WHERE IS CHARLES LEE!? I mean, uh. Enjoy. 8D Much love, as always, from your very slow writer!anon. ♥
***
Day One Hundred and Seventy-Eight The remainder of their journey aboard the ship passed in a flurry of talks and discussions, plans hatched and refined. There was no time for precious sentiment, and Haytham was blessedly not given the opportunity to dwell on things like feelings and emotions. New York City would greet them with sunny skies, and after hitting the shore, all was proceeding as expected--better than expected, actually.
Really, the only missing piece was Charles, but Haytham was not exactly surprised that the general was not here. While Templar influence in Bridewell Prison was strong, they did not technically--legally--have possession of the facility, and even if they did, there was no reason for Charles to be here, disgraced as he was in the public’s eye.
No, their hunt for the man would take them elsewhere. For now, though, his attention needed to be on what was to come in a few moment’s time.
The gallows were mere feet away from them, and father and son were both armed to the teeth beneath their cloaks: pistols, knives, darts, and swords. Hoods pulled low over their eyes, they waited, attention directed toward the short train of prisoners being marched forward; around them, the crowd shouted and jeered, anticipation--excitement--filling the air around them.
It was a touch sickening, Haytham thought, to see humans delight in the death of strangers; his son likely would’ve commented on the irony of such a thought if he’d voiced it though.
The prison guards marched four individuals onto the platform: three men and one woman. At first, Haytham thought nothing of it; he was here for one purpose and one purpose only: to save those two men whom his son called brothers. The spares? Well, it was a shame that they got caught for whatever it was that they’d done, but this was their just reward for upsetting the peace.
The roar of the crowd increased in volume as the nooses were looped around the prisoners’ necks and burlap bags placed over their heads, the sound becoming deafening as the announcer stepped onto the platform to list their crimes. It was difficult to hear anything above the din of the crowd, and Haytham watched impassively, eyes shifting from one Assassin to the next, as their names and offenses were ticked off in a dull, droning voice.
What came next, however, caught both his attention and Connor’s.
“Zenger, Henrik. Guilty of attacking a military officer and disrupting the peace.” The boy’s elbow jabbed him in the ribs, and Haytham merely brushed him off; he needed no prompting to know what was going on here. “Zenger, Wilhemina. Aiding in the attack of a military officer and disrupting the peace.”
So Charles had found them, but instead of treating them with respect, he’d jailed them. And now? Now he would see them hanged. Beside him, Connor tensed, hands bunching into fists at his sides, and Haytham placed a calming hand on his shoulder, stopping him from bolting and putting all of their plans to waste. Leaning toward his son, he whispered, “You help your men. I’ll get the other two.”
There was a slight nod of confirmation, and then they both turned their attention to the executioner, whose fingers slowly closed around the lever that would send all four individuals to their deaths. Hands stole beneath cloaks, readying knives; bodies tensed, ready to strike at the best moment. This was it. This was their moment of action, and--
Gunshot rang out over the rooftops, and as one, all of those in the square turned to stare at the source of the noise. A woman with a white hood scampered across the rooftops, a number of militia members struggling to climb up after her. When she paused to grab the musket hefted over her shoulder, Haytham cursed beneath his breath.
Time slowing to a crawl, the Assassin pulled the trigger, her shot grazing one of the ropes, and then someone in the crowd screamed--high-pitched and filled with terror. The world erupted into chaos as another shot was fired from the rooftops, this time by a man, and Haytham twisted back toward the gallows in time to see the executioner pull the lever, shouting in pain as his free hand went to clasp at the red blossoming across his chest.
Instinct moved him, two daggers flying out of his hands before his aim was compromised by fleeing civilians jostling him about and obscuring his view. Beside him, he knew the boy had managed to loose at least one blade, but the other...
Something silver flew skywards, glinting in the sunlight, before sinking into the wooden frame of the gallows, and while three ropes were severed, one remained intact, strung taut by the weight of a body on the other end. A strangled cry erupted from somewhere to his left, and Connor burst forth from the suffocating press of civilians, rushing toward the platform.
He’d be too late.
Haytham cast one final look at the battle unfolding on the rooftops before hurrying over to the gallows, ducking under the wooden beams to check on the individuals they’d managed to rescue. That French-speaking Assassin was muttering something to his son, desperately trying to pull him away from the body of their second brother; the mother and her son were huddled in another corner, staring at him with wide, frightened eyes.
“Connor!” he shouted, and when the boy didn’t budge, Haytham came over and shook him by the shoulders. “Connor, let him go. We have to get out of here unless you want all of us to die.”
The sorrowful look his son gave him sent a chill lancing down his spine, making him suddenly hesitant. Still, he pulled himself together, and when the other Assassin tried to remove his hands from his son, Haytham gave him such a look that he stopped, fingers quickly drawing away.
“Please, son. Let us go. Now.” One hand still gripped tightly around the boy’s shoulder, he turned his attention to the other man, gesturing toward the Zengers. “You’ll find four horses tied up at the back of the building on the other side of the street. Protect them and ride for the Homestead.”
“You cannot tell me what--”
“Do as I say.” With an easy movement of the wrist, the hidden blade engaged, and he shifted to press it close against the Assassin’s throat, allowing the sharp edge to dig ever so slightly into skin. Connor had already lost one of his brothers, and while Haytham would prefer not to take the life of another--not here, not now--he would if he had to. This entire operation had been shot to hell, and he wasn’t going to allow for himself or his son to die here because of the Brotherhood’s stupidity. “Am I clear?”
Chin lifted to avoid cutting himself on the hidden blade, the man could only manage the slightest of nods, eyes betraying the anger that he did not voice. Haytham lowered his hand, and the Assassin moved away, grabbing the mother and son and hauling them off; within seconds, they’d vanished into the panicking crowd.
When he turned to look back at his son, Connor was still kneeling by the body of his fallen brother, head bent and arms tightly circling the lifeless frame. Haytham sighed and folded his hand around the boy’s wrist. His voice was quiet when he spoke, barely audible above the sounds of screams all around them. “Let it go, son. You did all that you could.”
“I cannot leave him here.”
For a moment, Haytham thought he had misheard, but then, his son was repeating it again, louder and with more conviction. “I cannot leave him here.”
He should have known something like this would happen; it was so very... Connor.
Sighing, Haytham glanced at the mess all around them and grudgingly gave thanks to the Assassins for creating such a commotion; the guards were so distracted with trying to calm the crowd or chasing after the two individuals on the rooftops that they didn’t bother to pay attention to the two people still situated beneath the gallows. “Carry him. I’ll protect you, if it becomes necessary.”
Connor gathered the body in his arms and started toward the fray, pausing briefly to give him a look over his shoulder. “Thank you.”
Two simple words should not have filled him with warmth--not when there was pandemonium all around him, not when his son was carrying a dead man from the gallows--but they did. Haytham gave the boy a fleeting smile and pressed a hand to his shoulder, a wordless gesture of sympathy.
Fill: The Re-Education of Connor (Kenway) [ 16 / ? ]
***
Day One Hundred and Seventy-Eight
The remainder of their journey aboard the ship passed in a flurry of talks and discussions, plans hatched and refined. There was no time for precious sentiment, and Haytham was blessedly not given the opportunity to dwell on things like feelings and emotions. New York City would greet them with sunny skies, and after hitting the shore, all was proceeding as expected--better than expected, actually.
Really, the only missing piece was Charles, but Haytham was not exactly surprised that the general was not here. While Templar influence in Bridewell Prison was strong, they did not technically--legally--have possession of the facility, and even if they did, there was no reason for Charles to be here, disgraced as he was in the public’s eye.
No, their hunt for the man would take them elsewhere. For now, though, his attention needed to be on what was to come in a few moment’s time.
The gallows were mere feet away from them, and father and son were both armed to the teeth beneath their cloaks: pistols, knives, darts, and swords. Hoods pulled low over their eyes, they waited, attention directed toward the short train of prisoners being marched forward; around them, the crowd shouted and jeered, anticipation--excitement--filling the air around them.
It was a touch sickening, Haytham thought, to see humans delight in the death of strangers; his son likely would’ve commented on the irony of such a thought if he’d voiced it though.
The prison guards marched four individuals onto the platform: three men and one woman. At first, Haytham thought nothing of it; he was here for one purpose and one purpose only: to save those two men whom his son called brothers. The spares? Well, it was a shame that they got caught for whatever it was that they’d done, but this was their just reward for upsetting the peace.
The roar of the crowd increased in volume as the nooses were looped around the prisoners’ necks and burlap bags placed over their heads, the sound becoming deafening as the announcer stepped onto the platform to list their crimes. It was difficult to hear anything above the din of the crowd, and Haytham watched impassively, eyes shifting from one Assassin to the next, as their names and offenses were ticked off in a dull, droning voice.
What came next, however, caught both his attention and Connor’s.
“Zenger, Henrik. Guilty of attacking a military officer and disrupting the peace.” The boy’s elbow jabbed him in the ribs, and Haytham merely brushed him off; he needed no prompting to know what was going on here. “Zenger, Wilhemina. Aiding in the attack of a military officer and disrupting the peace.”
So Charles had found them, but instead of treating them with respect, he’d jailed them. And now? Now he would see them hanged. Beside him, Connor tensed, hands bunching into fists at his sides, and Haytham placed a calming hand on his shoulder, stopping him from bolting and putting all of their plans to waste. Leaning toward his son, he whispered, “You help your men. I’ll get the other two.”
There was a slight nod of confirmation, and then they both turned their attention to the executioner, whose fingers slowly closed around the lever that would send all four individuals to their deaths. Hands stole beneath cloaks, readying knives; bodies tensed, ready to strike at the best moment. This was it. This was their moment of action, and--
Gunshot rang out over the rooftops, and as one, all of those in the square turned to stare at the source of the noise. A woman with a white hood scampered across the rooftops, a number of militia members struggling to climb up after her. When she paused to grab the musket hefted over her shoulder, Haytham cursed beneath his breath.
Time slowing to a crawl, the Assassin pulled the trigger, her shot grazing one of the ropes, and then someone in the crowd screamed--high-pitched and filled with terror. The world erupted into chaos as another shot was fired from the rooftops, this time by a man, and Haytham twisted back toward the gallows in time to see the executioner pull the lever, shouting in pain as his free hand went to clasp at the red blossoming across his chest.
Instinct moved him, two daggers flying out of his hands before his aim was compromised by fleeing civilians jostling him about and obscuring his view. Beside him, he knew the boy had managed to loose at least one blade, but the other...
Something silver flew skywards, glinting in the sunlight, before sinking into the wooden frame of the gallows, and while three ropes were severed, one remained intact, strung taut by the weight of a body on the other end. A strangled cry erupted from somewhere to his left, and Connor burst forth from the suffocating press of civilians, rushing toward the platform.
He’d be too late.
Haytham cast one final look at the battle unfolding on the rooftops before hurrying over to the gallows, ducking under the wooden beams to check on the individuals they’d managed to rescue. That French-speaking Assassin was muttering something to his son, desperately trying to pull him away from the body of their second brother; the mother and her son were huddled in another corner, staring at him with wide, frightened eyes.
“Connor!” he shouted, and when the boy didn’t budge, Haytham came over and shook him by the shoulders. “Connor, let him go. We have to get out of here unless you want all of us to die.”
The sorrowful look his son gave him sent a chill lancing down his spine, making him suddenly hesitant. Still, he pulled himself together, and when the other Assassin tried to remove his hands from his son, Haytham gave him such a look that he stopped, fingers quickly drawing away.
“Please, son. Let us go. Now.” One hand still gripped tightly around the boy’s shoulder, he turned his attention to the other man, gesturing toward the Zengers. “You’ll find four horses tied up at the back of the building on the other side of the street. Protect them and ride for the Homestead.”
“You cannot tell me what--”
“Do as I say.” With an easy movement of the wrist, the hidden blade engaged, and he shifted to press it close against the Assassin’s throat, allowing the sharp edge to dig ever so slightly into skin. Connor had already lost one of his brothers, and while Haytham would prefer not to take the life of another--not here, not now--he would if he had to. This entire operation had been shot to hell, and he wasn’t going to allow for himself or his son to die here because of the Brotherhood’s stupidity. “Am I clear?”
Chin lifted to avoid cutting himself on the hidden blade, the man could only manage the slightest of nods, eyes betraying the anger that he did not voice. Haytham lowered his hand, and the Assassin moved away, grabbing the mother and son and hauling them off; within seconds, they’d vanished into the panicking crowd.
When he turned to look back at his son, Connor was still kneeling by the body of his fallen brother, head bent and arms tightly circling the lifeless frame. Haytham sighed and folded his hand around the boy’s wrist. His voice was quiet when he spoke, barely audible above the sounds of screams all around them. “Let it go, son. You did all that you could.”
“I cannot leave him here.”
For a moment, Haytham thought he had misheard, but then, his son was repeating it again, louder and with more conviction. “I cannot leave him here.”
He should have known something like this would happen; it was so very... Connor.
Sighing, Haytham glanced at the mess all around them and grudgingly gave thanks to the Assassins for creating such a commotion; the guards were so distracted with trying to calm the crowd or chasing after the two individuals on the rooftops that they didn’t bother to pay attention to the two people still situated beneath the gallows. “Carry him. I’ll protect you, if it becomes necessary.”
Connor gathered the body in his arms and started toward the fray, pausing briefly to give him a look over his shoulder. “Thank you.”
Two simple words should not have filled him with warmth--not when there was pandemonium all around him, not when his son was carrying a dead man from the gallows--but they did. Haytham gave the boy a fleeting smile and pressed a hand to his shoulder, a wordless gesture of sympathy.
“Later. You can thank me later.”