I think I rewrote the second half of this chapter about a dozen times. 8(
Anyway, uh. Many, many thanks to everyone for your continued support! I'll admit that I tend to work a lot better with one-shots, so thank you so much for cheering me on this entire time! It keeps my spirits buoyed and helps me through any rough patches or writer's block I may run into. :) Haha, I just wish I could write a bit faster for you all. So yes! Enjoy! ♥ Hopefully my headache with the latter part of this chapter isn't too evident. ;)
Day Two Hundred Having the boy around the Kenway residence for so long had made his son’s inclusion in the Order easier than he could have ever imagined. The men he counted as his aides accepted Connor as a Templar with little to no fuss, and while part of it might have been the severity of his words and expression, Haytham had no doubt that some of them had come to trust his son, had come to see his presence at their meetings as a sign of good will.
Using Gilbert Rogers was a good idea, too.
Now that the man was, at last, well enough to speak without overexerting himself, Haytham had gone on to regale Rogers with tales of how Connor had stood watch over him, lest anyone came to try and finish Charles’ good work. Oh, his story had not been entirely true, but it was enough for Rogers and, with his enthusiasm, good enough for the rest of the Templars. As for the boy...
Connor played his part well, accepting his role with open arms--after all, this was to protect his blasted Brotherhood and Homestead. He had spent enough time destroying Haytham’s personal library and mingling with his men--had spent enough time around him--to understand the Templar mentality to flawlessly pretend to be one of them, and in the few, quiet moments he had to himself, Haytham could not help but wonder if it really was an act, such was the perfection of his son’s performance.
He would not allow himself to dwell on hopes and dreams though; there were other matters to be taken care of, more lies to be woven.
The most pressing of these was, of course, making sure that those at the Homestead would go along with the ruse. After all, what good would it be if the Templars arrived, only to have to slaughter the very individuals that they were supposed to be assisting? Not only would this tarnish his own reputation as Grand Master, but Connor would never forgive him either, not when Haytham’s hands were soaked red with the blood of the boy’s friends and allies.
Needless to say, it was with no small amount of trepidation that Haytham wound his horse down the path that would lead him to the manor. Connor had left a few days prior to help pave the way for this Templar and Assassin collaboration, but for all of the love and adoration the Brotherhood seemed to have for their leader, he could not help but worry that his plan would still fail. What if this was too much for the Assassins to swallow?
After all that the Templars had done to them--what he had done to them--Haytham could not blame them in the slightest for being resistant to receiving aid from the Order.
The cold and hostile looks he got from the residents did not bode well for what he was to find at the Davenport home, and while he did not fear for his safety amongst these individuals, it was still uncomfortable to be stared at with such hate and disgust. Haytham was thankful that he’d chosen not to bring any men with him, what with so much open animosity lingering in the air; he just hoped that these problems would be smoothed over by the time his men arrived in a few days.
The sound of shouting greeted him at the doorway, and even before his knuckles could rap against the door, someone pulled it open: the man he’d seen on the rooftops at the execution--Wilkinson, was it? The look and the muttered greeting he gave him were not especially welcoming, but they were civil, which was more than what Haytham could say about the argument going on in another part of the house.
One voice he immediately recognized as his son’s, and the other had a French accent to it--ah yes, the individual they’d saved from the gallows. Eyebrows lifting in a silent question, he looked to Wilkinson for answers, but the Assassin said nothing, his lips merely pressing into a thin line. A crash had the man rushing upstairs to find the source, and while he momentarily thought of following, Haytham stayed put, ears pricked for any information he might glean from the argument happening up above.
“Sir, is everything alright?”
“We are fine, Clipper. It was an accident.” A string of colorful French quickly followed, and then Haytham heard the distinct sound of glass shattering. “Stephane!”
“I refuse! I refuse! We do not need those filthy Templars here!”
“Stephane--” That was Wilkinson this time, and there was a note of warning in his voice.
“Look at what they have done to Jacob. To Duncan. To Jamie.” A frightening silence settled over the house before Chapeau continued. “And you would trust them now to protect us? They are the cause behind all of our problems, Connor.”
“And what choice do we have now? Would you have us throw down our arms and surrender?”
“We fight! We fight as we have always--”
“We would lose! We will need their assistance to fight off Lee, if we are to have any hope of keeping the Homestead safe.”
“And how do you know that this is not a trap? What if your father’s plan is to strangle us from the inside out? To have us primed for slaughter when Lee comes--if he comes?”
“I trust my father.”
Stephane scoffed. “He speaks nothing but lies, and you... You have fallen for them. How can you believe the words of that bastard--”
There was a crunch, a sound Haytham recognized as a fist connecting with flesh. Stephane cursed loudly, but that was the only sound heard before Connor spoke, his voice cold and hard--a lethal edge to his words. “You may criticize me, Stephane, but do not say a word about my father.”
Haytham turned his gaze toward his feet, just a little pleased to hear that, but when he heard Chapheau speak once more, angry and bitter, what joy he felt left him.
“Achilles would be disappointed.”
Again, silence fell over the manor, and this time, it stuck, hanging heavy in the air. Angry footfalls heralded the Assassin storming down the stairs, and the man’s eyes flashed as he saw Haytham standing there. Wiping the blood from his nose off on his sleeve, Chapheau paused a few feet away to give him a good, long stare before brusquely moving past him and toward the exit.
The house shook when he slammed the door shut. Up above, the sound was mirrored.
Wilkinson rapped tentatively at the door to no avail, and Haytham took that as his cue to at last approach his son. The Assassin greeted him with a frosty look before moving between him and the door, as if trying to shield the individual inside the room.
“I’d just like to have a quick chat with Connor,” Haytham said, doing his best to keep his voice light and devoid of any threats, intentional or not. “I am his father after all.”
“A father would not have done put his son in this situation.”
He forced a thin-lipped smile to his face and took a few steps closer to the Assassin. It was with a dark sense of glee that he watched as Wilkinson back away from him, fully understanding who, exactly, was stronger than who. “And I have sought to make amends for my failings. However, if you’d like for me to undo all of my work by slitting your throat, be my guest.
“Now then, if you have no other complaints, step aside.”
Wilkinson looked like he was about to open his mouth to protest when the door behind him suddenly opened, causing both men to look at Connor. The boy was wearing a most displeased expression on his face as he assessed the situation before grabbing Haytham by the arm, yanking him inside the room, and shutting the door again.
In a blink of an eye, Connor had him shoved up against the wall, hands clenched around the fabric of his coat. The boy snarled, and Haytham chuckled breathlessly, having had the air knocked out of his lungs; an easy, infuriating smile curled his lips. His voice was like cold steel: unyielding and unforgiving. “Temper got the best of you?”
“Clipper is the only one who has agreed to our plan, and you threaten to kill him?” Connor hissed, anger and desperation painfully apparent in the wild look in his eyes. Oh, Haytham had never expected this exchange to go well, but judging from the boy’s response, even he had been too optimistic, which was saying something. “Stephane, Duncan, and Jacob want nothing to do with you, and Dobby is wary enough to avoid wanting to join in a Templar plot.”
“And the Homesteaders?”
His son removed his hands from him and simply shook his head, the anger he’d seen slowly but surely shifting into resignation. Haytham sighed and smoothed his hands over his coat; they’d both be in trouble if they couldn’t find some sort of arrangement--and soon. If it weren’t his men arriving soon, it would be Charles’, and at this point, neither group was going to be greeted with anything but musket fire.
“Should I assume that anyone from the Order will be shot on sight upon arrival?”
Connor had taken to slowly pacing the room, fiddling with his hands. “I do not know,” he answered after a moment, briefly lifting his gaze from the floor to look at Haytham. “They are angry with me for accepting your aid.”
“Very well. What other options do we have?”
It was too late to tell his men to turn back, and while the easiest path would have been to abandon the Homestead, that was not an option either. Killing the dissenting Assassins would only add to the friction and ruin what he had now with his son, so--
“Can you hold the pass?”
“Hm?” Haytham frowned, puzzled by the boy’s sudden question. “The pass?”
“Can your men hold the pass that leads here from the frontier?”
Ah, that pass. Haytham considered it for a moment, remembering the look of it as he’d traveled toward the Homestead. It was narrow enough to defend, but it was far from an ideal arrangement. The Templars were not quite as fond of stealth as the Assassins, but standing in the middle of a road, waiting for slaughter, was not their preferred method of combat either.
No, such open conflict was more Charles’ forte. After all, he was the general of the two of them.
“With a barricade in place, perhaps,” he responded, distracted. He understood the reasoning behind Connor’s plan, but Haytham wasn’t exactly delighted with it. If the Templars held the pass, then there’d be no need to interact with the Assassins and Homesteaders, especially if they made camp well and away from the people living there. Haytham would have to come up with a viable excuse for this sort of separation, but he’d manage somehow or another.
Haytham was already thinking of his potential losses, already wondering what the state of the Order would be after this--if his men would still consider him worthy of leading them after all was said and done. Maybe his worry showed a little on his face, in the crease of his brow and the downward curl of his lips, for Connor came over a moment later, warm hands on his shoulders and lips pressed against his own.
The gesture was surprisingly gentle and all too brief, but it was enough for now--it would have to be. There would be no thanks--no expressions of gratitude--from anyone until all of this was over, and sadly, the end was nowhere in sight.
Fill: The Re-Education of Connor (Kenway) [ 18 / ? ]
Anyway, uh. Many, many thanks to everyone for your continued support! I'll admit that I tend to work a lot better with one-shots, so thank you so much for cheering me on this entire time! It keeps my spirits buoyed and helps me through any rough patches or writer's block I may run into. :) Haha, I just wish I could write a bit faster for you all. So yes! Enjoy! ♥ Hopefully my headache with the latter part of this chapter isn't too evident. ;)
Day Two Hundred
Having the boy around the Kenway residence for so long had made his son’s inclusion in the Order easier than he could have ever imagined. The men he counted as his aides accepted Connor as a Templar with little to no fuss, and while part of it might have been the severity of his words and expression, Haytham had no doubt that some of them had come to trust his son, had come to see his presence at their meetings as a sign of good will.
Using Gilbert Rogers was a good idea, too.
Now that the man was, at last, well enough to speak without overexerting himself, Haytham had gone on to regale Rogers with tales of how Connor had stood watch over him, lest anyone came to try and finish Charles’ good work. Oh, his story had not been entirely true, but it was enough for Rogers and, with his enthusiasm, good enough for the rest of the Templars. As for the boy...
Connor played his part well, accepting his role with open arms--after all, this was to protect his blasted Brotherhood and Homestead. He had spent enough time destroying Haytham’s personal library and mingling with his men--had spent enough time around him--to understand the Templar mentality to flawlessly pretend to be one of them, and in the few, quiet moments he had to himself, Haytham could not help but wonder if it really was an act, such was the perfection of his son’s performance.
He would not allow himself to dwell on hopes and dreams though; there were other matters to be taken care of, more lies to be woven.
The most pressing of these was, of course, making sure that those at the Homestead would go along with the ruse. After all, what good would it be if the Templars arrived, only to have to slaughter the very individuals that they were supposed to be assisting? Not only would this tarnish his own reputation as Grand Master, but Connor would never forgive him either, not when Haytham’s hands were soaked red with the blood of the boy’s friends and allies.
Needless to say, it was with no small amount of trepidation that Haytham wound his horse down the path that would lead him to the manor. Connor had left a few days prior to help pave the way for this Templar and Assassin collaboration, but for all of the love and adoration the Brotherhood seemed to have for their leader, he could not help but worry that his plan would still fail. What if this was too much for the Assassins to swallow?
After all that the Templars had done to them--what he had done to them--Haytham could not blame them in the slightest for being resistant to receiving aid from the Order.
The cold and hostile looks he got from the residents did not bode well for what he was to find at the Davenport home, and while he did not fear for his safety amongst these individuals, it was still uncomfortable to be stared at with such hate and disgust. Haytham was thankful that he’d chosen not to bring any men with him, what with so much open animosity lingering in the air; he just hoped that these problems would be smoothed over by the time his men arrived in a few days.
The sound of shouting greeted him at the doorway, and even before his knuckles could rap against the door, someone pulled it open: the man he’d seen on the rooftops at the execution--Wilkinson, was it? The look and the muttered greeting he gave him were not especially welcoming, but they were civil, which was more than what Haytham could say about the argument going on in another part of the house.
One voice he immediately recognized as his son’s, and the other had a French accent to it--ah yes, the individual they’d saved from the gallows. Eyebrows lifting in a silent question, he looked to Wilkinson for answers, but the Assassin said nothing, his lips merely pressing into a thin line. A crash had the man rushing upstairs to find the source, and while he momentarily thought of following, Haytham stayed put, ears pricked for any information he might glean from the argument happening up above.
“Sir, is everything alright?”
“We are fine, Clipper. It was an accident.” A string of colorful French quickly followed, and then Haytham heard the distinct sound of glass shattering. “Stephane!”
“I refuse! I refuse! We do not need those filthy Templars here!”
“Stephane--” That was Wilkinson this time, and there was a note of warning in his voice.
“Look at what they have done to Jacob. To Duncan. To Jamie.” A frightening silence settled over the house before Chapeau continued. “And you would trust them now to protect us? They are the cause behind all of our problems, Connor.”
“And what choice do we have now? Would you have us throw down our arms and surrender?”
“We fight! We fight as we have always--”
“We would lose! We will need their assistance to fight off Lee, if we are to have any hope of keeping the Homestead safe.”
“And how do you know that this is not a trap? What if your father’s plan is to strangle us from the inside out? To have us primed for slaughter when Lee comes--if he comes?”
“I trust my father.”
Stephane scoffed. “He speaks nothing but lies, and you... You have fallen for them. How can you believe the words of that bastard--”
There was a crunch, a sound Haytham recognized as a fist connecting with flesh. Stephane cursed loudly, but that was the only sound heard before Connor spoke, his voice cold and hard--a lethal edge to his words. “You may criticize me, Stephane, but do not say a word about my father.”
Haytham turned his gaze toward his feet, just a little pleased to hear that, but when he heard Chapheau speak once more, angry and bitter, what joy he felt left him.
“Achilles would be disappointed.”
Again, silence fell over the manor, and this time, it stuck, hanging heavy in the air. Angry footfalls heralded the Assassin storming down the stairs, and the man’s eyes flashed as he saw Haytham standing there. Wiping the blood from his nose off on his sleeve, Chapheau paused a few feet away to give him a good, long stare before brusquely moving past him and toward the exit.
The house shook when he slammed the door shut. Up above, the sound was mirrored.
Wilkinson rapped tentatively at the door to no avail, and Haytham took that as his cue to at last approach his son. The Assassin greeted him with a frosty look before moving between him and the door, as if trying to shield the individual inside the room.
“I’d just like to have a quick chat with Connor,” Haytham said, doing his best to keep his voice light and devoid of any threats, intentional or not. “I am his father after all.”
“A father would not have done put his son in this situation.”
He forced a thin-lipped smile to his face and took a few steps closer to the Assassin. It was with a dark sense of glee that he watched as Wilkinson back away from him, fully understanding who, exactly, was stronger than who. “And I have sought to make amends for my failings. However, if you’d like for me to undo all of my work by slitting your throat, be my guest.
“Now then, if you have no other complaints, step aside.”
Wilkinson looked like he was about to open his mouth to protest when the door behind him suddenly opened, causing both men to look at Connor. The boy was wearing a most displeased expression on his face as he assessed the situation before grabbing Haytham by the arm, yanking him inside the room, and shutting the door again.
In a blink of an eye, Connor had him shoved up against the wall, hands clenched around the fabric of his coat. The boy snarled, and Haytham chuckled breathlessly, having had the air knocked out of his lungs; an easy, infuriating smile curled his lips. His voice was like cold steel: unyielding and unforgiving. “Temper got the best of you?”
“Clipper is the only one who has agreed to our plan, and you threaten to kill him?” Connor hissed, anger and desperation painfully apparent in the wild look in his eyes. Oh, Haytham had never expected this exchange to go well, but judging from the boy’s response, even he had been too optimistic, which was saying something. “Stephane, Duncan, and Jacob want nothing to do with you, and Dobby is wary enough to avoid wanting to join in a Templar plot.”
“And the Homesteaders?”
His son removed his hands from him and simply shook his head, the anger he’d seen slowly but surely shifting into resignation. Haytham sighed and smoothed his hands over his coat; they’d both be in trouble if they couldn’t find some sort of arrangement--and soon. If it weren’t his men arriving soon, it would be Charles’, and at this point, neither group was going to be greeted with anything but musket fire.
“Should I assume that anyone from the Order will be shot on sight upon arrival?”
Connor had taken to slowly pacing the room, fiddling with his hands. “I do not know,” he answered after a moment, briefly lifting his gaze from the floor to look at Haytham. “They are angry with me for accepting your aid.”
“Very well. What other options do we have?”
It was too late to tell his men to turn back, and while the easiest path would have been to abandon the Homestead, that was not an option either. Killing the dissenting Assassins would only add to the friction and ruin what he had now with his son, so--
“Can you hold the pass?”
“Hm?” Haytham frowned, puzzled by the boy’s sudden question. “The pass?”
“Can your men hold the pass that leads here from the frontier?”
Ah, that pass. Haytham considered it for a moment, remembering the look of it as he’d traveled toward the Homestead. It was narrow enough to defend, but it was far from an ideal arrangement. The Templars were not quite as fond of stealth as the Assassins, but standing in the middle of a road, waiting for slaughter, was not their preferred method of combat either.
No, such open conflict was more Charles’ forte. After all, he was the general of the two of them.
“With a barricade in place, perhaps,” he responded, distracted. He understood the reasoning behind Connor’s plan, but Haytham wasn’t exactly delighted with it. If the Templars held the pass, then there’d be no need to interact with the Assassins and Homesteaders, especially if they made camp well and away from the people living there. Haytham would have to come up with a viable excuse for this sort of separation, but he’d manage somehow or another.
Haytham was already thinking of his potential losses, already wondering what the state of the Order would be after this--if his men would still consider him worthy of leading them after all was said and done. Maybe his worry showed a little on his face, in the crease of his brow and the downward curl of his lips, for Connor came over a moment later, warm hands on his shoulders and lips pressed against his own.
The gesture was surprisingly gentle and all too brief, but it was enough for now--it would have to be. There would be no thanks--no expressions of gratitude--from anyone until all of this was over, and sadly, the end was nowhere in sight.