Someone wrote in [personal profile] asscreedkinkmeme 2013-04-24 02:20 pm (UTC)

Grief's Madness 1/? (TW: psychological abuse, forced transition, elements of non-con)

His necklace was gone. The absence of it's gentle pressure agwainst his collarbone made Ratonhnhaké:ton immediately reach up, only to find his wrists were tightly bound by handcuffs and these, in turn, were attached to a short length of chain to the wall beside him. He growled but did not tug, pausing to take in his surroundings, fighting the seductive caress of sleep that threatened to pull him down. It would be better to find something to pick the lock with than to risk unnecessary injury. 

The bed he was lying on was basic, although layered with thick blankets, and the rest of the room followed in the same fashion. A grated fire had been lit some hours ago, it's glowing coals now bathing the room in blurry shadows. There was a window on Ratonhnhaké:ton's other side, but it was dark and he only saw the faint lights of a distant town from the awkward angle he had twisted himself into to peer from it. Nobody would hear him in this place. Besides the bed and the fireplace, there was a small bookshelf, loaded with rich leather tomes, a desk, and an armchair. Nothing that could help him within reach.

Over the years, Connor had been bound many times, but handcuffs had always brought a painful bite around his wrists. It was strangely absent this time. When he glanced back at them, he was startled to discover they had been carefully wrapped in soft leather and placed over his shirt sleeves. The fact that he hadn't noticed this immediately caused a crease to mar his brow; what exactly had he been knocked out with? Some disgusting mix the Templars had invented, no doubt.

The door opened, lighting a masculine figure from behind, and the fire glinted off the man's eyes. Connor tensed, ready to fight, knowing immediately who had stepped over the threshold into his prison cell. One didn't forget eyes so pale they looked like the world had drained them of all colour, leaving only the palest stain of grey-blue like the blind eye of a beggar. They were bloodshot and red-rimmed, dark splotches of too many late nights painted under them.

"Ah, Grand Master," said Charles Lee, "I see you have awoken from your brutalisation by the Assassin."

Jerking back now, the sleepiness falling away, Connor narrowed his eyes at Lee, then at the tray that his enemy was holding. Lee didn't seem to be offended, taking the recoil in his stride. The tray was laid on the desk with a rattle, and Connor saw a bowl of hot, thick stew and slices of bread laid out next to a German stein of unknown liquid.

"You were quite violent in your sleep, so we had to restrain you."

The tone in his voice was too soft, too tender compared to what Connor was used to. This wasn't the Lee that he knew. This was someone alien in mannerisms and attitude, distorting the man's body into affection beyond what Connor thought him to be capable. It was frightening.

"Give me my mother's necklace and you may yet live, Lee," Connor growled.

"I do not know of this necklace you speak of," replied Lee, shrugging his shoulders.

Lee prodded at the fire with a poker, coaxing it to lick at the fresh logs he offered, then sat back in the armchair and rested his head on one hand.

"You are a liar and a thief," said Connor, wriggling his wrists around in their cuffs.

"I am no such thing. Not to you, at least, Grand Master Kenway. I would never betray you," retorted Lee.

He turned his beggar-eyes on Connor, watching the young man. A scolding noise slipped from his throat. The leather wraps were slipping now, rubbing red welts across the most slender part of the wrist. Large hands were useful as an intimidation and combat tool - slipping handcuffs, not so much. If Connor had to break a hand in order to escape, then so be it.

It was looking more likely by the second, and Connor wasn't interested in finding out exactly what Lee had planned for him. A secluded hut, a captured enemy, and a motive: he wasn't stupid. The array of torture tools would come out any moment now.

"Stop that. You will hurt yourself," said Lee. "We killed the assassin. He is dead and buried. Bled to death with a hole through his throat. A masterly use of the hidden blade, sir."

"Stop calling me that!"

"Calling you what, sir?"

Lee was deranged, Connor decided, completely deranged by grief over Haytham's demise. The quicker he escaped, the better. But Lee was pulling a small vial from his coat pocket, sprinkling the liquid onto a handkerchief, and stood, holding the fabric gingerly.

"What is your name?"

"Connor."

Lee's lips twisted into a thin line. Before Connor could tuck hus face against his upper-arm, the cloth came over his mouth and he choked, trying not to inhale. He didn't want whatever it was and struggled viciously, squirming and kicking, but eventually he had to breathe and the scent overwhelmed him. Stars burst across his vision.

"Shhh, it will all be fine, Grand Master. You have had a nasty injury and it is to be expected that you are confused," crooned Lee, pushing Connor onto his back.

Lavender. It was only lavender. Connor stilled, trying to lure Lee into thinking the oils had worked. A ripple of revulsion rolled down Connor's neck as Lee stroked what was left of his hair.

"The savage was cruel to you, cutting your hair like that. Of course, I should respect him, he was your son after all."

The rough fingers pinched a lock and rubbed it between them, feeling the texture. Lee lifted the cloth and Connor wheezed, taking in a breath of fresh air. Slowly, the room began to spin. He grumbled something in Mohawk and tried to shake it, but still persisted.

"Now, what's your name?" asked Lee.

Through gritted teeth, the captive spat out, "Connor. Connor Davenport."

He received the cloth once more, with Lee's smile and the beggar-eyes the last things he saw before the stench overwhelmed his tired, injured body.

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