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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Wrrrrrryyyy!!! /sobs/ everytime Charles reflects on his past and his Connor, gets me in the feels every single time! And while Moth!Charles might be jealous of him, he's also jealous of his counterpart for still having what he had lost though not deserving any of it.

Btw thanks for the making love on the lawn idea, I'm going to have to use it later :)

Finding Connor

Chapter 21

The other Charles was troublesome.

Charles gritted his teeth as he watched Doctor White try to convince the man to let Connor's old friends and comrades visit him.

"He needs friendly faces about him, ones that do not see him as an empty vessel for lust and ones that do not resent him for detesting you."

It was a very reasonable argument. Even Charles, as generally apathetic as he was about medicine, knew of the beneficial effects that friends, trusted comrades and family could bring. Why, whenever he was ill, he sought out the company of Spado and his other dogs. Just having their softly panting bodies next to him as he stroked their soft fur always made him feel better and livelier, and he always seemed to recover faster too.

"Out of the question."

His counterpart, it seemed, did not agree.

"Mr. Lee..."

"Commander."

"Commander Lee, as his professional physician, I must recommend that you allow your wife near the things and people with which he has good association."

The other Charles shrugged.

"I allowed him to be taken outside, did I not?"

Charles could clearly see Doctor White struggling not to punch the man.

"Yes," the good doctor said through gritted teeth. "But it is hardly enough to spur any change. He needs familiar faces, people who truly care for him and wish him well."

"And are you not a friendly face?"

"I," Doctor White stressed, "am only one friend. The more you surround him with, the better. Doctor Davies is correct that there is little physically wrong with him. He was a bit malnourished, no doubt due to his extended lapse, but it should slowly be corrected with his new diet."

"I fail to see the problem then."

"He does not wake. There is a problem. We know it rests not in the body, so it must rest elsewhere."

"But do you know what it is?"

Charles could see Doctor White slowly counting to ten.

"No, but I believe it is an affliction of the mind."

"You believe." It was only slightly mocking.

Doctor White did not rise to the bait.

"Yes, I believe. And since this suggestion is relatively harmless, I do not understand your refusal to consider it."

Charles thought he understood his counterpart's refusal. This Connor had been an Assassin, and from what he understood, his counterpart had kept a number of his wife's recruits alive as collateral. If he let them near him...

"Surely your wife must have many friends to choose from?" He suggested. He did not know for sure about this Connor, save the association with Doctor White, but his own Connor had been friends with a man named Dave, Ellen, a number of the people in Boston, Noah, Clipper...

Though he supposed Noah would never have survived in this world. He had blossomed only under the guidance of the Templars and without that...

Without that, he would have starved in the streets when the orphanage kicked him out as he came of age. Or forced to prostitute himself. What terrible thoughts these were to be having about their best spymaster and Binns' adopted son, but it was very probable that that had been Noah's fate in this world.

A thought came to him.

"You mentioned that your wife was friends with a Clipper C-Wilkinson?"

His counterpart growled.

"Collins now. The Omega's name is Collins."

Ah yes. The Omega had also wed James in this world, though it was likely not by choice.

How twisted they had all become. All strange this world was, and all because the other Charles had had the audacity to strangle Connor.

"What about Mr. Collins then? Surely, as you are well acquainted with his husband, it should be no difficulty?"

His counterpart scowled and threw a furtive glance at Doctor White.

"I do not know him well. I do not trust him in my house."

Charles lifted an eyebrow in surprise. Really. And he had still given him away to James?

"Do you not trust his husband then?"

"Of course. James, as you know, is of an impeccable character. A bit soft at times, but stalwart."

"Then," Charles continued, "can you not consult with him for his opinion? If he vouches for his wife's good behavior..."

The other Charles looked displeased at that.

"It can do no harm to consult him, at the least."

His counterpart scowled again.

"I do not see the point. James is a busy man, and I would not call upon him for no reason."

Charles stared incredulously at him.

No reason? The chance to help his wife while mitigating the risks of letting ex-Assassins near him was 'no reason?' Did the man wish his wife to recover at all?

"Well," Charles thought about it. "What about his other friends?"

He turned to Doctor White.

"Does Mr. Lee have any other friends? Acquaintances?"

Doctor White nodded.

"There is Ellen, a seamstress," and Charles started at that, "Big Dave, a blacksmith, old man Faulkner who was Connor's first mate though he has not yet returned from a months long trip down south, Norris and Mi--"

"No," Charles's counterpart interrupted, "I will not allow them into my house."

Charles stared at him. This was ridiculous. This was beyond ridiculous. The man was deliberately hindering his wife's progress at this point for no reason!

Ellen and Dave were certainly not Assassins or they would have been long jailed for it, and Charles could not comprehend why his counterpart would deny this.

"And why is that?" Doctor White asked.

"I need not answer," he replied. "Suffice to say, my wife will not see any of those...people. That is my final word."

Yes, Charles's counterpart was a problem indeed.

Charles shared a glance with Doctor White. The Omega looked as troubled as he felt.

If the man kept turning down their suggestions like this, if things continued on the way they had been...

Charles remembered how pale and wan this world's Connor looked. He remembered the purple bruises that Doctor White had uncovered, peeking slyly up at them from the opened nightgown as Doctor White worked to massage Connor's belly. They were mostly hidden, but one strayed too close to the edge of the nightgown, and Doctor White had pushed the cloth aside to uncover more.

It had infuriated them both, seeing those purple bruises on the Omega's hips, to know that not only was Charles's counterpart still slaking his lusts on his wife, he was doing so almost viciously.

As if he was taking his anger and frustration out on his helpless wife in a forced and rough coupling.

It made Charles feel ill, seeing those bruises. This Connor would never get better. He had daily proof of the atrocities that would greet him when he regained himself. And Charles would never be able to return home to his son.

This other Charles was beginning to be an obstacle. And obstacles needed to be removed.

Thanks anon! :) Connor always seemed to be to be very naturey, what with the climbing trees and everything. The grass bit seemed so very...appropriate. :D

<3 Leonardo. But yeah, it's awesome that Connor now has hidden blades. :D

Wow, I knew moth!Charles would be stubborn... but not by this much, too afraid to lose his prize or to jealous that other people would be near his wife. But it looks like moth!Charles' is digging his own grave here, but I'm worried what will happen to FW!Charles if he goes through with it after all there are still the Templars and the Lee servants to deal with.

My update might be a little later tonight or tomorrow, but at least I'm off and will have more time to write.

A/N: Sorry so short, was busy today and will try to write more while I'm off.

The wild frontier was just as beautiful as Connor had remembered to be... and cold as well. He shivered, drawing his long coat tighter around himself as he guided Aquila along the path wile surveying the snow covered landscape. He could not help but reprimand himself for becoming too complacent with the luxury he had easily come to used to after marrying Charles.

But it was not so difficult for to become independent once more. He still knew how survive in the wild. How to hunt, prepare food and shelter, and defend himself against predators and whatever nature sent his way. The hunter also did not take any chances when traveling, switching to his second sight to make sure no one was following or planning to ambush him.

Fortunately, not many were aware that of his travels. Aside from his father, Noah, Clipper, Ronald and Mary; the public was convinced the half-native wife of the Commander-in-Chief was still weak and frail. Still recovering from his miscarriage and was kept cloistered inside the Lee family's guarded manor.

Benjamin Church would never see him coming.

Not until Connor had his hands around that bastard's throat. But he vowed that he wouldn't kill the surgeon too quickly. No, he was going to make that traitor beg for mercy. Mercy that would be denied. He would break every bone in the Alpha's body, laugh at his screams, before doing something about them. Perhaps cut off the snake's fork tongue and watch him drown in his own blood...

Yes... Connor liked that image his twisted mind began to conjure. Church deserved to bleed, just as he had when the baby in his belly had been lost. So much blood, that the Omega could have died along with his child, as was most likely Church's intention.

Realizing that he was glaring manically only at the path before him, the hunter tried to school his expression so not to let the murderous rage he felt show upon his features. He had done the same with George Washington, and would do so now until he had his hands on Church.

Hands that were begining to shake, and not because of fury welled up within him. It was getting colder, and the hunter realized he should have set up camp sometime ago. He really needed to focus, now more than ever. Nothing could get in his way.

With a tired sigh, he guided Aquila off the path to make camp.

His nightmares are vivid and disturbing. Aquila - his faithful mare - has on a few occasions, had to nuzzle him awake after a whole night of tossing and turning, while mumbling in his sleep. Connor had hoped that these dreams would remain forgotten as they had during the time he believed his dear little William was real. But, facing realty forced him to also confront his guilty subconscious.

In these horrid dreams, there is blood. Rivers of crimson that covers him from head to toe, threatening to drown him. Tiny little bloodstained fingers belonging to dismembered arms, would reach out and claw into his flesh, pulling him down no matter how much he struggled. He would try to shake off as many as he could, and swim, but tall waves of red obscured the shore as they crashed into one another.

Why mommy?

A chorus of children's voices would cry out with every sickening splash.

Why did you let us die?

He would wake up sobbing, begging for the spirits to forgive him. But the onslaught continued almost every night. Which made him glad he had found decent shelter, as he would have been kicked out of any inn for disrupting the guests of any inn he stayed at.

People would think him insane. He was certain Charles as well as the other Templars and the Lee family servants already had. But he was not crazy. Not yet. Connor wasn't quite sure what kept the pieces of his sanity sewn together anymore.

Perhaps it was this hunt he was completely trying to concentrate on. Or maybe it was how he would now be perceived by his Alpha. Or maybe it was the ominous blue rays coming from the tree tops that his eagle eyes spotted a few yards away.

"Kanen'tó:kon," he called out, "I know you are there, and would like to speak with you face to face."

//bites nails//

Wow, this is so suspenseful! And I love how you painted Connor's deteriorating sanity. The imagery of the tiny hands pulling him down, and his fantasies of torturing Church are so vivid. And so scary.

I wonder if Kanen'tó:kon has any ill feelings while working with him. Like a sense that something's not quite right...

//shivers//

Unfortunately, Moth! Charles never had his epiphany here. And the pressure on him to change from FW! Charles is only making him more stubborn. He doesn't see him as an enemy, but he certainly still distrusts him. So this leads him to do very, very stupid things...

Super busy tonight. Update tomorrow. :)

Well, passerby!Anon is currently screaming at their screen and mashing F5 like it would manage anything... This is a wonderful, wonderful fill, A!A, even though I doubt you are around to read this.

It would be so very lovely to read the continuation of this. It's so hard to find an omega fill that doesn't go by existing clichés, biological impossibilities, or contains outright poor writing. Something, which I am utterly thrilled to find this is without.

A/N: Was going through a writer's block, and just forced myself to finish this part /cringe/ I think I failed with the dialogued here

Connor considered himself lucky that the Assassin was a glowing blue and not the same fiery red when he was rushing to save Washington. If it wasn't for the second sight he had inherited from his father's line, the Templar might have been alarmed by the deadly glare Kanen'tó:kon was giving him as he approached. Allowing his vision to return to normal, he raised both his hands to show that he was not holding any weapon - aside from the obscured hidden blades - in a sign of good faith.

"I see that you have received my message."

The Assassin did not respond as he cautiously approached. Those dark brown eyes darted about, expecting an ambush, with a tomahawk clenched in one hand and a flintlock in the other. Connor had expected such distrust, after all they did not part on best of ways. He just hoped that after saving Kanen'tó:kon's life back at the gallows, his childhood friend would hear him out.

"Why did you ask to meet me out here, Ratonhnhaké:ton?" the Alpha queried as came to a stop a short distance away. "And why now after all this time?"

Connor took a deep breath before meeting the Alpha Mohawk's suspicious gaze before answering.

"I wanted to reinstate our truce."

Kanen'tó:kon scoffed in disbelief, "Do you truly believe me to be so naive? That I can trust you after what happened to George Washington?"

The Omega frowned at the seemingly still high regard his childhood friend still had for the dead man who had caused the enslavement of their people after the village was set aflame.

"Do not tell me you actually mourn for that man. After what he did to our people all those years ago. After he called you his friend but stood by and did nothing as you were hung. Washington deserved his fate," he growled in response even if he no longer felt the burning resentment he had for Charles' former. That man had been dead for nearly two years now. Besides, there was another Alpha who still lived that Connor hated more.

"But Charles Lee did not deserve his position," the Assassin shot back, his voice dripping in venom at the mention of the Alpha who had strangled him long ago. "Thanks to you, your husband now commands the Continental Army. The Templars have strengthened their noose around the colonies, and now this land will never be free."

Connor stared at the Assassin in disbelief. "You believe we fight for the crown?"

"I believe you think that your faction is fighting for freedom and equality," for a moment his childhood friend's gaze softened somewhat, "but your Inner Circle has a different agenda in mind."

His lips curved into a frown at the very idea but decided there was no harm in hearing Kanen'tó:kon out.

"Explain."

"They seek absolute control over the colonies, Ratonhnhaké:ton," the Assassin began as the two Mohawks circled one another. "My Brotherhood had believed your faction was backing the British, but instead they are manipulating both sides of this war in their favor. Once free of King George's rule, they will create a new government body. No doubt very similar, but with Templars in every seat of power."

Kanen'tó:kon stopped pacing, and frowned upon meeting Connor's unwavering stare.

"They sought to steal our people's land," he continued, "force them into selling at gunpoint for their own selfish..."

"As if you have some right to judge!" the younger Templar snapped with a cold glare that forced his Alpha friend to cease talking. "Master Johnson sought to own land in order to keep it and our people safe. Not only from the British, but those you blindly put your faith in."

Kanen'tó:kon opened his mouth to argue, but Connor immediately cut him off.

"What if I had not killed Washington, and your Patriot allies were to construct a new government body, creating laws that they claim to have the people's interest at heart. But it is their people who will benefit, Kanen'tó:kon."

He then nodded in the Assassin's robes with a frown, "Thanks to you and your lot, this war - which should have ceased with a parlay from both sides - has gone on longer than it should have. I do not know how much debt has accumulated over the years, but I do know who will pay for it."

"Despite all your contributions to their cause, the Patriot government would remove our people from their ancestral homes so they could sell the land. It will not be enough of course, so they will sell the land's inhabitants as well. After all, they had done so before..."

Kanen'tó:kon shook his head as he cut in, taking an intimidating step towards the Omega. "The Patriots offer Freedom..."

"Which I have told you is not universal," Connor argued.

"But it is a better offer than a gilded cage much like the one you have allowed yourself to be locked in!"

The Omega was startled by the outburst and the sudden flare of rage Kanen'tó:kon unleashed all of a sudden as he was grabbed by the shoulders.

"What happened to you, Ratonhnhaké:ton?" his best friend demanded, "what happened to that little boy who chose freedom, living in the streets as opposed to being a breeder? How could you... how could marry such an Alpha who only desires the very same thing?"

Connor saw red.

His Charles had given him everything. Love. Devotion. A beautiful home. A child - even though that child had been lost. Even the name Connor!

How dare this Assassin debase his Alpha in such a way?

Reaching up, he shoved Kanen'tó:kon away from him, with a snarl.

"Do not. Ever. Compare my husband to those vile, disgusting, Alphas."

The Assassin stumbled back a few steps, somewhat startled by the crazed look in those amber-brown eyes. "Charles Lee may not have been responsible for what happened to our village... but he is no less of a monster. He despises our people, and sees us nothing but vermin. When you fled New York, he hunted you like some dog and..."

Kanen'tó:kon was cut off by a burlap sack being hurled at him. The Assassin immediately caught it before it could hit him in the face. Dark brown eyes regarded it warily and then back at his fuming childhood friend who now had his back to him.

"In that bag, are your hidden blades," Connor spoke curtly. "Take them and go."

The Assassin took a moment to look inside the sack to see that the heirloom he had inherited from his mentor was inside, and it rather good condition. Immediately he put them on, while still glancing over at the other Mohawk who still refused to face him.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton..."

Connor growled, his fingers curling tightly into fists. Noah had been correct after all. This was a mistake. Kanen'tó:kon would never relinquish his grudge against Charles. Just as he never had for George Washington.

"Go, Assassin. I do not wish to see you ever again."

There could be no truce.

So be it.

He would hunt Church on his own.

Yeah, Connor is plummeting off into the deep end here. Which is to be expected as he feels immense guilt for his own miscarriage.

Was greatly inspired by the dating-Sim/survival-horror-puzzle-game Catherine, where the main character is suffering through reoccurring nightmares and starts to lose his sanity while he's awake. The protagonist, Vincent, is plagued by a particular nightmare with a giant bloody baby with chainsaw arms after he learns that the girl he cheated on might be pregnant. Really messed up, but the game is so much fun.

Crap sorry. Work materialized out of nowhere and ugh...

Tomorrow night. ):

Au contraire, anon, this was amazing! The dialogue is the best yet! You can really feel Connor's anger and frustration. And Kanen'tó:kon was amazing! He returned each and every one of Connor's attempts. Kind of makes you wonder if he's not wrong, and they're just both seeing through very biased lens.

Oh My God. DDDD:

I'm soooo sorry. Life has been eaten up and just no time to update. This weekend for sure. I will write multiple chapters to make up for it all. D:

That's okay, anon, RL happens. I can't update as frequently as I used to, even when I was off. A mix between too many distractions and writer's block. Yet for some reason I always find the urge to write when I'm working ^^;

Anyway, I look forward to the big update :)

Thanks anon! Poor Kanen and Connor, both think that the other is just too naive and manipulated by their own factions. Sorry, no update tonight either - got distracted another game where I played until my hands started to ache. Will try to have an update tomorrow.

In a flurry, father and son are chained about the neck once more and hurried down the long hall. No breakfast for either of them, such is Hickey's haste to get them to the throne room. Haytham feels wretched; his knees bruised once again, the muscles of his legs smarting and aching, some of the cuts that his son had doctored bleeding anew beneath his shirt. He staggers like a drunk, legs trembling, skin still aflame where he had been touched. The boy had been made to clean him before their departure. Haytham would have rather stumbled into the throne room with his pants around his ankles, still soiled, then to have had the boy forced to touch him in such an embarrassingly intimate way. But no one asked his opinion, of course.

Connor walks ahead of Haytham, head down, shoulders hunched, arms bound behind his back, hands clenched so tight that it's a wonder that they do not bleed. He can't even begin to imagine what the boy must be feeling. Disgust, probably. Hatred, for a certainty. Despair... He hopes not.

When they enter the throne room, Washington and some of his commanders are seated at a large table overflowing with charts, correspondence, and food. Food. Oh, God, the food—there's bacon and honeyed ham, sausage, freshly baked bread, fried eggs, cider. It's been so long since he's had anything but gray slop, stale bread and those damned herbs—it's almost enough to make Haytham forget about the man consuming it. Almost, but not quite. Washington's eyes flick up at their approach, chips of ice, and there's that old, familiar fear again; muscles in his throat and chest constrict, his blood turn cold in his veins, all his previous feelings of rebelliousness evaporating.

“Why such a delay?” Washington asks, annoyed.

“The savage attacked us,” one of the guards sneers.

“Unprovoked?”

The guard hesitates. “Not—entirely.”

Washington's attention turns to Haytham. He can feel his face burning from embarrassment, hot as a sunburn. “And him?”

“Took the brunt of the punishment.”

“Fine,” Washington says, apparently uninterested, and points his fork behind Haytham and Connor to where the banquette tables have been arranged into a circle again, legs facing out. “Leave the bindings on, I think. And the gag.”

The blood in Haytham's veins turns to ice.

One of the guards snorts. “So much for entertainment,” he hears the warden mutter.

They're going to kill him. They're going to kill his only son. His mind races. There's too many of them. Haytham is unarmed, weakened, he can't—but there's the Apple. It's there on an ornate stand next to the throne. If he can get to it, perhaps—but, no, the guard that holds his chain reaches under the table, secures the end of it around a leg of heavy oak. They're forcing the struggling Connor into the ring; he's growling past the rag stuffed into his mouth, doing his best to yank free, to stomp on the toes of the guards that man-handle him, but they're yanking his head back by his collar, cutting off his air.

Haytham watches, frozen. What does he do? What can he do? One of the guards grasps Haytham by the shoulders, forcing him down on his knees next to Washington's place at the table. Should he give himself away? Reveal that he's aware? Grovel and beg for the monster to spare his son? Would Washington even do it? He has only one bargaining chip left to him, the thing that Washington wants the most out of him—his mind. Would the monster let the boy go if he... if he submitted?

A ringing voice gives him pause.

“You're sick bloody bastards, every last one of ya!”

Haytham can't help the quick snap of his head towards the impromptu ring. There's another slave standing there, an iron collar about his scrawny neck, his tall, lean frame drowning in rags that may have once been black. There's something about the man that's familiar. Something about the eyes. It's hard to determine who he is, though; his face is so gaunt, so emaciated, every line of his face etched in grit and fury. He could be thirty, he could be sixty.

“Mind yourself, peasant,” a guard snaps.

“Or what? You'll beat me? Turn me into that?” He jabs a finger in Haytham's direction and the Templar fights the urge to recoil. “Go ahead. Try. I fuckin' dare ya.” His accent is unmistakeably Irish, low-country, working class.

Duncan Little, the Assassin. Haytham's surprised he hadn't recognized him sooner. Haytham's guts twist. Duncan's face likewise contorts in disgust as Connor is shoved forward over the barrier of tables, landing in an ungainly, struggling heap on the flagstones.

“What in the hell is this?” the Irish Assassin demands, lips pulled back in a snarl. Half of his front teeth are missing or broken.

“Your latest challenge,” one of the guards replies.

“Do you mean to have me kill an unarmed, bound chap?” He sounds incredulous and unnerved. When the guards back off, leaving Connor to the man's mercy, he scoffs, “Well, that's a new low...”

He reaches down—not to strangle the boy, but to grasp him under the arms, “C'mon, lad, up with ya,” he grunts. He winces from the exertion; Duncan may be taller, but Connor outweighs him by a good margin. Connor staggers to his feet, tries to say something, eyes wide and frantic, but the gag muffles his words. The Irishman tugs the fabric from his mouth. “There y'are, lad; never say I never did anything for ya.”

“Duncan!” Connor gasps, “you're alive!”

So, the boy knows the Irishman as well. Had the man been an Assassin in both lives?

Duncan's brow beetles. “Do I know ya, lad?”

The look on Connor's face is agonized. Of course Duncan doesn't know him. That would be far too convenient. Connor is the only person Haytham has found in this strange place to be aware of the true reality, the only one aside from himself to know that that this world is part of some insane fantasy.

“I...Well...” Haytham can see the boy's mind working, trying to come up with something that doesn't sound completely and utterly mad. “No, but I know of you, sir. From before,” he says finally as Duncan side-steps to remove the lashings from his wrists.

Connor is about to go on but somewhere there's the sound of screaming, followed by an agonized, distant wail that echos from down an anterior hall. Elsewhere in the building there's some other ungodly form of torture taking place. Both men look up at the sound, their faces troubled—and then the sound abruptly ceases. The implications of the silence is even more unnerving than the screaming.

“I know you as a Brother,” Connor says shakily, softly, when the two turn their attention back to each other. Had Haytham not been straining to hear, he would have missed it.

Duncan stares at Connor, face anxious. He seizes Connor about the shoulders, his face drawn, whispers something urgent that sounds like a question or a plea. Connor shakes his head slightly, dark eyes full of sympathy and concern, whispers something in kind that is likewise too soft for anyone but the two of them to hear. There's a brief, intense exchange. Whatever the discourse, it seems to bring peace to neither of them. Duncan lets out a deep breath, shoulders collapsing, brow beetled. He releases Connor and shakes his head.

“I suppose it doesn't matter what we used to be; only what we've become,” Duncan says with a glance to Washington and his men, voice rough. He steps away from Connor, never once presenting his back. He squares his shoulders and balls his large hands into sharp fists, bringing them up before his chest, every muscle in his body tensing.

“What is this?” Connor asks, clearly confused.

“Survival of the fittest, lad,” Duncan responds, and then pulls his right fist back, launches it, goes right for the face. Connor sees the strike coming, eyes wide and shocked—perhaps he can't believe that the Irishman would ever seek to strike him—and he just barely manages to knock the blow aside with his forearm.

“What are you doing?” Connor hisses. “We fight for the same cause!”

“Sorry, lad,” Duncan huffs, drawing his fists back in a defensive posture. “It's you or me. thought I'd give ya a fighting chance, but that's all the quarter I can afford to give ya.”

“I don't want to fight you!” Connor shouts.

“Well, good on you, lad, but I've not had any food for two days—and if beating you means I get to eat—“ He lunges at Connor, aiming high again, but Connor artfully dodges, landing the man a blow to the gut in retaliation, “—Ah, good right hook,” Duncan gasps.

He'll be fine, Haytham tries to tell himself. He's young. Healthy. He has a good thirty pounds of muscle on the man. But fear claws at his chest. If it were a pure contest of skill and strength, Haytham would have had every confidence that Connor would have been the victor, but he's uncertain. The boy's soft heart will be the death of him, he thinks, maybe not today, but soon. These chaotic bouts have a sort of system to them. Food is the prize. If a man wins a fight by killing his opponent, he receives full meals for two days. If he merely lets his opponent yield, he gets about half, just enough to keep his stomach from eating itself, but not much more than that. If he loses and the victor is merciful enough to let him live, he gets nothing. It drives even good men into desperate, half-starved, violent rages. More than that, it saps their willpower, makes them more susceptible to the Apple's influence.

Duncan's fist connects. Connor gasps, staggers back, hand pressed to his ribs, wincing, eyes flashing in fear and betrayal. There's nothing Haytham can do for his son. Haytham can't even beg on his son's behalf; they would know that Connor had helped him regain his mind and the boy's punishment would be all the worse. Haytham watches helplessly, all of his righteous anger and indignation replaced by concern and anxiety.

Connor could probably kill the man easily, but he's deflecting, on the defensive, pleading with Duncan—“We have to stop this, we are playing right into his hands!”—but it's no use. Duncan's blows are fast and brutal, meant for maximum damage, face set in grim determination—if he'd had any reservations about killing the stranger set before him, they're gone now, pushed aside in favor of a hot meal and living another day. Haytham wonders if there's something else driving the Irishman. Was Washington hanging something over him? Did the man have any family to exploit? Were there any other Assassins in the holding cells, their lives hanging on the outcome of the match?

They come together, grappling, Connor trying to restrain the other man, Duncan doing his very best to pound Connor's ribs and stomp toes before Connor lurches them to the ground, the two of them struggling for dominance.

Something moist and warm hits Haytham on the cheek. He looks down at the ground, puzzled. It's a bit of bacon, mostly white with fat, glistening with grease. Haytham looks up, narrowly avoiding locking eyes with Washington. The monster's lip curls and his eyes twinkle in evident delight. He raises his eyebrows expectantly and gives a curt nod as if to say well go on, then.

Haytham has never hated anyone so much in his entire life, wants to send his hidden blade right through one of the man's mocking blue eyes and straight into that sick, delusional brain—but he has no blade of course. Just his hands. And any attempt at murder at this point would be suicide. So, he plays the role that he has been forced to take. Haytham reaches for the bit of meat with his hand but he hesitates noting how crooked his fingers are. Reluctantly, he places his hand flat on the floor, does the same with the other, and picks up the morsel with his lips. The piece of meat is delectable after going so long without but his treatment is so revolting, so abhorrent that he has a hard time swallowing.

Haytham realizes that he's paying his son and Duncan more far too much attention for a supposedly drug-addled slave. He stares down at the floor beneath his aching knees, trying to affect an air of indifference, but his hands twitch in his lap every time he hears a pained grunt or gasp, his own hands tightening into fists, bunching into the fabric of his filthy trousers when he hears the sound of a connecting impact. But Washington's interference brings him back to the matter at hand, to the real conflict and the larger concern.

“...And we've gotten a letter from a Frenchie,” someone says. General Putnam, he thinks—his face is blocked by the table, Haytham can't see more than the man's booted legs under the table. There's a whiff of cigar smoke; it must be him. He's seated near Washington, facing the two men battling for their lives.

“Oh?” asks Washington, sounding bored. From the projection of his voice Haytham can tell that he's looking at the fight, not at his general. “What does it say, sir?”

Putnam's laugh is a harsh bark. “How the hell should I know, y'Grace? It's in French!”

“Arrogant, insufferable...” A rustle of parchment. “What was the messenger’s explanation?”

“Couldn't say,” Putnam says, sounding like he's trying and failing to keep the glee from his voice, “My boys'd riddled him with shot on first sight. By the time we figured out who he was, he was babbling away in French and couldn't make himself understood.”

“Dead now, I presume?” A Pause. “Lord Franklin, you know a bit of the language, do you not?” A rustle of parchment being passed from one hand to another.

Lord Franklin? Of course; Haytham had been scrutinizing the legs of the man seated next to Putnam, wondering who they belonged to. He's wearing slippers rather than shoes, and the fabric of his socks are pulled tight over grotesquely swollen and lumpy ankles. Gout, most like. He wonders what sort of hideous thing the man had done to earn the title of 'Lord.'

“I do, I can try to translate—Oh. Oh, yes, this is rather significant.” Franklin sounds excited, which probably bodes ill. “It appears that the addressee rightfully recognizes you as the—“

There's a howl of pain; Connor's—Haytham looks up, he can't help it—Duncan has a hold of his son's left arm, twisting it backwards at an unnatural angle. Haytham's heart rises in his chest, but he looks away again, has to keep listening, it's the only thing he can do that's useful now—

“As I was saying,” Franklin says irritably, ahem-ing and clearing his throat, “This document is addressed to the rightful king, sovereign of Massachusetts, New York, Connecticut—all of the colonies, in fact—and that he wishes to extend his hand in friendship and welcome his Majesty in—oh my.”

“What, Ben? Don't keep us in suspense,” Putnam chides.

“It's—this is signed by Louis himself. This is the King of France acknowledging your claim on the Americas.”

There's a silence punctuated only by Connor and Duncan's scuffling. “I don't get it,” Putnam says, breaking the quiet between the men. “I thought they hated us. They're still aiding the rebel scum in Philadelphia.”

“I've heard reports,” Franklin says, “that the French peasantry are growing increasingly unhappy with their situation. Some are aggitating for a revolution of their own. Perhaps by recognizing a fellow monarch over the absurdity and chaos of a democratic system—”

“There's still a goddamned armada at the mouth of the Hudson. Plainly no one's told them their boy-king is on our side,” Putnam rumbles, interrupting, his voice dark and mistrustful.

“Perhaps you're mistaken, Lord Franklin,” suggests Washington, sounding disappointed.

“No, this signature is genuine, I'm certain of it,” Franklin insists. “And this paper is from his Majesty's personal stationary—notice the crest? And perhaps they have sent word to Philadelphia and New York but it has yet to reach them; crossing the Atlantic is quite perilous in winter.”

“Well, then,” Washington says, “perhaps we should take this missive at face value, gentleman.”

He sounds inordinately pleased. Clearly his ego had been stroked by the affirmation that his actions have been just. Perhaps he feels that he is finally receiving the acknowledgment, recognition, and respect that he deserves.

“There's another page in a different hand, some emissary, apparently. The bearer of the letter—” Another shout from the ring, this time Duncan, accompanied by the snap of bone and the cheer of bloodlust from the spectators that have gathered—Haytham wills himself to keep his eyes to the floor, heart pounding in his ears.

“I really wish they would get that over with,” Franklin grumbles, probably annoyed at the second interruption.

“Loosin' your taste for battle, old man?” Putnam ribs him.

“The quick bouts are more interesting.”

“If his Majesty still had that'un in the ring, the wolf-boy'd probably be dead by now,” Putnam comments. Washington's hand descends and it takes every fiber of control in Haytham's being not to jerk away as Washington pats him on the head.

“It had become apparent that he wasn't going to be broken in by fighting,” Washington says. No. That was certainly true. Had Haytham had reservations about killing those who least deserved it? Yes, of course, but he put his survival ahead of theirs, compartmentalized their suffering and distanced it from himself. Fighting had been his entire life, he wasn't about to allow it to be the death of him. In the days that he had been a pit fighter and not a pet he had never once gone hungry and the killings didn't have the demoralizing effect that Washington had hoped for; he'd been as violent and resistant as the day he had been presented to the madman's court.

“How's that working out?” asks Putnam.

“He's certainly more pliable. But, no, he still resists my influence,” Washington admits sourly.

“His knowledge and skills would be a boon to our cause, your Highness,” Franklin reminds Washington.

“He's been behaving strangely ever since I put that savage in the same cell with him,” Washington notes. “Perhaps the stress of a constant companion will break him.”

“Not that savage there?” Putnam asks, incredulous. “That thing is an animal. Killed Benedict in cold blood 'fore he was able to raise the alarm. Massacred a score of men out in the wilderness.” Haytham feels a glow of pride, despite his deep unease.

“And yet he seemed to be quite distressed upon first seeing our little pet,” Washington remarks, tossing a bit of sausage to the floor. This time, Haytham doesn't hesitate. “I cannot begin to fathom the implications of such a thing.”

“Perhaps they knew each other, once,” Franklin suggests. His legs straighten and he lifts himself off his chair with a groan. Haytham catches the flash of spectacles and a bald pate over the edge of the table.

“You know,” Franklin muses, “there is a sort of resemblance between the two.”

Oh, no. No, he can't think that. God only knows what will happen if Washington figures out that the two men are father and son—he'll pit them against each other, he'll divide and conquer—

He hears the scrape of Putnam's chair. “Yes,” he remarks dryly, “their dirt gives them almost the same coloring.”

Franklin sighs impatiently, plopping himself back down. “No, you dolt. The set of the chin, the shape of the brow—“

“Your Majesty,” someone's anxious voice cuts him off. There's the click of rapidly approaching shoes on the flagstone. “So sorry to trouble you.”

It's Benjamin Church. Haytham has never been so glad to hear that scheming, treacherous bastard's voice.

“My dear Doctor Church,” Washington says, not unkindly, “what brings you by this morning?”

“A problem, unfortunately,” Church replies. “There is a man that would improve under your benevolent influence.”

“Oh?”

“The savage wounded two men; one will be scarred for life, but he should recover fully. The other man's fate is less certain. The force of the impact—I suspect there is some swelling in the brain. He may not survive the night, if his condition is not addressed.”

“I've always appreciated your attentiveness towards our men, Doctor,” Washington says with a touch of irritation, “but we were discussing matters of more import than one wounded soldier. You have always had my blessing to treat my men however you see fit.”

“My sincerest apologies, your Grace. I'm aware that you have many matters that require your attention,” Church says, “but the man is being most uncooperative. A simple trephination may alleviate his suffering, but he refuses to allow us to preform the procedure. He's also sobbing in a most unseemly way; he blames you for burning his family to death or some such nonsense. Screams it at the top of his lungs. Delusion due to the swelling, most like—he's not to be blamed for it—but he's making the other men most agitated. Some are threatening to kill him for slandering His Majesty's royal person.”

The screaming from earlier; that must have been the guard. Haytham puzzles over what he's just heard, unable to keep the frown from his face, and then understanding dawns. Yes! Of course, he'd nearly forgotten—Haytham had only seen the phenomenon once before. Sometimes, when someone that is controlled by the Apple is brought very near to death, the control over them is severed and they come back to themselves. Whether or not they lived long enough to enjoy their renewed freedom is left up to chance, however.

Another shout breaks him from his revery, and this time he can't help the snap of his head towards the ring. It's Connor. He has Duncan on the ground, pinned—but the man isn't about to yield. He's snarling, trying to buck Connor off, his fingers gnarled into claws. He's going for Connor's face, for his eyes. Connor tries to slap his hands away, tries to grab a hold of the man's wrists to restrain him, but Connor's left arm isn't cooperating and Duncan is too fast and far too desperate; his hands find purchase around Connor's thick neck.

Haytham can see the rising panic in Connor's eyes, the terror, his right hand clawing at the hands that constrict, vice-like, around his windpipe, left slapping uselessly and clumsily at Duncan's snarling face. Haytham watches, frozen, as his son's face begins to purple, reminiscent of that awful night at Fort George when everything had fallen apart. Washington and the others continue to talk amongst themselves but Haytham can't hear them, can't hear anything over the heart pounding in his ears and his son's rattling, desperate gasp.

Connor's right hand is a blur as it whips out to cover Duncan's face and the boy slams the back of the man's head into the stone floor. There's a little pop, like a pine knot in a fire, and Haytham knows what that sound means even before Duncan's hands loosen and fall, out-flung, as if he is set to be crucified, the strength leaving those wiry arms all at once. His mouth goes slack and his eyes open wide, as if shocked, but there's a vacant look to them. Haytham knows that expression, has seen it himself countless times before—Duncan is dead. His body will take a little time to get the message, but the Assassin is already gone.

There's some clapping, some hooting, as Connor gasps for air, chest heaving, eyes wide. “Duncan?” he asks tentatively, voice a rasping croak. He shakes the man, touches his cheek. No response. “Duncan?” he asks again, louder, this time with an edge of panic.

It's over. The relief Haytham feels is so overwhelming that there is no room for pity. Not for Duncan, anyway. People start to go about their business now that the grim show is over. Guards close in on the ring, blocking Haytham's view just as he hears an ugly, agonized sob.

Something catches Haytham's attention—a rock in an otherwise bustling stream of activity. It's a negro man, of average height, average build. Just a servant. Haytham almost dismisses him, but, no, something's off—it's the tension in his limbs, the way he's clutching the pitcher he carries so hard that it's a wonder the porcelain hasn't shattered in his hands. His face is stoic, unreadable—but those eyes are hot and furious, glaring murder at the center of the ring.

The negro must have felt Haytham's gaze because his eyes flick towards the high table and then the servant and the slave are staring right at each other.

It's Connor, Haytham realizes, the shock so acute that he's unable to keep it from his face.

Not his son, but Davenport's.

The dead boy that Haytham's son had replaced, in another place, another time. He's here, at court, and very obviously in his own right mind. But perhaps that's only obvious to Haytham. Those dark eyes look him over, widening in something like panic, studying the Templar's face, and Haytham can tell that Davenport knows as well, sees that Haytham is aware, cognizant, and the realization turns the man's eyes into chips of ice.

And then, just as quickly as it was brought on, the moment passes. Davenport's face relaxes, makes him look lazy and distant, his eyes all at once flat and disinterested, his posture slumped. He looks past Haytham as if not seeing him at all and then strides languorously away.

Haytham stares at the spot the Assassin had occupied, stunned, oblivious to what's going on behind him, around him. His mind whirls, wondering at the implications. At least he has enough presence of mind not to smirk.

Well, Haytham thinks, This should be interesting.

Oh! Yes, actually! I uploaded this chapter- and the next- to AO3! Here- http://archiveofourown.org/works/890227/chapters/1717217

A/N: Sorry so short, but at least I was able to move around that writer's block.

A couple days after his dreadful encounter with the Assassin, Connor had discovered a solid lead to his quarry. Church's men, renegade Templars, were guiding a convoy across the frontier to their camp, where he suspected their leader was waiting. So the hunter followed them for hours on foot, taking to the treetops to avoid being detected.

There were quite the number of armed mercenaries along the route. Church's men were paranoid. As they should be, given that these traitors were being hunted by both the Templar Order and the Continental Army alike. Unfortunately, their turncoat leader was a slippery bastard who has managed to evade both pursuers for months now, hiding within out in the frontier as they smuggled stolen goods to the Redcoats.

The hunter inwardly groaned as the convoy reached a fork in the road, and split into two groups. Connor wished his father were here, as a second pair of hunter's eyes would have been helpful. He had hoped Kanen'tó:kon would have joined him for this mission at least, considering how dedicated the Master Assassin was when it came to putting down Templars.

He shook his head and focused on the situation before him. Following one path would lead him to his objective, while the other would only give his prey more time to slip away if he were sighted. Unfortunately his eagle eyes could not give him indication of which way to go.

Trusting his instincts, he followed the group on the left. There were more guards along this path. Surely it would lead to Church, who would have most likely paid extra for the security.

Money well wasted. The hunter easily slipped passed the armed guards monitoring the road, using the trees and tall winter shrubs as cover. He silently took down the few lookouts along the way and caught up with the convoy as one of the wagons had broken a wheel.

Connor had to wait as the driver climbed down to inspect the damage, curse, unsuccessfully try to get the other driver from the wagon in front of him for assistance, and then curse some more. Rather unfortunate for that man, but the Omega saw an opportunity open up before him. It would be a lot easier for him to infiltrate the camp if he could stowaway in the back.

But just as he approached the wagon, hiding behind the trees and about to make his move, the hunter caught movement from the corner of his eye. A flash of white cloth. A few shades darker than the snow.

No... it could not be.

But unless his eyes were deceiving him, which sadly would not be for the first time, a certain Alpha whom he was currently irritated with was approaching the driver from behind. Presumably to kill the unsuspecting prey. The mercenary, was too busy grumbling obscenities and trying to fix the broken wheel. to notice the hooded figure sneaking up in him.

Connor bit his lower lip in frustration. What should he do? The driver was dead even if he tried to warn him. Perhaps he should try to signal to Kanen'tó:kon, and silently convince him to spare the man. Wait... why the Assassin here?

"Excuse me." The young Alpha spoke softly, but still startled the driver who jumped and spun around. "Are you Benjamin Church's man?"

"What...?"

'What...?' Connor echoed in his head, his eyebrows arched in surprise. What was the other Mohawk up to? Why was he looking for Church?

The mercenary didn't answer. He didn't need to as his ashen face spoke volumes, and the fact that he had broke into a run. Right in the Templar hunter's direction. Connor stepped out from his hiding spot and stretched out one of his arms in the runner's path.

Eyes bulged at the sight of him, but it was too late to reverse directions. The fleeing driver ran neck-first into his arm, and collapsed onto the ground. As he lay choking and wheezing, Connor pinned his arm down with his foot. In case the stunned driver got any ideas of pulling out a flintlock on them.

He glanced up as the Assassin halted immediately from the short chase, and narrowed amber-brown eyes met with umber as they both spoke out at once.

"What are you doing here?"

The long chapter, as promised. :)

Finding Connor

Chapter 22

Scheming was strange. It was not so much that Charles was not used to the activity (he was one of the Inner Circle and had unfortunately found it a most necessary part of delivering on his responsibilities), but it felt strange to be scheming against himself.

Of a sort.

Charles still vehemently denied any degree of resemblance between his own impeccable person and that utterly ridiculous individual who called himself Charles Lee in this world.

The form of the scheme was also vexing. Charles's usual affairs were limited to keeping rivals and enemies silent, mostly through removing them altogether or, if necessary, through blackmail and other means of leverage. There occassionally needed to be someone in the continental army who stood in the Order's way or a British Templar who possessed too much loyalty to the Crown and not enough to the Order. And a long, long time ago, Charles was one of the leaders of the operation to wipe the colonies of the Assassin Brotherhood.

He smiled bitterly.

What difficulty that was. The Brotherhood was a tricky lot, quite formidable foes, and it took both his own resolve and Master Kenway's genius to stamp out their rot before they could fully take hold. They'd been utterly exhausted afterwards, both from the mental and physical exertion required and from the loss of life that the execution of their plan resulted in. But they had done it and, to date, it had been the most difficult operation that Charles had participated in.

This planning, while small in comparison, was so vastly dissimilar that Charles was not sure where to begin.

He wanted this world's Connor to improve. To do that, he must remove the man from his wife. And with the way his counterpart insisted on watching over his wife at every available opportunity and vehemently opposed their suggestions to leave the Omega alone...

And that was the problem, wasn't it? This world's Charles had an unhealthy fixation on his wife. A fixation that knew no reason.

It occurred to Charles that it was somewhat amusing that he of all people should note another man's obsession, but he supposed that his death experience and removal from his own world altogether gave him new perspective. He saw now how he was utterly single-minded in his objectives, and how he had let his devastation over Connor's death allow him to destroy everything else he held dear.

It was a most unworthy thing to have done, to abandon his son like that, to ignore Master Kenway's orders and to shirk his duties. And it stained Connor's honor, that he did so in his wife's name. Connor would not have wanted him to take this route, and now he cannot return to his son.

And while his counterpart stood in his way, he did not quite want to kill his counterpart. The man was irritating, insulting and demeaning. He was mostly definitely a nuisance, but not quite a threat, and Charles had honor enough to look first to nonlethal means before resorting to the lethal ones.

It gave him a headache.

How did one scheme against what was technically oneself? And how did one do so successfully when the target had more power, standing, support and connections? His counterpart had the support of this world's Order, was the respected commander of the continental army and was master of his house. Charles was, at best, his estranged cousin and a guest welcomed only until his counterpart's patience ran out. It was a fine line that Charles was seeking to walk, and he did not know how to begin his first step.

What could he do to remove the other Charles's toxic influence on this world's Connor, so that the Omega could heal and Charles could return home?

That was the crux of the situation, wasn't it? From his and Doctor White's observations, his counterpart was toxic to his wife, and while this world's Connor would likely last to the childbirth, there was very little chance he would survive it.

And Charles knew that his stay in this world was connected to the Omega. That brief image in the green room, the certainty in that disembodied voice he heard back then... It all made sense.

So what would happen if this world's Connor died? Would Charles ever be able to return home? Or would he be stuck here, in this world where he could never hold his son? Where he could not even take ownership of his own identity?

It was not a comforting thought, and so Charles struggled to think of a way to remove his counterpart's influence.

There had to be something. Something that would work.

But what?

His counterpart would never allow his wife to be away from him, and the only people who could stand against him, the Assassins, were defeated. The survivors were under house arrest, crippled to prevent their ever being a threat again. Clipper was under the watchful eyes of this world's James. And Connor himself could be of no help, his mind wandering away somewhere while his body lay in his enemy's possession.

What of this world's Templars? If Charles contacted the Haytham Kenway and explained the situation, would the man help? Connor was his son, and Charles's mentor had always had a close relationship with his Omega son.

It was one of the many reasons Charles had been so hesitant to pursue his suit at first. Master Kenway was protective of Connor, as was his right as the Omega's Alpha father. And after Charles had impregnated Connor, he had been worried that Master Kenway would take his balls as a lesson to him. Thankfully, Charles's mentor had done no such thing, but Charles secretly suspected that that was due more to consideration for Connor and the thought of future grandchildren rather than any restraint on Charles's behalf.

Ah...but this world's Haytham Kenway had only known his son for a very short time. Too short to form any substantial bond, and they were enemies besides.

It was unthinkable in his own world to think of Master Kenway as less than supportive and adoring of his son. But this was not his own world, and Charles could not bank on any potential affections that Haytham Kenway might hold for his child.

Who else was there? Charles's own resources were limited here. He had no home, no fortune, no connections. His sole support was his counterpart, and his counterpart would not listen to reason.

Charles paced the length of his room, frustrated and disappointed. To have striven so much and accomplished so little...

It rankled. Charles was not used to failure, especially not with such consequences at the end of it.

What more could he do?

A knock sounded on his door, and he walked over to answer it.

Doctor White.

“May I speak with you?”

Charles blinked.

It was...late. He had expected the Omega to be asleep.

“Please come in,” he murmured, opening the door. The Omega doctor quickly slipped in, looking about furtively as he did so.

Huh. That was...odd.

“Can I help you?” Charles asked.

The doctor spun around to face him.

“You must do something.”

Charles blinked.

“I—“

Doctor White grasped him by the arms. There was an air of fatigue about him, and his face was strained in a look of pain.

“I fear for my friend. He is not getting much better, and at his current strength, he will not survive the birthing process. It is impossible.”

The hands on Charles's arms trembled, and Charles moved to hold the man's shoulders, to support that shaking form.

“Doctor,” he whispered. “You are not well. You must rest.”

He moved to help Doctor White over to a chair. The man shook his head and refused to move.

“No,” Doctor White sighed. “It is not rest I need. It is justice and hope. And I fear that I am low on both.”

“You must not give up, Doctor. Your friend will never recover if—“

“He cannot recover anyways.”

Charles's breath caught in his throat. He wanted to deny those words. He wanted to forget that they had ever been spoken, but he could not. The words were horrible, but they had the air of truth to them. His hands tightened convulsively.

“Surely, surely there is still hope?” He whispered.

The good doctor shook his head.

“Birthing can be a tricky and difficult process as it is, even in the best of situations for female Omegas. Our science is not advanced enough to ensure safe delivery all the time. For a male Omega who, for all intents and purposes, already looks and acts a corpse—”

Charles swallowed thickly at those words.

“—I do not have any delusions that Connor would survive it.”

It was said with such finality, and Charles felt despair crawl up his belly. To lose this chance to return home, to perhaps never see his baby boy again...

“There must be something, something we can do,” he urged. “Better food, more medicine, more fresh air—“

“No. We tried all of that. The improvement is minimal, and these days, I fear that I was only imagining it.”

Doctor White sighed.

“We are only treating the minor causes of Connor's illness. The major one remains, and so Connor does not improve.”

The major one. Charles's counterpart himself.

It was now Charles's turn to sigh.

“I do not know what to do about that,” he admitted. “This other Charles is so stubborn, so determined to have his way...”

He paused, suddenly frustrated beyond all measure.

“I do not know what to do to change things,” he finished finally.

The good doctor shiftened underneath his hands.

“When I first agreed to do this, to treat Connor rather than end his pain, you made me a promise.”

That drew a startled look from Charles.

“I—“

The doctor moved to grasp his shoulders.

“You promised me that if this despicable version of you persists in his idiocy, that you would take care of him.”

Charles fidgeted uneasily.

“I—“

“I came here at this time to ask you to keep that promise. Or,” the doctor looked at him archly, “do you sympathize with him? After all, he is you, albeit with a different life. I would not blame you for your loyalty to him.”

It went unsaid that the doctor would consider Charles a man of uncertain morals, who only kept his word for those things that were convenient for him.

“I am not loyal to him,” Charles stressed. “But I have tried to think of a solution, and I do not have one yet. I try to think of what I can do to convince my counterpart of the error of his ways. I try to think what I can do to remove Connor from him. But he is the commander in this land, with friends who back him and resources that I do not have.”

Charles paused and wet his lips.

“Do not forget that I do not actually exist in this world. I am simply a phantom that appeared, that this Charles allowed to be called his cousin. My influence and power here is limited, and I fear there is little I can do if he does not listen. I—“

“Get rid of him.”

Charles blinked. Then he gaped as he understood the meaning of the words.

“You want me to kill him?” He whispered in a frantic whisper.

“I do not see another solution.”

“Killing him is not a solution!”

“Then what would you suggest? You said it yourself, he does not listen to reason and your ability to move against him is limited. He will continue his ways, and things will remain as they were until Connor dies in childbirth. Is this what you want?”

“Of course not, but—“

“So kill him.”

Charles gaped.

This Doctor White was so bloodthirsty and different from his own.

How could this world be so wrong? Doctor White, himself, Mary, so practical and reasonable and normal in his world were all so wrong here. Bloodthirsty, suspicious and paranoid.

Charles wanted to be gone from here.

“It is not so easy to kill such a man as he.”

“But you have experience in that, do you not?” The question was asked archly, and Charles had the sneaking suspicion that the good doctor knew full well his measure.

While he was not quite the monster his counterpart was, he was also no saint.

“It is extreme—“

“This problem needs an extreme solution.”

“It would not be a solution if everyone is out for my head for having killed this world's Charles Lee,” Charles muttered.

Doctor White snorted.

“Is that your concern?”

Charles looked at him angrily.

“I wish to return home to my son, to the remainder of my family. I cannot do that if I am dead.”

The Omega doctor shook his head.

“The solution is so simple, and you truly do not see?”

“See what?”

“Who are you? Who is this person that I am speaking to?”

Charles was confused.

“You know who I am—“

“Humor me.”

Charles shrugged.

“I am Charles Lee of...“

He stopped.

And he understood.

“A way to tie all loose ends, removing my counterpart's influence and power to inflict retaliation should we intercede.”

Doctor White nodded.

“Yes. It solves all our problems. If,” he pointed out sternly, “you can act.”

Charles smirked.

“I need not act. I am Charles Lee, am I not?”

“So you are.”

And so he was.

It was about time he remembered that.

How hilarious! Despite all of that circling and disagreement and anger in the past installment, they end up at the same situation anyways! Completely separately but for exactly the same reason!

:D

I love the irony in this!

Yeap Connor and Kanen are about to be partnered up again, but it's not going to be quite the same as last time.

Oooh dying of suspense, and I love how Charles and Dr.White become partners in crime in this. Also love Charle's thoughts regarding Haythams relationship with his son in the FW world, and of course the fear of losing his balls for impregnating Connor LOL

Thanks anon! :)

It seemed logical to me, and I wanted to highlight how very different Doctor White has become due to the atrocities he was forced to witness. Really, MotH! Charles is to blame for all of this, because Doctor White would never push so hard were he not irrevocably changed by witnessing his friend's forced wedding, the slaughter of a number of respected and notable figures, and the beginning of Connor's rape. Add the jeopardy that Connor's life is in and...

:)

I think I'll have to rework updating schedule to once every 2-3 days. Too much stuff to do and too much crap going on.

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Re: Finding Connor 21

Finding Connor 22

Re: Finding Connor 21

Re: One-shot: Blood and Snow 1/?

Re: Finding Connor 22

One-shot: Blood and Snow 2a/?

Re: One-shot: Blood and Snow 2a/?

Re: Finding Connor 22

Re: FILL: The Gentle Alpha 3/?

One-shot: Blood and Snow 2b/?

Re: One-shot: Blood and Snow 2a/?

Re: Finding Connor 22

Re: One-shot: Blood and Snow 2b/?

Re: Finding Connor 22

Re: Finding Connor 22

Re: One-shot: Blood and Snow 2b/?

FILL ---------13 (part 1) of ? -------Enthralled

FILL ---------13 (part 2) of ? -------Enthralled

Re: Caged 1/?

One-shot: Blood and Snow 3a/?

Finding Connor 23

Re: One-shot: Blood and Snow 3a/?

Re: One-shot: Blood and Snow 3a/?

Re: Finding Connor 23

Re: Finding Connor 23