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 adore your characterisation. Altaïr feels perfect - he's an angry ball of frustration and feathers and you can really tell how scared he is under all of that, because he doesn't want to be cast out by Al Mualim.

Poor Faulkner /hugs/ wonder if George is going to get jealous that Connor's spending more time with his second.

Warning: character death. Lots of it.

Haytham is used to working his body as hard as he can, and his efforts are paying off: his body is bulkier, in all the right ways. The muscle he had lost during his sickness is almost completely back, and his clothes fit far better (though they do need to be sewn in and let out just a tad in a few places). The shortest parts of his hair are long enough to be tied back properly, and he feels far better than he has in a long time.

Charles is still fussing over him like an overprotective grandmother, and throws the closest thing a grown man can to a tantrum when Haytham suggests they ought to go to the market or something.

"You're not well enough, sir!" Charles will inevitably protest. "At least wait until the doctor says you're completely healed! You're damned lucky I turn a blind eye to your excessive training. You ought to be taking things slowly."

Haytham grumbles and scowls, but he always relents. Charles knows best, after all.

It isn't until autumn starts to set in that the doctor proclaims him fully healed.

---

The one thing Haytham cannot quite get used to is how young he feels. He is fifty six, he knows, but he barely feels twenty six. His face is unlined, his body still full of raw power and that inner strength of the young. His shape has not settled at all in that way that even the most athletic of older men tend to-- well, most athletic of older men aside from Haytham himself, it seems.

"You've never shown your age, sir. Must be something of the Native blood in you. I can't say I'm not jealous, my fifty years certainly show."

Haytham reassures Charles that he really doesn't look that old- just tired- and spends the next hour finding and kissing each and every wrinkle, scar and blemish on Charles' skin he can find.

That's another thing that makes him feel young. While he has enough stamina to fuck for hours on end (with breaks to allow his cock to recover during which he's quite content to entertain his lover with his mouth and fingers), Charles doesn't. Which isn't to say that their lovemaking sessions aren't satisfying- they are- but the rough, desperate sort of union that can be repeated over and over that Haytham favours is often put aside for Charles' preference for something prolonged but extremely gentle. Charles simply doesn't have the energy for more than one or two sessions every other night, and it's almost always Haytham who instigates.

"No, Haytham, I really do need to finish these letters," Charles murmurs, leaning away from Haytham's kiss.

"Perhaps I could entertain you while you work?" Haytham asks, in a honeyed tone. He draws his legs up coquettishly, one hand skimming his torso as sensually as one can while fully clothed, the other hand pulling his necktie so it slowly comes undone.

"As much as I would love to see you pleasure yourself, I must get this done. And in any case, I'm far too tired to reciprocate in any manner."

Haytham understands.

"Perhaps tomorrow?"

"I don't know. Good God, Haytham, it's like you're a teenager all over again!"

Haytham chuckles at that, even as Charles pales and his eyes widen. He always does that when he thinks he's offended Haytham. He pats his lover and second-in-command on the back.

"It's all right," he says. "There are a few other things I ought to be doing in any case."

---

The assassins are a clumsy, confused lot. They watch him with wide eyes, targeting Charles rather than Haytham himself. Which is a ridiculous thing to do, because that means that Haytham is left with naught to do but protect what is his, and he does.

The woman is his first target, being more physically weak than her brothers-in-arms, though still much stronger than most women. A slice through her gullet, and she falls, choking on her own blood.

Still, the other do not try to kill him. Rather, they attempt incapacitation, apparently having confused Haytham with his own son. Fools.

"Please," a Frenchman begs. "Connor, you do not 'ave to do this!"

"I'm afraid to say that I am not Connor," Haytham replies, stabbing him in the shoulder. The Frenchman yells in pain, dropping to his knees, and Haytham twists his head, breaking his neck easily. The assassins pause for just a split second, before attempting to flee.

Haytham catches the man with the bearskin hat and beard, stabbing him six times in the torso before slicing his jugular. By that time, the three remaining men are gone; Haytham closes his eyes, tries to remember their faces. Clipper, Jacob and Duncan. Clipper, Jacob and Duncan.

When Charles asks how he knew their names, Haytham quirks an eyebrow upward. Surely he'd heard them shout their names during battle?

Charles pales at this counter, and Haytham knows it's because Charles does not want to think that he is getting old, that his ears are failing him.

"You must be right, Haytham," Charles stammers, when Haytham attempts to comfort him.

---

It is about a decade before he sees the assassins again, this time far larger in number. Charles has retired from his military duties, being nearly sixty. Haytham still feels sprightly, cannot quite believe he's sixty-five already.

They are surrounded by assassins, each one pointing a bow and arrow, musket or pistol at Haytham. Clipper tosses a human hand at him, and Haytham catches it deftly. It is Charles', Haytham knows every scar and blemish, and Charles' ring is still upon one finger.

His lover is dead. After-- oh spirits, it's almost forty years now, isn't it?-- all this time, Charles has been killed. Haytham should've tried harder to exterminate the vermin standing before him.

"After all you've taught us, sir," Clipper says, solemnly. "We figured we owed you a proper goodbye. What Charles Lee done to you was wrong and cruel, and I know it ain't your fault you broke. Any man would've. I-- no, we-- forgive you for the things you've done since then, and I think Achilles would've forgiven you too, sir. Even killin' Stephane and Dobby and Jamie. But we got to stop you, sir. I'm sorry we couldn't save you."

Haytham is speechless. Charles would never-- had never-- hurt him. (A long-since sealed corner of his mind whispers if only that were true.) And what did Davenport have to do with this?

"I don't understand," Haytham snaps. "You're insane!"

Clipper shakes his head, and whips out his gun, and Haytham is being propelled backwards by the force of a musket ball to the throat before his ears even register the sound of the gunpowder igniting. His mouth tastes of metal and he's choking on hot liquid that just won't stop flowing into his windpipe and he can't breathe.

The last sound he hears before darkness and the faintness overcome him completely is Duncan's voice, followed by Jacob's.

"We're not the insane ones. I wish we were."

"Auf wiedersehen."

OMG Why was I born with feelings?! This was beautifully written, anon... I'm gonna go find a corner to cry in now ;_;

Oooh good idea, I'll see if I can fit it in somehow.

A/N: once again more speed writing, and it's really weird switching back to this story after writing all those "First Word" one-shots

"Good morning, Connor."

The Mentor Assassin did not agree with that statement, but made no response as he took his seat at the dining table. He glanced over to see that his husband shared his sentiments. Charles was rubbing his eyes, downing what was probably his second coup of tea, and clearly exhausted from whatever he had busied himself with, ever since his fellow Templars came to wake him in the middle of the night.

Connor then turned his attention to the Grandmaster, and tried to hide his discomfort as those gray eyes seem to bore into him.

"Feeling better?" his father inquired as he stirred his own cup.

Better?

Oh right, Haytham and Church were present when he had fainted shortly after that... examination. To show such weakness in front of his enemies was pathetic. The Master Assassin shifted uncomfortably as he folded his napkin over his lap, and hid Captain Kidd's ring. Under the cloth, he carefully slid the band off from his finger and planned on hiding it later.

"Why are you here?" Connor asked instead.

His father paused in stirring. One eyebrow was arched in curiosity and lips twisted in a half-smirk.

"Is it wrong for a man to visit his family?"

Family...

Only the Templars could twist the one thing he had once longed for into a horror.

"I admit I was concerned when you fainted like that, and wanted to see that you were alright."

Concern? Connor inwardly snorted. His father didn't seem concern allowing his successor to forcefully marry his son and ravage him in the very church it took place.

"And?" he pressed, knowing that couldn't be the full reason.

The Grandmaster pursed his lips before taking a sip of his tea.

"My agents informed me that a strange phenomenon occurred late last night here in this manor."

Connor was afraid of that. He inherited his father's eyes after all, and the older man would certainly be able to spot anything out of the ordinary.

"Since Charles is my successor," Haytham continued, "I came to assist him in the investigation, and will be escorting him to when he departs tomorrow."

Tomorrow? Lee was leaving that soon? The Omega felt a little elated and glanced back at his husband again. He was surprised by the somewhat sullen expression Charles was wearing. It was strange. Connor had assumed the new Commander-in-Chief would have been thrilled to finally be able to exercise his authority.

There was a long silence, and all three occupants remained that way until breakfast was served. The comforting and delicious aroma of toasted bread, sausages, ham, and fried eggs wafted in the air. In addition to the full plate before him, the Omega was finally going to be being free of his 'wifely duties' - for however long Lee was going to be away. As he began consume and savor his meal, Connor finally allowed himself to relax .

Strategic mistake.

Just as he became too comfortable, the Grandmaster reached over and set something down onto the table before him. The Assassin swallowed a bite of his toast before and struggled to keep it down, as his wide amber-brown eyes caught sight of the all too familiar emerald amulet before him.

Oh Haytham is clever. Using Connor's instinctive reactions against him. Gotta wonder what they're going to do to him now. ):

Have to say, it's quite interesting to read the Templar! Connor and this Connor side by side. They're so different, but at the core of things, they're also exactly the same.

//pets the Connors//

George has no clue yet, but I do imagine that George won't be too happy about Charles making the moves on Connor. :D

imo, probably a mix of the two. :D That and Connor is still somewhat thinking of Charles as an enemy. It's probably too big a jump to go from enemy to suitor in one sitting. :D

Poor Altair...all the stress and confusion w/ getting his rank back, reconciling w/ Malik, and having to retrain/deal w/ the wings. And it must feel weird to have extra limbs like that; moving them and it feeling natural, but at the same time not (weirded myself out trying to imagine something attached to my back and moving independently... ono)

Ah, Altair...damaging Malik's bureau and possessions isn't the best idea in the world atm, even if you do need the new training. ^^; And where are you hiding the feathers you're plucking? I'm sure the larger ones could be hidden w/ the other feathers and mebbe as quills, but down gets *everywhere.* (I had a budgie for a time, and for such a itty bitty bird, we were finding feathers in random places.)

Have to say, it's quite interesting to read the Templar! Connor and this Connor side by side. They're so different, but at the core of things, they're also exactly the same.

Glad you enjoy it anon, right now lil!Connor is a lot like his honeymoon!counterpart - down to the fact they both save Spado - but in this version, after what happened to his village, being an orphan, and despite being a former slave, he sees freedom a little negatively.

“You live here?” Charles asks as they emerge out of the tree line.

Haytham's protégé sounds dismayed and more than a little concerned, as if his Grandmaster had just presented him with a lean-to piled with rags and straw in some dirty London back-alley and pronounced it his home. The tone plays on Haytham's nerves, but he doesn't comment. Haytham had built the structure himself, armed with nothing more than raw wood, sweat, and stubborn determination. He couldn't risk bringing in carpenters, so Ziio had suggested that the house be built in the fashion of her people, to better throw off snow and suspicion. Haytham's wooded retreat is a far cry from Benjamin Church's splendid manse but it's warm and snug and he's immensely proud of it.

Ziio sits cross legged in front of the cook fire. There are rabbits roasting on a spit and a freshly eviscerated deer hanging in a nearby tree, the contents of its chest cavity draining into a bucket. Even with her hair a mess from hunting and skin bloody up to the elbows, she's still beautiful.

She looks up at the sound of approaching hoof beats and the rattle of packs. Her smile is sphinx-like, mysterious, says so many things that words cannot convey. Even though he has spent months at her side, shared her bed and even had a child with her, his heart still skips a beat. Every fiber of his being wants to go to her. He wants to envelop her in his arms and kiss her until she either pokes him in the ribs and laughs at him for being so foolishly romantic, or moans into his mouth and sinks under his welcome weight.

He can't, though. Not with Charles there. Haytham hadn't expected her back for at least another week, hence Charles' presence. Haytham and Charles had decided that the best way to waste Charles' furlough was to spend it hunting and fishing around Haytham's homestead, something that the younger man had been keen to explore. Now Haytham sees that his subterfuge was pointless; there's no way he would have been able to hide his secret double life.

Ziio's eyes turn cool as they fall on Captain Charles Lee. She knows that the man is Haytham's closest friend, but she does not trust him. She has her reasons. Young George Washington had been granted the rank of Colonel after General Braddock's assassination, as well as the dead man's command. Why, Haytham wasn't entirely sure. Probably because it had been deemed appropriate that a son of Virginia should lead a Virginian regiment of militiamen, and also he was one of the few officers to survive the disastrous ambush at the Monongahela River. Lieutenant Charles Lee had been a member of Braddock's regiment and thus placed under Colonel Washington's command. That association alone would have been enough to color Ziio's opinion of Charles, but her wariness and distaste for him would be compounded by yet more events beyond Charles' control.

Earlier that year Colonel Washington had arrived at Ziio's village, soldiers in tow, irrefutably with hostile intentions. Haytham had been there that day, visiting Ziio and their son. It had been only himself and Ziio's people (mostly farmers and a few hunters) against more than a hundred seasoned soldiers. Ziio had been furious. He could tell that she'd wanted to take the fight to them, but she was more concerned about their child. Talented as she and Haytham were, it would have been suicide to attempt to fight them in the open. He bid her and her people to get into their long boats and paddle out as far as they could into the lake; he did not go with them. Outnumbered and out-maneuvered, he implemented a different plan of attack—the truth.

Charles was there beside Washington, arguing against razing the village to the ground when Haytham had stomped out into the snow from beyond the palisade, alone and unarmed. Washington had looked startled; perhaps he recognized Haytham as the man who had killed his predecessor, but equally it could have been the fact that an Englishman had just materialized out of an Indian village leagues from anywhere that could have been called civilization. Charles looked just as surprised, and more than a little alarmed.

Haytham, without preamble, proceeded to berate Washington, loudly and scathingly, in front of the colonel's entire company. He made sure that every man heard how this man, all six-foot-two of him, had been beaten down and brought low by a woman—a savage woman, at that, and less than half his size—who had wanted to do nothing but avenge the indiscriminate slaughter and enslavement of her people. And for that unseemly humiliation Washington was willing to murder a village of innocent women and children that had resided peaceably in their little valley since time began. And, he pointed out, they had not participated in the war in the slightest.

Washington had stammered, made some excuse that he was there to avenge the death of his former commander. The colonel flinched at Haytham's harsh laughter. Washington's men shifted uncomfortably behind their commander; the ones that had been present the day of Braddock's death no doubt recalled how the general had shot one of his own men in the face for the high crime of asking questions. For the soldiers that were not there that day, Haytham summarized as well as recited a litany of General Braddock's other crimes both in the colonies and abroad. Haytham named Washington a fool for trying to defend the legacy of such a man, and for squandering precious resources and man-power on a pointless personal vendetta to avenge a scoundrel of the lowest caliber.

For a moment, Haytham thought that the ploy wouldn't work, but Washington had looked back at the men under his command and blanched; most of the men appeared uncertain and there were some that met Washington's gaze with outright contempt. Americans made fickle soldiers. There was no love lost between the colonists and the natives, certainly, but outright slaughter of non-combatants was still frowned upon, heathens or no. There were tensions stirring between the colonists and their less-than-benevolent British overlords as the war stretched into its sixth year with no end in sight; doubtless the tales of Braddock's cruelties inflicted upon both Indians and Americans still rankled.

Unexpectedly, it was Charles that had come to Washington's rescue, suggesting that perhaps if Master Kenway could assure them of the tribe's continued neutrality, there would be no need to put the village to the torch. “Besides, there have been reports that the French are attempting to establish a fort to the North of here; surely victory over a more certain enemy would bring more lasting commendation and glory than slaughtering a bunch of godless dirt-worshipers, would it not?”

Washington had stared at the two of them for a moment, ashen-faced, not speaking, and then had flushed, abruptly turned his horse around, and gave the orders to march. His normally ram-rod posture had been bowed by the weight of his humiliation. Haytham almost felt sorry for Washington. Almost. Browbeating him into retreating had been child's play. Gentlemen did not belittle and criticize each other in public, especially not in front of their subordinates. It was simply not done. The young colonel had been completely unprepared for such a spontaneous and vicious attack on his character.

If Haytham and Charles hadn't been there that day... Haytham shuddered at the thought. He knew that Ziio's village was far from safe so long as Washington held even the slightest modicum of power. He would need to be dealt with as well. He could kill him, Haytham supposes, but that could be messy and all too easily draw attention to their Order, which is the last thing he wants. A character assassination, though, that was another thing entirely. A botched engagement or two and a few strategically placed words in the right ears and Colonel Washington's reputation could be ruined. If Washington was painted as incapable, indecisive and reckless, they would have no choice but to assign the command of the regiment to the next most senior officer—and that would be Captain, soon to be Major Charles Lee.

Ziio rises to wash her hands in a bucket. Charles halts, doffs his soldier's tricorne and bows slightly at the waist.

“Madam, a pleasure,” he says. He sounds as if he has recovered himself somewhat and his words sound sincere.

She nods in turn. “Lee.”

“I hadn't expected you back so soon, my dear,” Haytham admits, turning to his horse and fiddling with the straps to release the animal from her burden. In a few short strides Ziio is at his side. Neither one of them are people that show their affection publicly; rather than making any move to embrace him she starts helping him with the packages. Their hands brush against each other whilst undoing a knot and her touch is agonizing after so many weeks apart.

“There is a fever in the village. I did not want to expose Ratonhnhaké:ton.” In case Charles has missed her meaning, she elaborates, “Our son.”

“Rah... Radon...” Charles frowns. Like Haytham, his tongue can't seem to form the words.

“Don't bother.” Haytham grins. “I just call him Hayden.”

Ziio rolls her eyes but smiles indulgently. “That is because you are lazy and can only pronounce the last parts. And not even that well.”

Just as Haytham was unable to articulate Ziio's true name, he had been equally unable to pronounce his son's. He would have preferred to name the boy something else, but Ziio would have none of it. She wanted the boy to have a native upbringing, at least for the first few years. Haytham had to call the boy something, though, and Hayden had been the closest name in English that the last two syllables—“ké:ton”—had resembled, at least to his British ears. He also liked how the name closely mirrored his own exotic Arabic name. Thus the colloquialism stuck; the boy was Ratonhnhaké:ton in his mother's world and Hayden in his father's.

“Speak of the little devil, where is he?”

“Behind you,” A child's sing-song voice announces. Haytham turns. The boy grins up at him. There are crab apple petals in his tangled, shoulder-length hair. The knees of his deerskin pants are caked with dirt and his face is similarly smudged. Charles stares at the boy as if coming upon a species previously unknown to man. Inwardly, Haytham cringes; he hadn't wanted Charles' opinion of the boy to be colored by the boy's dirty clothing and bird's nest hair, but he reminds himself that his boy is indeed that, a boy, and male children in particular seek dirt like camels to water no matter their upbringing, culture or class.

When Haytham had first been presented with the squalling, wrinkled babe, he'd been rather shocked at the resemblance to Edward, his own father. Now, though, he only resembles Haytham about the set of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, and his lighter skin. It's in the nature of children's faces to change as they grow older, but for now he is decidedly his mother's creature. His apparent stealthiness is something the lad inherited from both parents.

“C'mere, you,” Haytham growls, seizes the four-year-old about the waist and hoists him into the air. Hayden squeals in delight. He sets the boy back down before him, facing a decidedly ill-at-ease Charles. “I've someone I want you to meet, Hayden.”

Charles squats down so that he's eye-level with the boy. The two stare at each other, their faces equally mystified.

“Hello,” Charles says, smile tentative, and presents his large right hand to the boy. “I'm Charles. I'm a friend of your father's.”

The boy does not take the proffered hand. He continues to stare at Charles full in the face with those large, dark, piercing eyes. Hayden says something incomprehensible.

“English, please,” Haytham commands gently.

“You have grass eyes,” the boy declares with utmost solemnity.

Charles looks up at Haytham, brow beetled.

“Green, Hayden,” Haytham says.

“Green,” the boy agrees.

“We're working on his English vocabulary,” Haytham says, mussing his son's hair affectionately. “And his manners, apparently. Hayden, take his hand.” The boy's hand all but disappears in Charles' gloved one. “You're the first white man he's encountered aside from myself, I suppose.”

“Firm grip,” Charles notes, releasing the boy's hand. “Very good. You'll be as strong as your father one day.”

Hayden beams at him. Charles grins bemusedly back.

“Ratonhnhaké:ton,” says Ziio.

“Hen, ista?”

She says something in Mohawk to the boy. Haytham makes out the words for potato, onion, and carrot. The boy sheepishly replies, makes some word of protest, but Ziio gives him that look, the face that all women learn the instant they become mothers and the boy submits. Hayden gives Charles another searching look, and then scampers off to the house, vanishing behind the bearskin that serves for a door.

“I sent him to gather the makings for a stew,” Ziio explains, “It will be ready shortly.”

“Will there be enough for four?”

“Of course,” she says.

“Oh, no. I wouldn't want to be a bother,” Charles says quickly, straightening, donning his hat once more. “I should probably be on my way.”

“Don't be ridiculous, you only just got here!” Haytham objects merrily. “It's nearly evening; it'll be full dark sooner than you think. There's room enough for all of us.”

“I think not,” Charles says, frowning and shifting uneasily, his hand already on the pommel of his saddle. “I have business in the city.”

Ziio looks at Charles and manages a small smile. “Please, stay. Any friend of the Brotherhood is a friend of mine.”

Haytham's blood turns to ice in his veins. He looks at Charles. A muscle in his cheek spasms, a twitch so slight that had Haytham not been watching for it he might have missed it entirely.

“A hot meal would be delightful, madam,” He says, his voice carefully neutral, “But I'm afraid duty calls.”

“At least let me walk you back to the path,” Haytham offers. Charles' nod is reluctant. Haytham hesitates, looking at the packs, but Ziio tells him to go; she'll take care of it.

They are fifty yards into the trees before either man says anything.

“Which 'Brotherhood' is she referring to?” Charles asks, voice bow-string tight.

“The wrong one,” Is Haytham's soft reply.

“She thinks we're Assassins,” Charles growls, grimacing in disgust, “My God, Haytham, this is—I don't have words to describe what this is. It's depraved. What were you thinking?”

Haytham's gut roils. “I wasn't thinking, Charles, is that what you wish to hear?” He hisses back. “I never told her I was an Assassin.”

“No. You just let her see that damned hidden blade of yours and let her think—”

“To get access to the site, yes,” He said sharply. Ziio had noticed the broken symbol on his bracer when he had tracked her down in the wilderness. She had seemed to respond rather more warmly to him after that, confirming his suspicions that there were Assassins active nearby. So he had never lied, not technically, but letting her make her own assumptions about his affiliations... Well. That had perhaps been worse.

“And when were you going to correct her misconception?” He demands, eyes flashing.

“I never intended to,” Says Haytham, stammering, “She was just supposed to be a means to an end. I never intended to love her, it just sort of... happened. I thought about telling her, but... it just...”

“No, I rather suppose telling her the truth would ruin your delusional portrait of domestic bliss,” Charles growls back. “I stand corrected. She won't leave you, when she finds out—she's more like to slit your throat.”

And this gives Haytham pause. She wouldn't. No. No. Of course not. Because—

“She loves me,” Haytham reminds Charles, reminds himself.

“She can't love you, Haytham, she doesn't even know you!” Charles snaps loudly enough that his words reverberate in the trees and cause the birds to pause in their song.

“And I suppose you do?” Haytham responds, just as vitriolic. Charles' mouth thins and Haytham watches the blood rise in his cheeks but it's not enough to cow him.

“I do know you, sir. Sometimes I think I know you better than you know yourself,” Charles says more quietly. “You're so blinded by sentiment that you cannot see that you've built yourself a life on a powder keg. It's only a matter of time before it explodes and takes you with it.”

“Then in the mean time I'll put out as many fires as I can,” Haytham replies curtly.

Charles stares at him, frowning. There's that sympathy in his eyes again, mingled with regret. He then shakes his head, looks at Haytham again, and his eyes are cold. He's no longer Charles; he's Captain Lee, the soldier, the tactician. He mounts his horse. The poor beast looks half exhausted already; he'll probably need to make camp before nightfall.

“I've assigned men in Lexington and Concord, should you have need to get me a message.”

“Very well,” He replies. “Safe travels, Charles.” His protégé nods stiffly and then gives the horse a nudge with his spurs.

Haytham watches the man's retreating back for quite some time and then continues to stare long after he disappears from view. It was a good decision, naming Charles his second-in-command; the man was devoted to Haytham, but he was equally devoted to the Order and didn't shirk from speaking his mind. Charles was right. Damn it, he was always right. Charles managed to put into words all the disjointed feelings and pessimistic notions that have been plaguing Haytham for—well, years now. Part of him knew all along that this was a foolish endeavor; that he was letting sentimentality and weakness cloud his unerring judgment, but he had never wanted to believe—to even consider—that he was making the wrong decisions.

For one of the few times in his strange, driven life, Haytham Edward Kenway doesn't know what to do. He stands there, idly stroking the Precursor artifact at his neck. He can't live between two worlds; he has to pick one before the other forces his hand and makes his choice for him. Birds sing and chirp, squirrels flit after one another in the trees. There is the slap of water in the distance, maybe a trout, maybe a beaver. He wants a distraction from his own thoughts but cannot find one. He grinds through scenarios and courses of action in his head, but each one is more grim and abhorrent than the last and his stomach clenches at the idea of all of the potential loss.

Something touches his elbow and he flinches, instantly on guard, but it's Ziio.

“Ah! You startled me.”

“Not an easy thing to do,” she says. She's smiling in that enigmatic way of hers. Charles is right, but this is right too, the way she fits so well against his body, the way she instinctively tilts her face just so to meet his when he leans down for a kiss. He enfolds her in his arms, smiling back, and Charles' recriminations and admonishments melt away, a vague and disquieting dream only remembered in fragments after waking. Even just the smell of her is intoxicating—earthy, dark and exotic. “You must have been far away.”

“I suppose so,” he says. She cannot know how true her statement is.

“Are you and Lee fighting?”

“Not exactly,” he says, and smooths a hand over her ebony hair. “Just a difference of opinion.”

“Mmm.” Her hand rests on the small of his back. “Sounded like you were arguing.”

He wonders how much she had heard. Not much, he supposes, otherwise she wouldn't be smiling at him. “Charles is having some troubles, that's all.”

“Anything I need to concern myself with?”

“If you're asking if I need to leave, then no. I'm sure he can handle it.”

“Good,” She says, grinning slyly, and gives him a playful swat to the ass.

“Madam! Contain yourself!” He gasps in mock outrage.

“I will not,” Ziio laughs, grinning like a girl half her age, and pinches the back of his thigh through the fabric of his breeches.

“Then I will have to restrain you,” He purrs in her ear.

“You can try,” She says provocatively, and grabs him about the waist.

Somehow they end up on the ground, gasping, breathless from laughter, Haytham's back wet from moss and leaves and Ziio is straddling him, her knees to either side of his waist. His groin is pressed tantalizingly beneath her and he can feel the want stirring in his gut.

“Ah, it appears you win, my darling.”

“Only because you let me,” She teases. Then her smile fades and her face becomes more solemn, her dark brown eyes searching the steel gray of his. “Haytham?”

“What is it?” He replies cautiously.

“You would not...” This time she frowns outright. “I do not ask about the nature of your work because I do not think I want to know, but... You would not keep something from me, would you?”

“Never,” He whispers without a moment's hesitation. He reaches a hand up to stroke the side of her face. She leans into his touch.

He's appalled by the way the lie falls so easily from his lips, hates himself for how convincing it sounds. It shouldn't be this easy to mislead her; she should have been able to see right through it. He can see it in her face that she's turning the word over in her head, considering. And just like that, she smiles again. The storm passes gently by. She's shrugged off whatever suspicions she might have because she wants to believe him, doesn't want to think of the alternative and all that implies. Ziio bends down; her hair falling around him, her lips brushing the shell of his ear in a way that she knows makes him shiver in delight.

“I am a terrible mother,” She says.

“You are no such thing,” He counters, not letting his relief show on his face. His hands find her firm, slim waist under her loose-fitting garment.

“I am,” Ziio insists, “I told Ratonhnhaké:ton to gather carrots from the larder for the stew.”

“So?”

“There are none. But he is stubborn, like you. He will search for a quarter of an hour before thinking of looking for help.”

Haytham stares up into her mischievous eyes, puzzled. “But why would you—” She rolls her hips against his and he grunts, blood immediately rushing to the area. “Oh,” He gasps.

“'Oh,'” She agrees, smirking.

In two months it will be summer. The expert that Haytham had requested, Mr. Thompson, will arrive in the Colonies and Haytham will show him the site. The Templar scholar will tell him yes, that the diameter of the hole in the cave is indeed similar to the dimensions of an Apple, the most powerful of the Pieces of Eden. Later, Ziio will find Mr. Thompson at the Precursor site making rubbings of the hieroglyphic-like markings. Thompson'll put up a fight, but in the end she'll pin him to the ground with a knife to his throat and he'll tell her everything—about the Templars, their ambitions to buy the land upon which the cave sits, and how Haytham had been the one to mastermind it all.

Tears streaming down her cheeks, she'll slit the man's throat right there in the cave. Ziio will come back to their little homestead, screaming and raging, her hands still covered in blood. She'll take their sobbing and terrified son into the forest, deaf to all of Haytham's pleas and excuses, and whirl on him when he tries to follow. She’ll slash his arm with a blade so keen that he won't realize he's cut until his arm is hot and slick with his own blood.

Haytham will abandon the homestead. He'll turn up at Charles' quarters in Boston, weeping and insensate with drink, and Charles won't even comment about how right he had been, he'll just welcome his broken friend with open arms. He'll let Haytham's grief run its course and he'll be there to put the pieces back together. He'll admit to Charles that the younger man had been right all along, that he'd been a fool to even try to pursue anything outside of the Order. Charles will merely nod, and then he will tell Haytham about some interesting rumors that Hickey had heard from smugglers passing through Boston. Stories about strange lights in the ruins of an ancient temple in the heart of the deepest, densest jungle.

But Haytham doesn't know any of this, of course. Couldn't even be persuaded to give a damn. Not now, not with her body so close to his, not after so long apart. Her body is lithe and strong beneath his hands, her skin silky and soft over hard, supple muscle. He kisses her and she melts, spreading her body over his. Even through the layers of fabric he can feel the heat of her core near his straining flesh. He pushes aside her tunic and eases a hand into her loose-fitting trousers and Ziio knows what he's about immediately because she moans, pushing up her hips so that he can sink his fingers inside. He marvels at the wet, silky heat of her, delights in how the muscles tremble and flutter around his fingers and he groans to think what she'll feel like when he's sheathed himself inside her.

“Haytham,” She hisses, breathy, ever impatient, but there's something... off about it. Her voice is too deep, bears an edge of irritation. His hand stills and he opens his eyes. Ziio is still staring down at him, long dark hair framing her face, lips parted and flushed, pupils blown with lust.

“Is something wrong?” He murmurs.

“Don't stop,” She gasps, clenching down on his fingers, so he adds a third, his thumb caressing her clit and she shudders. Her moan is pure aphrodisiac. Then she snaps, “Stop that!” and this time it's clearly not her voice, it's a man's voice, sharp and aggravated. Before he can ask what in hell is going on her hand snakes inside his breeches, finds his cock, strokes him until he's rolling his hips to meet her, gasping and completely at her mercy.

And then he really is gasping, because someone drives a sharp elbow into his guts.

Haytham's eyes fly open and it's not Ziio. It's Connor. And he looks none too pleased.

A/N: Here's Part 7.5 of the First Word series. Yeah, I'm still in denial that this is a multi-chapter fic

"Evening gentlemen."

Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked as his ears picked up the sound of an approaching voice that carried an upper-class English accent. Curious, he turned his head to glance over his shoulder in order to see the new arrival. He was a tall, handsome middle-aged man, elegantly dressed - in an immaculate charcoal-colored cloak trimmed with gold worn over a navy-blue coat with a matching tricorn hat - who commanded the attention of all the Alphas seated at the table. The orphan couldn't help but stare in awe, and his near reverent gaze was shared by another.

"Master Kenway," Charles Lee greeted as he rose out of his chair to greet the older male with a firm handshake.

In all three of Ratonhnhaké:ton's encounters with Mister Lee, he was always boorish and arrogant, even when he was trying to be nice. So it was a rather strange sight to see the younger Alpha behave so differently. He clearly respected this Master Kenway (and why did that surname seem familiar?) as did the others who did not rise but clearly regarded him in respect.

Maybe 'Master Kenway' is their boss? The orphan guessed, and wondered what kind of business they ran.

"It has been a long time, sir."

"Quite, and it's good to see you again, Charles," the man turned his attention to those still seated. "I trust everyone is well?"

The other Alphas at the table nodded - with the exception of Mister Hickey, who gave thumbs up, as he continued sucking the face of the Omega in his lap. Mister Johnson also stood to shake Master Kenway's hand, as did Mister Pitcairn, and finally Mister Church.

"It's good to have you back, Haytham."

Haytham?

Ratonhnhaké:ton knows that name fairly well. In another language, ii meant 'Young Eagle', and the little Mohawk has always had a fascination with birds of prey. It was also the name that belonged to his father. His English father, who had been physically absent from his life, with only a journal that mother had kept as a sentimental keepsake.

She had told her son not to read it, that he was too young. But Ratonhnhaké:ton was such a curious child. Between two and three years old, he could read very well, and had already absorbed quite a number of his mother's books whenever it got too cold, or too dark, for him to go out play. So whenever mother was busy and he didn't feel like playing, the Omega would take it into the woods and to try to read and absorb as much he could...which was sadly not much.

Even at four-years of age, he still did not understand most of the complex words and phrases, that even the adults in his village didn't know. Mother was becoming suspicious, so he stopped asking. Instead, Ratonhnhaké:ton used the elegant script in the pages as a writing reference guide. He would sit on the ground - sometimes for hours - and he practiced copying letters and words that were repeated often, such as:

Reginald - As an acquaintance of his father's, and often wrote it because this name because it started with an 'R' just like his.

London - A far away place, across an ocean, where his father had lived before.

Templars - A group of people that his father was apart of. He wasn't sure what kind of work that they did, but they were the reason his father had traveled so far away from his own home.

So he would sit, using a stick to write in the dirt, the words that made up his father's life. Once finished, he would proudly show off his hard work to Kanen'tó:kon before they had to be destroyed. He tried not to feel too angry, or annoyed, when his best friend would laugh and point how the connecting squiggly lines looked like a bunch of sick snakes.

Sometimes, when Ratonhnhaké:ton was too tired to read or write, he'd curl up with the journal in his arms. He never meant to fall asleep with it, but it would always happen, and he'd dream. The little Omega would dream of being in the forest, walking beside a shadowy silhouette whom he would affectionately call Raké:ni. Together they would spend the entire day playing, running, and swimming. When sun started to set in his dream world, strong arms would pick him up, and carry his small form upon his back as they made their to the village where his mother was waiting.

A complete family.

Ratonhnhaké:ton would always wake up alone, clutching the leather bound book tightly to his chest.

A journal that had the name of: Haytham E. Kenway printed upon the first page.

Don't blame him. The US was founded on greater freedoms (but not total) from government. Governments tend to be less extreme (with exceptions) than people themselves, and, in his disadvantaged position, Connor would have far less to fear from governed order than rampant freedom.

Oh WOW.

:O

Connor realizes who his father is first. That's...quite amazing. I wonder how Haytham will react to the little boy who (probably) looks a lot like Ziio! Is this their reunion? :D

Oh my.

It's like the sense that something utterly fantastic has just occurred, and I'm left gaping as it whizzes me by. The filled in information on the map, Desmond of all people, it's simply amazing. So Haytham's mission (and probably the reason he was brought back in time) is to prevent Desmond's mistake.

That's utterly brilliant, anon.

I've got to disagree with your assessment. There wasn't a lot that happened physically, but I found the revelations of the Assassins and the deepening mystery for both Connor and Kanen’tó:kon to be very engaging. The continuous buildup is lovely and really helps set the tone.

Well, lil!Connor didn't have the journal for long after the fire, and looked like he was reading before Ziio caught him, so I'm guessing he learned that way and retained the memory of Haytham's name and that he was a Templar.

In Pursuit of Happiness

Chapter 14 - Misunderstanding Wolf

When Connor had noticed that Faulkner and Lee had both disappeared, he felt a moment of panic. Lee had been behaving strangely ever since he set foot on Connor’s ship for the first time. If he did something to Faulkner...

He glanced around with something almost akin to panic in his eyes before he spotted his first mate and Lee together by the railing.

They didn’t look very happy.

Still fearing for his first mate, Connor waved to one of his crew, the only one who had talent in steering a ship.

“Keep her going,” he instructed the man as he handed the wheel over and made to move towards Faulkner and Lee.

His crew would be disappointed in him, he knew, but Faulkner’s safety was more important.

He reached them just in time to hear Lee snarl at Faulkner and, “I would go through much more than that for him.”

Oh?

“For who?” he couldn’t help but ask.

The thought of Lee, of Charles Lee, caring for another person that way was...bizarre. The man had never shown anyone even an inkling of affection, with the sole exception of Connor’s father.

Ah.

Was that it then?

Was Lee in love with Connor’s father?

Connor considered it.

From what he had seen, Lee was oddly affectionate with his father, almost an overwhelming flow of respect and admiration whenever he spoke with him. Though they clearly did not agree on some things, Lee was always careful in the way he spoke around his father. His practically followed his father around like a dog did his master.

Connor rolled the thought around in his mind, testing it.

Such an odd notion, the thought of the two Alphas together, particularly with their religious restriction against the joining of those not able to breed children. As two male Alphas, their union could not create children, and Connor had learned that, for those who followed the white Christ, such a union was considered an abomination.

He understood why it was that way for the Christians, though he did not agree with it. The white man’s societal structure was such that rigid roles were assigned to those who carried children and those who sired children. Those who carried were assumed to need protection, and those who sired assumed to be naturally more equipped to give protection. Hence, the colonial society gave power to those who sired in the expectation that they would protect and nurture their families.

Connor’s own people had a far different structure, where the choice of bearing versus siring was divorced from the choice of societal role. Two male Alphas or two female Omegas together could be rather rare, but it did not threaten the social structure the way it did for the colonials.

But Lee and Connor’s father?

It was odd. It was truly odd.

Offhandedly, he wondered how Faulkner had found out and why he was apparently taunting Lee with the information.

Surely, it was not worth the rage Connor could see Lee falling into.

“Nothing!” Lee blurted.

Connor noted that he was glaring harder than ever at Faulkner.

This was not good, he needed to extricate Faulkner before he got himself killed.

He turned towards his first mate.

“We will be heading into a very dangerous section of the reef. Join me at the helm or else we will be drifting on plywood this evening.”

He was pleased to see Faulkner sober immediately.

Nothing like a little reminder that the lady in Faulkner’s life needed him. He was the perfect first mate whose affection lay with no one but his lady of the sea.

Connor had used it often in the past when it looked like Faulkner was getting himself into trouble going up against the rough Alphas who liked to annoy Connor.

He adored the old man and wouldn’t let him come to harm while he was nearby.

Although it always seemed rather coincidental to him that the Alphas he went up against were the same ones that irritated Connor to no end, with their clumsy propositions and lewd suggestions.

“I’ll join you in a minute, Captain.”

Connor took one final wary glance at Lee and then nodded.

He need not worry over a minute’s worth of conversation. Even Lee couldn’t erupt during that short time.

Turning his back on them, Connor made his way back to the helm. The most dangerous part of the reef was soon advancing, and he would need his full attention to circumvent them.

----

Both Charles and Faulkner watched as the Omega turned his heel and walked briskly back to the helm. The wind whipped Connor’s clothes about, and Charles salivated to see one trouser-covered buttock briefly exposed.

His wife was delicious, utterly delicious.

And he was not going to let some first mate stop him.

“You can no more stop me from wooing Connor than you can stop the tide from receding from the beach. If I choose to make him mine, there is precious little you can do to hinder me.”

Faulkner glared at him.

“Last warning, Lee. Stay away from Connor.”

And then he whirled around and made his way back to the helm.

Charles sneered as he watched the old man nod at Connor and begin to yell Connor’s instructions to the crew.

It was an empty warning. Meant to scare and do little else. There was nothing that Faulkner could do as, more than half the time, Connor was on land and on Brotherhood business.

There was nothing he could do, and, if Charles wanted to, then he could remove the thorn before it became a problem.

He looked, then, at the grateful smile that his wife gave the old fool and the familiarity with which they spoke to each other and transmitted orders.

Connor would be devastated, he knew, if he did something to the meddlesome first mate. And the last time he had threatened someone Connor cared about...

Charles’s shoulders slumped in realization.

He would need to work around the old fool.

The more I read this fill, the more exciting and eager I get... what's going on here. Know this, sweet anon: I wake up every morning and check my mail with utter excitement, happy whenever I see an update. Yep, this fill makes me happy <3

LOL, well had this been in the Master of the House timeline, Connor would have been correct that Lee was holding a torch for his father. Oh, what a shock it will be to learn that his former mortal-enemy is in love with him... and that they had been married in an alternate future where everything went to hell.

Fortunately, Charles has learned from his mistakes. But I'm sure that even with his knowledge of the future, an extra decade of patience and experience - wining the war against the Crown will be a lot easier to obtain than Connor's heart.

OP here!

Wow, this was a great peek into Haytham's past. I like that ToKW Haytham managed to spend some time raising Ratonhnhaké:ton with Ziio. And Charles is utterly amazing - cold, but loyal, and perhaps a bit jealous? He doesn't seem too upset that Haytham returned to his home.

And the twist at the end? Fantastic!

A/N: Not sure how I feel about this part... hopefully I'll be a little nicer to Connor soon. Poor baby.

Oh Spirits, could this man be his father?

The young Omega could not tear his eyes away from Mister Haytham Kenway, who took a seat at the vacant head of the table. Charles Lee took a seat on the Alpha's right, and unlike before, seemed utterly content and chatting away animatedly about current events. When the older man - who possessed his father's name - spoke, Ratonhnhaké:ton struggled hard to match the tone of that voice with certain passages from the journal.

A futile effort. Too many years had past. With too much bloodshed, pain, and loss. As he grew older, he was starting to forget a lot of things. Talking to Mister Johnson earlier had proved his grasp upon his own native tongue was slipping.

Suddenly, dark gray eyes were suddenly upon him, and the Omega actually flinched back, waking Spado in response. The Alpha seemed surprise at that his presence there, which made the Omega feel a little pleased that he wasn't being ignored like before. But only a little, because now all the other Alphas were paying attention to him, even Hickey, after the Omega he had been fondling had gotten up to leave.

"I'm terribly sorry for startling you, child," Mister Kenway spoke directly to him with a pleasant smile before glancing over to Mister Johnson. "An acquaintance of yours, William?"

The Irishman shook his head and nodded to Mister Lee. "We just met actually, the lad is one of Charles'."

"Truly?" At this, Mister Kenway's eyebrows raised in surprise as he turned to the man sitting next to him who was turning a faint pink. "It seems a lot has changed in my absence."

"We are not acquaintances. The boy went out of his way to repay a coin I dropped in front of him months ago. I'm surprised he actually found me..." Charles Lee frowned. "How exactly did you find me?"

"'E's probably asked all the shop keeps in town for a bloke who spends all his money on dog treats for a bunch of mangy purse-size pooches."

"I wasn't asking you, Thomas."

"Actually..." Ratonhnhaké:ton hesitated as the group turned their attention to him once more, "when I am looking for someone - even if I have never met them before - they glow gold in my eyes, and I can see them from far away."

The confused and disbelieving looks they gave him was not unusual. He's tried explaining his abilities several times to his fellow orphans and some of the adults who hired him. But they would give him funny looks, sometimes call him a freak, or more often enough, a liar. So, Ratonhnhaké:ton has kept this strange ability, that no one he has ever known possessed, to himself... until now.

Because...

The Omega slowly lifted his amber-brown eyes to meat surprised silver ones.

Because... there might be someone in this world who actually understood.

Haytham Kenway was silent for a long moment before he leaned forward in his seat, a scrutinizing and studying the orphan's face intently.

"How old are you, child?"

"I am... I just turned nine a few weeks ago, sir."

Already he could see the Alpha - and a few of his colleagues - already doing the deduction in their heads. Haytham hesitated with his next question.

"What is your name?"

"Ratonhnhaké:ton."

The English gentleman opened his mouth, and it almost seemed that he was going to make an attempt to pronounce it, but shook his head.

"That is certainly a mouth full."

"The boy is a member of the Kanien'kehá:ka," Mister Johnson informed him. "A survivor who escaped the slave-markets."

Gray eyes suddenly look pained and lips thinned into a grim line.

"My associates and I had worked with your people many years ago," Mister Kenway spoke with remorse. "I am sorry to hear what had happened, and for your loss."

Ratonhnhaké:ton felt his pulse speed up. Was this man... was he truly...?

'You are sorry, but why were you not there?' The boy wanted to blurt out, but the words refused to leave his mouth. 'Why were you not there for mother? Why were you not there for me? Why were you not there to help me save her?!'

He looked down and tried to stop his shaking hands as he started petting Spado's amber-brown fur. He tried not to think of the fiery blaze that had consumed his village. Tried not to think of his mother who lay bleeding, singed, and wounded underneath the debris. Had his Alpha father been there, he could easily freed mother and carried her to safety.

But Haytham Kenway had not been there. His mother was dead. All because of Ratonhnhaké:ton's weakness. He swallowed hard, realizing he shared more than half of the blame. He was an Omega. He was weak.

What would a man like Master Haytham Kenway, who was admired by strong Alphas, have use for an Omega halfbreed weakling of a son? Ratonhnhaké:ton swallowed hard and gently set Spado onto the floor as he stood. He turned, without looking, and bowed slightly towards a stunned Mister Lee and Mister Johnson.

"Th-Thank you for the meal... I have to go now."

He was at the stairs before they had a chance to blink twice. Ratonhnhaké:ton felt his heart hammering loudly against his chest, and he gripped the railing with white knuckles, before glancing back to the table. He locked eyes on the man who might be his father, who froze - half-sitting and half-standing. With a deep breath, the young Mohawk forced himself to ask one of the questions that had piqued his curiosity all throughout his youth.

"What does the 'E' in your name stand for?"

The familiar stranger stared at him, completely baffled.

"Edward..."

Mister Kenway's response was spoken so softly, that it was barely audible; but Ratonhnhaké:ton heard it and felt his chest tighten. He gave a brief nod, and turned to flee. He burst out of the doors of the Green Dragon, and into the cold, dark and dimly-lit street. Ignoring the sting of the cold wind against his exposed skin, the Omega began running with no particular destination in mind.

A howl of wind roared harshly against Ratonhnhaké:ton's ears, as snow covered his tracks.

Oh no, Connor! Don't give up hope! ): And just when Haytham's brain is starting to work and put two and two together.

Poor 'lil Connor.

I wonder when they find him again. Running off in the middle of a snowstorm like that, with only the thin clothes on his back... //pets lil Connor//

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Re: you can't take the sky from me [4/?]

Re: In Pursuit of Happiness 13

lose one's heart (3/3)

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Re: One-shot: Heart's Desire

Second Fill - The Honey Moon - Part 41a/?

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Re: In Pursuit of Happiness 13

Re: In Pursuit of Happiness 13

OP

Re: Second Fill - The Honey Moon - Part 41a/?

FILL ---------10 (part 1) of ? -------Enthralled

FILL ---------10 (part 2) of ? -------Enthralled

One-shot: Familiar Stranger 1/2

Re: Second Fill - The Honey Moon - Part 41a/?

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In Pursuit of Happiness 14

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