could to remove Washington from the post of commander-in-chief. He had sought such in the past, and he still sought such now.

Though now, he was constrained from actually killing the man.

Their agreement with the Assassin still held.

And wasn’t that the crux of Charles’s inattention these days? He was unable to concentrate, unable to think, unable to plan and be as useful as he should be because...

Because That choice existed.

Because the Assassin could choose to wed one of them or choose to die and to kill Charles’s unborn child while doing so.

And it was all possible only because Charles had made such terrible mistakes with respect to the boy and brought Master Kenway to this pass where allowing the boy to die before birthing the child was an option.

Charles was a fool. He was a thrice-damned fool who could not concentrate on his assigned task because he kept thinking about the little child that was developing in the Assassin’s belly and wondering if that child would ever live to see the light of day.

A little Omega daughter. A little Alpha son.

Or a funeral for its would-be mother.

Charles shuddered.

It was unbearable to think about, and yet he could not stop. Like picking at a wound, he could not help himself.

And so he almost missed the fact that no one had sighted the commander for most of the day.

It was odd. The man so enjoyed the company of the soldiers within the camp, often spending a large portion of everyday speaking with them. It was part of what made him so popular.

The lower ranks saw him as open and likeable. A charismatic leader who was surprisingly down-to-earth. For Charles not to catch a single sight of him in the camp was highly...

Suspicious.

Inquiring his fellow generals and officers was of little help.

He was not well liked for his outright dislike of Washington, and he could get little of use out of them. The likes of Putnam either ignored him or gave him clearly false information.

The more neutral ones said something about there being disturbing information as to potential spies, and that Washington wanted to review the information in private so as to deliver a solid report in front of the council.

That sent a frisson of worry along Charles’s spine.

Visions of being stripped of all command, of the Order losing its tentative hold on the continental army, of Washington ordering his execution flashed in his mind, and Charles beat a hasty retreat.

It wasn’t until later when he overheard two soldiers discussing their pregnant wives that a suspicion grew in his mind.

Charles immediately sent for one of his few remaining agents within the army.

“When did Wesson disappear?”

His subordinate’s answer did not set him at ease.

“Our brother was last seen yesterday. I was not able to locate him at noon for his daily reporting and further investigation did not turn anything up. Wesson has, for all intents and purposes, disappeared.”

Charles pursed his lips in thought.

“Who has been tracking Washington’s movements as of late?”

“Wesson’s shift is this week. My own shift is next week.”

“And since Wesson’s disappearance?”

The man looked uncomfortable.

“I am sorry, sir, but we’ve been preoccupied trying to locate Wesson. I was going to expedite my shift after a couple more hours of investigation.”

The timing could be coincidence or planned.

Charles wasn’t sure he believed in coincidence.

“Has anyone seen the commander since yesterday?”

“No, sir. Wesson reported in last night, but since he went missing, we’ve all been very busy and...”

Charles waved off the apology. It would do no good now, especially given the shortness of the time that had passed.

And while Wesson’s disappearance was clearly worrisome, Washington’s scarceness that morning could be attributed to many things, one of which may simply be a desire to avoid Charles after his part in the boy Assassin’s capture.

Somehow, Charles did not believe that.

The man, incompetent thought he may be, genuinely cared for the Assassin. Charles did not think that any Alpha, no matter how lowly, could simply stand by as their Omega was betrothed to someone else unwillingly.

And combined with Wesson’s disappearance, Washington’s disappearance, the nonchalance of Charles’s fellow generals...

Wesson was reliable and punctual. This was highly irregular.

He was also the main detail into Washington’s activities.

It came to him.

They were trying to rescue the boy. Soon.

The Brotherhood had removed Washington for his own protection and were going to make an attempt on Master Kenway’s townhouse...

Charles’s first instinct was to alert his brothers. He sent his subordinate for a quill and parchment.

He must let Master Kenway know. He must let the Order (or what was left of it) know so that they could foil the rescue attempt and, and...

Charles thought about the ultimatum that Master Kenway had put to the Assassin.

He remembered the Assassin’s choice of marriage or dying.

And he recalled that Gerhard and Frederico were instructed to kill if anything untoward happened.

He thought about the child in the Assassin’s belly, that little seed of his that grew into a fruit and would still need several months before it would take its first breath of air.

When the quill and parchment came, he sent it back.

He had no need of it.

Lovely update! I truly love your Kanen’tó:kon, anon. He appears so collected and welcoming, like neutral ground, for once. He must be a source of calmness for Ratonhnhaké:ton...

Well this anon here certainly wouldn't mind a longer fill because I enjoy reading this immensely. That cliffie was plain evil though, anon. Now we're gonna have to set up a camp here biting nails until we see the next part, hahaha. I'm a bit clueless when it comes to remembering Altaïr's 'helper', which is a shame, but I suppose I can go back to the previous parts (oh, look there - an excuse to re-read this wonderful fill) and check that...

This is brilliant. I have no other words. Hopefully my succinct response will be enough to convey my love for this fill, anon.

This is really wonderful, with some great vivid description. You can really feel his joy at being able to climb again.

Kanatahséton, Mohawk Valley - October 1753

There was distrust in the eyes of those who watched him enter the village.

Haytham was no fool: he understood perfectly well why the Mohawk looked at him with such hostility. The white man had been steadily encroaching upon the land of the natives--all of the natives--and he was a living, breathing symbol of a losing battle. Oh, it didn’t matter that Achilles strode mere feet ahead of him or that he was an Assassin; that innate distrust would linger.

Well, at least he was quite used to being stared at by this point. Back on the Homestead, the welcome of his fellow Assassins was... frosty at best. They saw his presence here as a bit of an insult. After all, why did someone have to be sent here to fetch something? Did the Assassins in England think that they weren’t good enough? Haytham had tried to smooth over the cracks by saying that it was for personal reasons that he had come, but his words fell upon deaf ears.

Only Faulkner seemed to give a damn about what he said and why he was here, and when the man left the port for duty, Haytham was left with nothing but the wait. He’d tried to convince Davenport to let him leave the Homestead, even if just to blindly try and track Birch, but the Mentor would always keep him on his property, promising that the meeting could be any day now and wouldn’t it be a shame if he wasn’t here?

Back then, Haytham thought that Davenport only said those words to keep him under his scrutinizing watch, but now that he saw these people, he was starting to think that the wait time had been real and not just some sort of weird test.

Their long and silent walk eventually took them inside a longhouse where an elderly woman sat before a fire. She exchanged words with Davenport in a curious language that sent chills down his spine, the words both eerie and beautiful to his ears, and then he sat down. Haytham turned to the Mentor for some sort of additional instruction, but receiving none, he too took a seat, hands resting on his thighs.

Another woman entered the longhouse, this one much younger, and it would have been a lie to say that she didn’t immediately catch his attention. She was wild and beautiful, confident and fierce, and she gave him such a look that he couldn’t help but feel like his very soul was being searched.

There was not an ounce of fear in her dark brown eyes.

When she at last joined them by the fire, conversation immediately broke out. It seemed to go on and on, with much gesturing toward him and raising of voices. By the time everything settled, Haytham had no idea what was going on, and it seemed like he wasn’t going to be receiving any help, if the dark looks being cast his way were any sign to go by.

Then, quite suddenly, Davenport rose as if to leave, but when Haytham made a move to follow, he shook his head. “Stay here.”

The clan mother and the Mentor left, leaving him alone with the younger woman, and she gave him another searching look before moving to fetch a wooden box tucked away amongst the many behind her. “You have been granted the right to use the crystal ball.”

Perfect English.

He stared at her, dumbfounded, and she rolled her eyes at him, shoving the box into his arms. “Don’t act so surprised,” she muttered, clearly annoyed that this idiotic white man would make such an assumption. “Now did you want help finding your trinket or not?”

“Ah...” Haytham offered her an apologetic smile. “Yes. Yes, I did. Thank you.” Carefully, he lifted the lid, expecting to find some sort of Mohawk artifact, but instead, he was greeted with the sight of a perfectly spherical ball--a Piece of Eden. Haytham tried to hide his look of surprise, but he doubted he was able to totally mask it.

So this was the reason behind all the secrecy then. Haytham could understand Davenport’s hesitancy now, could see why he’d be unwilling to reveal that such a thing existed on American shores. After all, what if he’d been a Templar, waiting for the perfect moment to unveil his true allegiances? Certainly, it didn’t change the fact that the lack of trust between them stung, but he understood now.

Curious to see what the crystal ball would do, Haytham cautiously placed his hands around it, and the thing pulsed under his fingertips, as if alive before the world was swallowed in white.

“Haytham Kenway.”

The voice was nowhere and everywhere at once, and he looked around him, his eyes squinting against the brightness of the light that surrounded him; there was nobody there. The minutes ticked by, and slowly, oh so slowly, he was able to make out edges and planes in this bleached white environment: trees and rocks, grass and streams--a forest.

“Haytham Kenway. You have been brought here for a great purpose. You must find the amulet. It cannot be left in the hands of the Templars.”

“Who are you?” he asked, trying to shield his eyes from the light, but his hand offered him no protection.

“I am the one who has guided the Assassins for generations.”

Years and years of studying the ways of the Brotherhood meant that Haytham had an impressive grasp of the organization’s history, but even then, the answer was not easily apparent. After all, the Assassins had had many notable Mentors over the years, but death was not something that could be escaped through skill and intellect. So who--

Suddenly, it all clicked into place: the ghosts that Ezio Auditore spoke of.

Haytham had never expected to encounter one in his lifetime, had almost thought them nothing more than hallucinations, but here she was, her words reinforcing what he already knew: he had to get that amulet back. “What must I do?”

The forest around him burst into flame, white disintegrating into red, orange, and yellow, and the woman’s voice grew tenfold in volume, drowning him in the sound. “Protect the secrets of this land, and the amulet will come to you. Grasp it within your hands, and it shall be yours.

“--But should you fail...” Her tone became ominous, and Haytham felt the chill of fear lance down his spine, despite the heat of the fire--a warning of things to come. “Tragedy will follow you until you join once more with your blood. Then and only then will the key return to you and will the world be safe from destruction.”

Like a man dunked in water, he was thrown back into reality, his face painted with shock; cold sweat ran down his spine. The ghost’s words rang in his ears, and Haytham pressed a hand to his chest, his pulse racing. His lone companion in the longhouse gave him a long stare and carefully lifted the crystal ball from his grasp, returning it to its place of safekeeping.

“She spoke to you,” she said--not a question but a statement. When Haytham provided no additional response aside from a slight nod of the head, she smirked, but there was no humor in the gesture. “What will you do?”

He thought of the burning forest, and he thought he knew what he had to do. It went against all logical thought to not pursue Birch, but Haytham would listen to this ghost and trust in her guiding words--he would stay in this village and wait for his opportunity to snatch the amulet from the Templars.

“Is there anywhere I can stay?” he finally asked, and after a moment, the woman nodded, as if she had been expecting him to say that from the start.

I also am making a tentative bid on this prompt, operating under the assumption that prompts can have several fills. (Oh please oh please...)

This prompt is amazing. I think I'll take it and run with it - and update when I can.

In the cloak of shadows, they slipped into the manor, taking their place at the long table in the dining room. Nobody sat in Achilles' chair. Neither did they sit in Connor's.

"I have disturbing news," announced Clipper. "Grand Master Kenway isn't dead."

The young man looked around to the others. As expected they were not shocked but each wore a grimace.

"My contacts have confirmed this, although nobody has actually sighted him," replied Dobby.

Stephane did not seem entirely convinced. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hand thoughtfully over his apron. What guarantee was a rumour? He'd made the mistake of trusting them in the past and he would not allow himself to be misled twice.

"I think it warrants further attention. The Templars could be trying to mislead us," he ventured.

His fellow assassins nodded.

"I will press for further information," said Dobby.

"As will I," chimed Clipper.

"And you?" asked Stephane, gesturing to Jacob, Jamie and Duncan.

Jamie shook his head, pushing away from the table. Enraged by this action, Stephane stood, thinking it to be an act of defiance against the Brotherhood.

"Our priority is not chasing a ghost," said Jamie.

"If we do not find out the truth then we are at great risk," spat Stephane.

"And if we do not find Connor then we are at an even greater risk. You three may run after what is clearly a trap, I will dedicate myself to finding our leader."

"Don't be so pig-headed," cried Dobby. "You would abandon us? Your family?"

"He is not abandoning you. Without Connor, we are liable to crumble. Look at us, squabbling like selfish children," snapped Jacob.

Stephane huffed, clutching the handle of his butcher's knife. For a moment he glared at them, and they were silent for fear of setting his firecracker temper off.

"Sit, Jamie. You too, Stephane. And do not even think of putting that on the table," ordered Duncan.

Reluctantly, the two men sat, relinquishing their dominance to the soft-spoken former priest.

"Now, I suggest that Clipper and Dobby continue to look into the Haytham situation. If this is not a rumour, then we are in deep and perilous waters. The rest of us will focus on maintaining control in the cities while investigating Connor's disappearance. I suspect there is more to Haytham's miraculous recovery than a couple of bandages and a few days rest," he continued.

"I fear for Connor's life - if he has been captured, then a week of being in Templar hands..." Dobby trailed off.

Reaching for her shoulder, Clipper clutched it, giving her a reassuring pat. Everyone was concerned, not only Dobby. Voicing the obvious wasn't getting them any closer to finding Connor.

"I know. We must act with haste but also precision. There will only be one chance for everything," said Duncan.

They spent an hour memorising particular code words and laying out protocols for their missions before closing their meeting. As they left, they bowed to Achilles' chair, then slipped out as the sun was beginning to break over the horizon.

***

Captain Zachariah Morgan was a good guard and a loyal Templar. He did his duties, did not question his superiors, and had a reputation for training his men ruthlessly. He was not an ugly man either, and had decent wealth and property. A fiancee was waiting for him in Bristol. All in all, he had many advantages in his favour.

He was to be initiated into one of the lower circles at the opening of the Lodge. After the devastation that the Assassins had wreaked upon their Order, he was comforted by the grand show of power that would be displayed by the opening of the Lodge. While their main forces had been driven from New York and Boston, the Templars did not rest, instead beginning work on a sort of fort.

However, Zachariah wasn't sure what to make of Grand Master Lee's newest pet. After an escape attempt within twenty four hours of capturing the prisoner (which they had all expected, it was only a matter of when), the Grand Master had ordered Zachariah's men to replace the current guards. Now he stood at the only door in or out of the small cabin, peering curiously as Grand Master Lee employed various techniques on breaking his prisoner. It was true that the prisoner mirrored their late Grand Master Kenway in features, and at a distance it was flawless, but this was an assassin. You couldn't break an assassin.

It was a shame. Lee would probably grow tired of playing and eventually order an execution squad. Such a waste of an immaculately kept human weapon.

When his men asked him of Grand Master Lee's intentions, he replied that they should not be asking such things. Their job was to obey. (But on the side, in their time off, he quietly put forth his opinion of Lee's madness as a strange torture. They needed the prisoner for some reason. While their ward was not Grand Master Kenway, he was just as valuable and skilled. Somebody else whispered that the prisoner was the son of Haytham - he was quickly hushed. They agreed not to speak of it.)

Otherwise, Lee appeared to be quite sane, dedicating himself to finding new recruits and pushing to reclaim their lost territories. Admittedly he had lapsed into an intense depression when Kenway had died, alternating between hours of silence and rampages of temper. Zachariah had been present to witness this period. He could quite safely say that the death of Lee's predecessor had broken something in the man.

Still. His men obeyed. They had seen far worse, from both sides. If Lee wanted to force the prisoner into the Grand Master's clothes and groom him into someone else, then that was his prerogative. After all, Zachariah had good standings. Breaking them now would be the height of stupidity.

They were not supposed to care. So they didn't.

***

Wake up at dawn.

Train alone. Exception: guards watching set up obstacle course. Their punishment for lazy soldiers is to train with me. Exceed them, if only for the fact that most mornings I see hellfire.

Eat breakfast. Try to pick out the hard lumps. Must eat.

Lessons, extending my linguistics, law, political skills, charisma. I don't see the point of charisma.

Eat.

Study Haytham's journals.

Write in my own journal. Limited, often scathing.

Train with Captain Morgan. Good swordsman, friendly enough, if not slightly timid to land hits.

Late supper. Talk with Lee. Answer his questions correctly. Bear collar or water if I don't.

Read for my own pleasure, if not experiencing visions.

Sleep. Sometimes with Lee beside me.

***

The tailor was blindfolded. Charles tied a mask over Connor's face before removing the cloth from the tailor's eyes. Thankfully Connor could see. Thankfully he could avoid another flashback to that horrible day he was to be executed.

His measurements were taken in near silence with an occasional rustling of tape measure and the squeak of a pencil on paper. Swatches of fabric were shown to Charles, lots of silvers and crimsons, some dark navy blues, and Connor craned his neck to see what Charles would pick. The tailor quivered in his seat, handing Charles prospective designs and annotating the rejected prospectives. While the tailor made sure he had taken his measurements correctly, Connor looked to the designs scattered across the small table. They were all beautiful, elaborate, perfect for an Initiation night, but not perfect for him.

"Have you any experience of Naval uniforms?" Connor asked. "Their cut is clean."

The tailor jumped, dropping his tape measure, not expecting Connor to speak nor with the deep aristocratic tone that it had been meticulously trained into. Charles twitched his moustache, fighting an amused smile.

"Well?"

"Y-yes, sir. Some sir," stammered the tailor.

"Something like that then," said Connor.

Even as he gave his request, he stomach churned over. Precisely how big was this celebration going to be? Charles was setting him up for something quite impossible.

Lee, Connor scolded himself, not Charles.

But it was so hard to think of him as Lee. Damn his compassion. Damn his stupid ability to empathise. He was actually growing fond of Cha - LEE. Lee. Fond of Lee.

"Well, mister..."

"Mr Kenway," supplied Lee.

"Mr Kenway, I'll be back in a week for a first fitting," said the tailor.

Haytham nodded, but Connor screamed on the inside, curling around Ratonhnhaké:ton protectively. He wasn't angry at Lee anymore. He was changing. Lee knew this, this was what Lee wanted.

As soon as the tailor had been led out, blinded and bundled into his carriage, and he was alone, Ratonhnhaké:ton sank to the ground. He was turning into a Templar. He was beginning to lose his own stance, mannerisms, his own voice. He had betrayed the Brotherhood.

"No," he choked. "No, no, no!"

But try as he did, Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn't pronounce a single word of English without Haytham rising to the fore. He half-screamed, half-howled, his agony demanding to be felt. What happened to the four-year-old that had demanded Charles Lee's name?

"Sir?" asked a voice from the door.

Captain Morgan was leaning in, closing the door behind him. He slowly approached the man huddled on the ground, bare hands outstretched. Ratonhnhaké:ton watched with cautious eyes, chest heaving, slowly shifting his feet into a position that allowed him to leap or roll away as the situation called for it.

"Grand Master Kenway, are you hurt?" he asked.

Connor narrowed his eyes, fingers curling into fists. He saw his chance and he was going to damn well take it.

"What is my name?" he asked.

"Grand Master Haytham Kenway," replied Captain Morgan.

Connor bowled him down, clapping a hand over Morgan's mouth. The captain flailed and beat at Connor, but one large hand grabbed his wrists and slammed them over his head.

"Wrong," snarled Connor. "Now you are going to listen to me, and you are going to remember what I say. My name is Captain Connor Davenport of the Aquila. I am an Assassin, and so help me I will kill you, your family, and your loved ones if you so much as peep a single word of this to anyone other than the intended. If you do not help me now, you will not have a second chance. Do you understand?"

Wisely, Morgan nodded, although he did not seem afraid, his eyes were wide with clarity.

Connor continued, "Travel to Boston or New York, whichever is closer, spread the trail at every tavern, public house, and slum. Tell them that I am alive. Connor Davenport is alive. Let them track you when you return."

He raised his hand, letting Morgan speak, "Yes, yes. Don't hurt them. Please don't hurt my family. I worked hard to bring them here."

"Good."

"Now what?" asked Morgan. "I need an excuse to go to New York."

A smile twisted on Connor's face. So they were closer to New York. Funny, Boston would have been in the Templar's advantage, if only for the shipping port.

Well now, Captain Morgan," he paused, thinking. "Now, I am going to put you in the infirmary."

And he knocked Captain Morgan's head against the floor.

holy fucking shit! you, as always, amaze me!

i hope the assassins get there in time... but i also don't. i'm torn between wanting connor to be okay and for them to get there just as he finally completely breaks.

i love that connor finally managed to get the upper hand. i love this fill. i love you, anon

Agree with above anon. It's been a few months, but I still really want this...

Authornon says - glad you enjoyed :D thanks for reading & commenting!

Kanen’tó:kon is such a good friend. And he must be mentally headdesking at the task before him. It must be terrifying to him, that Connor lost most of his memories.

What a monumental task. And what a good friend to help sort it all out. :)

Thanks anon. :)

:O What did I do?

Strange Fates

Chapter 29 - Battle

George ducked as a blade whipped around and tried its very best to take his head off.

From somewhere behind him, he heard cursing as the Spaniard danced lightly around, undoubtedly ruining Clipper’s shot.

And next to him, Stephane wielded both blade and cleaver with ease, removing guard after guard with frightening efficiency.

George would have been impressed if he weren’t too busy trying not to get killed. He was certainly not at the level of any of the Assassins, and it was somewhat of a miracle that the Spanish Templar priest had not yet ended him.

Rolling away from another swing of the long and evil-looking blade, George grasped his hands on a box full of trash and hurled the contents at the man.

It gave him just enough time to put a little bit of distance between the deadly man and himself, but not nearly enough for George’s comfort.

Of course that, of all the opponents the man could have chosen, he chose George.

Of course.

George cursed as the Spaniard stalked forward, eyes lit with religious zeal.

It hadn’t all been so disastrous when he’d first arrived.

George had argued with Clipper for near an hour before the Omega agreed to turn back and let him accompany them on the rescue for Connor. It took showing the Omega Connor’s letter and arguing that, without Connor, the Templars would have him killed anyways before the young man finally caved.

By the time they arrived, night had fallen and Stephane and the others had been about to launch the rescue.

Stephane had, unsurprisingly, been rather angry at both him and Clipper for being there, but he finally relented when Clipper pointed out the futility of his anger.

George was already at the scene and not including him now would only lend their enemy a convenient hostage should they catch sight of him.

Although Stephane agreed grudging, George thought the Alpha was rather relieved that Clipper, at least, was there. It seemed that the Assassins were well aware of the dangers that the Spanish priest and the Hessian posed and were much assured by the addition of one of their number.

A number which apparently included a turkey.

George had been just a bit...surprised to see the animal, but one glare and an ensuing peck taught him to keep his doubts to himself.

That beak was rather sharp.

And, at first, everything had gone well.

The turkey Yusuf had successfully delivered the weapons and, at the agreed upon signal (three flickers of candlelight), Stephane and the others set about chasing the stray animals they’d gathered into a frenzy.

The guards noticed the commotion, saw the Assassins and began chasing them as planned, and George and Clipper hid where they had sight of Connor’s lodgings, waiting for the Wolf himself to climb out and join them.

It was bad luck that the Hessian von Stantten happened to look back just as Connor began climbing out.

He yelled something to the Spaniard Perez, and they immediately broke off the chase to run back to their posts.

George had been hiding very close by and when he saw the Spaniard grab at the revolver at his waist and begin to aim at the vulnerable Connor...

It certainly wasn’t the smartest thing he had done, but he’d do it again in a heartbeat.

With his heart pounding in his ears, George leapt out of his hiding place and tackled the Spaniard, leaving Clipper to deal with the Hessian before the rest of the Assassins could extricate themselves from the mass of Templar guards on their heels and rejoin them.

Neither George nor Clipper were particularly good with hand-to-hand combat, the Assassin being an expert at marksmanship instead and George more used to commanding armies than dueling with a skilled foe.

But the alternative was leaving Connor to their guns and ammunition as he climbed out of that window.

And George couldn’t do that.

So he dodged and leapt and did his very best to distract the Spaniard and stay alive.

Two very close calls before Stephane and the other Assassins (and the rest of the Templar guards) joined them, and the fight escalated.

All the while, George could not help glancing periodically at his beloved, carefully making his way down, no doubt unused to the extra girth and weight of his newly expanded middle.

If his beloved Wolf should have a misstep, even one, then the consequences would be dire. Connor’s quarters in the townhouse had been located rather high up, and while Connor had sustained falls from great heights before, he’d never been pregnant during them.

George didn’t want to think about what could happen if even one hold was not secure and...

A yell in front of him, and George turned just in time to see a silver sword stop the descent of a wicked blade.

“Eyes on your opponent!” Stephane snarled as he beat off the blade that had been so close to ending George’s life.

Shaken, George nodded his thanks to the other Alpha.

If it hadn’t been for the French Alpha...

Well, George wouldn’t be trembling in the aftermath of it.

Quickly, he unsheathed his own sword and made his own attack as best he could.

Although none of his attacks hit, George was gratified to see the Spaniard back off slightly as both he and Stephane bore down on the man.

Thrust, thrust, parry, thrust, lunge.

It was a deadly, deadly dance, but George felt relieved as the man continued backing away.

They were driving him into a corner. And soon, Stephane could end the man, and they’d be that much closer to rescuing Connor and...

A sharp crack.

Startled, George looked over to the source of the noise.

It was Clipper.

He’d shot the Hessian right through the heart, ending the reign of one of the most terrifying Templars ever.

Relief washed over George.

Surely, surely they were winning now.

Surely...

Another sharp crack.

George turned to look and...

Froze.

Haytham Kenway.

Rifle in his hands.

A grim and sad but determined look on his face by the light of the flickering lantern.

And a white-robed figure began to fall from where it had been so close to landing in a pile of hay.

Ack. Sorry. /sweatdrop/

Will definitely update this weekend. It's a super, super busy month. ):

But I promise. If I have to glue myself to this chair and write the next installment.

If you smother me, I cannot write more! D: Haha, just kidding. Smother me all you like, sweet Anon. :)

Thank you, Nonnie! And thank you for pointing that out. I realise I hadn't explained it quite that well, so the next chapter is introducing a few new elements, and giving (what I hope is) a feasible reason behind the guards. In short, they sort of care, but they mostly don't. They're curious more than anything else.

Ahhh, that's a relief, OP. Thank you so much for your lovely comments!

Lee tends to flip about. But he's calming, somewhat, now that he has a Haytham substitute. Which is bad news for Connor, good news for the rest of the Templar order?

Fuck, I love you, Anon. You and all the other wonderful anons commenting. It's a real boost to my muse when I know there are people reading and enjoying my work.

I think the ending is up to the OP, but they didn't specify, soooo... who knows? ;)

Connor is a fucking badass. He's torn between biding his time, and just wanting to slaughter anyone that gets near him. Unfortunately, the drugs have pacified him somewhat.

NO. NONONONONO YOU CANNOT JUST END ON THIS CLIFFHANGER

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH YOU'RE KILLING ME HERE ANON

...I'ma sit here and furiously glare at my screen.

Omg. DID THIS SERIOUSLY JUST HAPPEN? Like...Haytham, what have you done?!

Fantastic as usual. I need the next part like I need AIR

Haytham’s first instinct when he felt something burrow into bed with him, to grab his dagger and deal with an unknown threat, was suppressed only by the sleep-addled portion of his brain that insisted the intruder’s scent was familiar. Staying as still as possible, he glanced down to see his four year old son, face streaked with tears and short tail bristling from the remnants of a nightmare cuddling into him. No doubt Raton had been dreaming of his mother again.
Haytham would admit the past few weeks had been difficult. Dealing with Holden’s suicide, coupled with the long trip back to the colonies and news of Ziio’s death would have been difficult enough without the revelation of a traumatized, wary four year old child. In retrospect going to meet Raton with Charles, always scornful of natives, had been a bad idea though the depths of their mutual hatred had caught Hatyham by surprise. Now, for the first time since his return to the colonies with his normally touch-shy son’s soft eartips brushing the underside of his chin, fluffy tail twitching in sleep, Haytham felt at peace.
In the morning there would doubtless be much to do-the Assassins in the colonies had been up to their usual brand of chaos-spreading mischief, the Order’s hold on the colonies needed to be strengthened, and Raton and Charles had to be reconciled (if at all possible), but for the night, Haytham drifted to sleep contentedly with the warm body of his son curled up on his chest.
----
AA: oops, didn’t quite make it clear that it was puppy!Raton (since Haytham would hardly name his child after a dead Assassin boy) and wolf!Haytham, but I did my best. Please forgive any mistakes. It's been a really long day

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

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