Attaching a longer chain, Charles led Connor outside, where dawn was beginning to break, and directed him into a little outhouse. During the chain swap, two other Templars had come in to secure his legs, pinning him down as he twisted and kicked.
"It is all delirium," said Lee, watching the padded cuffs go on.
They forced Connor's still bound hands up, looping a thick band of leather around his nape and attaching it to either side of his hands. Stomach exposed, Connor felt vulnerable, like the soft and non-toxic underside of a toad, ready to be pecked apart by crows. Lee ran his eyes down Connor's body, the tiniest hitch in his breathing betraying the moment they slid over Connor's crotch. The assassin shifted uncomfortably. That was always the part that caused attention and he wasn't quite sure why.
"L-Charles. Hurry up."
The outhouse was clean, not that Connor expected anything less from the Templars, and one of the grunts, the shorter one, lifted the toilet lid. Connor tensed, still trying to hold on, and glared at Lee.
"I am not a magician," he pointed out, in his own voice.
Haytham's accent was hard. It tended to slip into parody, and was soft around the edges, while sharp and pointy in the middle - an upper-class attitude went with it and that was the part Connor was fighting with the most. The aristocracy just didn't care about middle or lower-class people. Connor did. But Lee refused to listen unless he made some attempt to emulate it.
"Charles?"
At least that was a word he had experience of. Haytham had talked about his second-in-command quite frequently.
"Charles, my hands - " began Connor.
"Yes, of course, Haytham," replied Lee.
Immediately he reached for Connor, and started undoing the buttons to his trousers. Connor turned his attention elsewhere, not wanting to see the greedy and lustful care with which Lee was handling his body. Lee's hands were cold, the shock almost making him lose control before he was ready. His prick, trying to leak, was tugged on, Connor stumbling forward to follow.
He almost moaned in delight as he was allowed to relieve himself, Lee aiming him carefully, but kept his pleased noises to himself. Once done, Lee wiped Connor's prick down with a wet rag and tucked him away, although not nearly as tightly as Connor normally preferred he did not want Lee to touch him more.
It was a cold walk back to the cabin, frost crunching under his bare feet, a numbing sensation that Connor hadn't noticed on the way out. He dug his feet into the soil, scared that he wouldn't feel the earth between his toes for a while. Purposely slowing, Connor turned around, taking in the peaceful little spot that Lee had built his cabin in. The trees were naked except for a shawl of late snow with tiny buds of new leaves studding the melting ice with jewels. They stretched to the sky, limbs and fingers reaching for a sun they would never be able to touch, only feel. Even the grumbles of the Templar lackeys complaining about the cold and the lack of women couldn't dampen this image. They faded into the background, and Connor crouched to crush fallen pine needles under his feet and to take in the sharp smell and the spikes pricking his skin. It eased that rank overload of lavender that still lingered in the back of his nose. The frosted grass was broken in a lot of areas - for such an isolated spot, there were many fresh footprints.
One of the lackeys nudged Connor with their rifle stock. Without even thinking, Connor snatched at it as far as his bound hands could. When that failed to yield a weapon, he rolled back, standing up to ram the solider in a sort of reverse headbutt. His skull connected with soft cartilage and Connor felt the blood immediately ooze onto his skull. Tucking his chin to his chest, Connor managed to unloop the leather band from over his neck and used it to grab the other soldier in a stranglehold. The Templar struggled, bleating pitifully for help.
Connor dragged him, walking backwards to use him as a shield between him and his inevitable pursuer. He would not go back. He would not be used in such a disgusting way. At about half a mile, Connor dropped the solider, watching them sob in gratitude as their life was spared for another day. The snow and pine needles weren't pleasant now but Connor had endured worse with Achilles. They were the leftovers from winter, more of a frost or such than a proper snow.
But he took only one step away from his former hostage when all manner of weapons were pointed at his throat or chest. Ah, the extra footprints. They were the rest of Lee's security detail. Connor cursed the wailing of his hostage smothering the noise of the Templars slowly close in on him. A stupid, foolish mistake.
Connor's lip furled in displeasure. They grabbed him by his upper arms and forced him back.
Lee was waiting - his expression was so forlorn that Connor almost felt sorry for him. Almost. He threw a blanket over Connor and tutted at the Assassin's muddy feet, streaked with blood from stones and pine needles.
"Your little adventure had me worried, Haytham. But at least it gave me time to have your bath properly prepared," said Lee, tightly clasping Connor's hand with both of his.
"My bath?"
Lee wrinkled his nose.
"Yes, it is quite unlike you to allow yourself to become so dirty, if I must give you my truthful opinion, Grand Master Kenway," replied Lee, ushering Connor into the cabin.
A wooden tub had been set up in the middle of the room and more lackeys were attending to it, boiling water in the fireplace. It was about one third of the way full with fresh ice being hauled in from outside to supplement the hot.
"In you get," announced Lee, and the next thing Connor knew was he was being pushed into the tub, clothes still on.
"Oh dear. It's a shame that you fell in. Well, I have just the thing," Lee said. "It should fit just fine."
Grief's Madness 3/? (TW: as above.)
"It is all delirium," said Lee, watching the padded cuffs go on.
They forced Connor's still bound hands up, looping a thick band of leather around his nape and attaching it to either side of his hands. Stomach exposed, Connor felt vulnerable, like the soft and non-toxic underside of a toad, ready to be pecked apart by crows. Lee ran his eyes down Connor's body, the tiniest hitch in his breathing betraying the moment they slid over Connor's crotch. The assassin shifted uncomfortably. That was always the part that caused attention and he wasn't quite sure why.
"L-Charles. Hurry up."
The outhouse was clean, not that Connor expected anything less from the Templars, and one of the grunts, the shorter one, lifted the toilet lid. Connor tensed, still trying to hold on, and glared at Lee.
"I am not a magician," he pointed out, in his own voice.
Haytham's accent was hard. It tended to slip into parody, and was soft around the edges, while sharp and pointy in the middle - an upper-class attitude went with it and that was the part Connor was fighting with the most. The aristocracy just didn't care about middle or lower-class people. Connor did. But Lee refused to listen unless he made some attempt to emulate it.
"Charles?"
At least that was a word he had experience of. Haytham had talked about his second-in-command quite frequently.
"Charles, my hands - " began Connor.
"Yes, of course, Haytham," replied Lee.
Immediately he reached for Connor, and started undoing the buttons to his trousers. Connor turned his attention elsewhere, not wanting to see the greedy and lustful care with which Lee was handling his body. Lee's hands were cold, the shock almost making him lose control before he was ready. His prick, trying to leak, was tugged on, Connor stumbling forward to follow.
He almost moaned in delight as he was allowed to relieve himself, Lee aiming him carefully, but kept his pleased noises to himself. Once done, Lee wiped Connor's prick down with a wet rag and tucked him away, although not nearly as tightly as Connor normally preferred he did not want Lee to touch him more.
It was a cold walk back to the cabin, frost crunching under his bare feet, a numbing sensation that Connor hadn't noticed on the way out. He dug his feet into the soil, scared that he wouldn't feel the earth between his toes for a while. Purposely slowing, Connor turned around, taking in the peaceful little spot that Lee had built his cabin in. The trees were naked except for a shawl of late snow with tiny buds of new leaves studding the melting ice with jewels. They stretched to the sky, limbs and fingers reaching for a sun they would never be able to touch, only feel. Even the grumbles of the Templar lackeys complaining about the cold and the lack of women couldn't dampen this image. They faded into the background, and Connor crouched to crush fallen pine needles under his feet and to take in the sharp smell and the spikes pricking his skin. It eased that rank overload of lavender that still lingered in the back of his nose. The frosted grass was broken in a lot of areas - for such an isolated spot, there were many fresh footprints.
One of the lackeys nudged Connor with their rifle stock. Without even thinking, Connor snatched at it as far as his bound hands could. When that failed to yield a weapon, he rolled back, standing up to ram the solider in a sort of reverse headbutt. His skull connected with soft cartilage and Connor felt the blood immediately ooze onto his skull. Tucking his chin to his chest, Connor managed to unloop the leather band from over his neck and used it to grab the other soldier in a stranglehold. The Templar struggled, bleating pitifully for help.
Connor dragged him, walking backwards to use him as a shield between him and his inevitable pursuer. He would not go back. He would not be used in such a disgusting way. At about half a mile, Connor dropped the solider, watching them sob in gratitude as their life was spared for another day. The snow and pine needles weren't pleasant now but Connor had endured worse with Achilles. They were the leftovers from winter, more of a frost or such than a proper snow.
But he took only one step away from his former hostage when all manner of weapons were pointed at his throat or chest. Ah, the extra footprints. They were the rest of Lee's security detail. Connor cursed the wailing of his hostage smothering the noise of the Templars slowly close in on him. A stupid, foolish mistake.
Connor's lip furled in displeasure. They grabbed him by his upper arms and forced him back.
Lee was waiting - his expression was so forlorn that Connor almost felt sorry for him. Almost. He threw a blanket over Connor and tutted at the Assassin's muddy feet, streaked with blood from stones and pine needles.
"Your little adventure had me worried, Haytham. But at least it gave me time to have your bath properly prepared," said Lee, tightly clasping Connor's hand with both of his.
"My bath?"
Lee wrinkled his nose.
"Yes, it is quite unlike you to allow yourself to become so dirty, if I must give you my truthful opinion, Grand Master Kenway," replied Lee, ushering Connor into the cabin.
A wooden tub had been set up in the middle of the room and more lackeys were attending to it, boiling water in the fireplace. It was about one third of the way full with fresh ice being hauled in from outside to supplement the hot.
"In you get," announced Lee, and the next thing Connor knew was he was being pushed into the tub, clothes still on.
"Oh dear. It's a shame that you fell in. Well, I have just the thing," Lee said. "It should fit just fine."