The water had turned into a mire of war paint, grime, and dried blood. His hands had been unbound, but his feet were still chained. Charles had given a cry of dismay at the red marks on Connor's ankles, viciously delivering a backhand to one of the men responsible for collecting Connor. They hadn't been quick enough.
So Lee wouldn't let him be injured. That was an interesting piece of leverage, Connor mused as he rubbed his skin with a wet cloth and a bar of soap, working it into a lather. He stood, taking up a bucket of fresh water and rinsed himself off, stepping onto a soft reed mat, dripping water while Lee unashamedly stared. Connor held out his hands for a towel. When Lee didn't move Connor nudged past him, seemingly breaking the older man from his stupor.
A hand slipped down dark skin, stroking old scars and tracing the vertebrae of his spine. Connor stiffened, which he realised as soon as his muscles contracted was precisely the wrong thing to do. The lackeys had vanished, he noticed, and he inconspicuously tilted his head to see what Lee was up to. Smothering desire, a fire of lust, gleamed in the pale, sweaty face. The hand moved over to rub at his stomach and guide him back to press against Lee's front.
But Connor didn't let the hand guide him, striking Lee's face with a sharp snap of air, palm, and skin. Revulsion churned in Connor's stomach. He forgot to maintain his accent.
"Do not touch me!"
Lee snarled back, shoving Connor back. Connor stumbled on the edge of an extravagant bearskin that served as a rug (had it been there before? Connor wasn't sure), and fell. Immediately he was pinned down, light from the fire catching edge of a blade. Hidden blade. Haytham's hidden blade. A hand crushed Connor's throat and he scrabbled at it, wheezing for air.
"You are missing your scars, Grand Master. You have so many but none that are yours," hissed Lee. "Do not mistake my admiration and indulgence of your body as complacency."
The fire flared up, a log being licked clean by flames discovered a nook of particularly dry bark, and Connor was four years old again. Terror filled him as he felt his breath go, the inferno swirling behind the grate, destroying him, destroying everything, spilling onto the floor like liquid and engulfing the room. Kanien'kehá:ka poured from Connor's lips, and he screamed, trying to push Lee away. It was touching his skin, searing his flesh and he could smell it: the human meat bubbling away in its own fat.
He had to find his mother. He could rescue her this time. He could, he could. But a log had trapped him and it was he who was burning alive. Ratonhnhaké:ton howled and screamed, pushing at the log, but it only pressed heavier. It grew branches that wrapped around him, held him tighter, bit into his flesh but didn't penetrate. Breathing was so difficult yet he still screamed and hoped that someone would hear him, someone would take him away.
Who would rescue a half-breed like himself? So many people had told him he was an abomination, that he belonged neither with his people nor in the world of the white man. He was hideous. Deformed. It was best if he died in this fire, then his mother wouldn't be burdened with him, Kanen'tó:kon wouldn't have to pretend to like him anymore, and the clan could be done with him. One less unworthy mouth to feed, to dress, to teach. What was the word Kanen'tó:kon had used?
Traitor.
Yes. He was a traitor. He hadn't done enough to save his village and now they were gone. He wished the flames would hurry and kill him. Roast him. Give him release and send him to the place that foul, unlikable, half-breed, traitorous monsters like himself went. The air was thick with smoke and he sucked it in trying to suffocate. But it would never reach his lungs, filling them but not hurting him.
Ratonhnhaké:ton began to sob, tears freely falling down his face. Someone was massaging his neck. He hoped they were about to snap it. But that would be too quick a death for him. He was supposed to suffer first.
"Shh, it is the fever-dreams," murmured a kind voice. "Only fever-dreams."
They stroked his temples, and the log shifted into a human shape. A strong human shape, a protector. Ratonhnhaké:ton latched on and cried, trembling and burying his head in his protector's shoulder.
***
Lee wasn't surprised by the hallucinations, nor by the flashbacks. But he was surprised by the extremity. Never had he hoped that the drugs would be so quick and so powerful. Haytham was entirely placid, although crying quietly, and tucked into Lee's arms. All Lee had to do was make comforting noises and whisper to Haytham in Mohawk, and he would clutch closer, completely unaware of the outside world.
The sight was beautiful. It was as it should be. As it would be. Together, they would claim the colonies for the Templars, they would destroy Washington, and they would never be apart again.
Haytham's skin was darker, his chest was a little broader, and his features had more than a hint of savage blood, but he was Haytham. This was his Haytham. Lee held the man, now simply shivering against him, the warmth of his bath wearing off, and pressed a kiss to the shaved head. He wondered if this Haytham's hair would curl at the tips if left to dry naturally. Haytham's eyes were the wrong colour, but that couldn't be helped. Not yet, anyway.
Drawing his coat around both of them, Lee made a mental note to feed more of the hallucinogenic pellets to Haytham.
Grief's Madness 4/? (TW: as above, PTSD, hallucenogenics.)
So Lee wouldn't let him be injured. That was an interesting piece of leverage, Connor mused as he rubbed his skin with a wet cloth and a bar of soap, working it into a lather. He stood, taking up a bucket of fresh water and rinsed himself off, stepping onto a soft reed mat, dripping water while Lee unashamedly stared. Connor held out his hands for a towel. When Lee didn't move Connor nudged past him, seemingly breaking the older man from his stupor.
A hand slipped down dark skin, stroking old scars and tracing the vertebrae of his spine. Connor stiffened, which he realised as soon as his muscles contracted was precisely the wrong thing to do. The lackeys had vanished, he noticed, and he inconspicuously tilted his head to see what Lee was up to. Smothering desire, a fire of lust, gleamed in the pale, sweaty face. The hand moved over to rub at his stomach and guide him back to press against Lee's front.
But Connor didn't let the hand guide him, striking Lee's face with a sharp snap of air, palm, and skin. Revulsion churned in Connor's stomach. He forgot to maintain his accent.
"Do not touch me!"
Lee snarled back, shoving Connor back. Connor stumbled on the edge of an extravagant bearskin that served as a rug (had it been there before? Connor wasn't sure), and fell. Immediately he was pinned down, light from the fire catching edge of a blade. Hidden blade. Haytham's hidden blade. A hand crushed Connor's throat and he scrabbled at it, wheezing for air.
"You are missing your scars, Grand Master. You have so many but none that are yours," hissed Lee. "Do not mistake my admiration and indulgence of your body as complacency."
The fire flared up, a log being licked clean by flames discovered a nook of particularly dry bark, and Connor was four years old again. Terror filled him as he felt his breath go, the inferno swirling behind the grate, destroying him, destroying everything, spilling onto the floor like liquid and engulfing the room. Kanien'kehá:ka poured from Connor's lips, and he screamed, trying to push Lee away. It was touching his skin, searing his flesh and he could smell it: the human meat bubbling away in its own fat.
He had to find his mother. He could rescue her this time. He could, he could. But a log had trapped him and it was he who was burning alive. Ratonhnhaké:ton howled and screamed, pushing at the log, but it only pressed heavier. It grew branches that wrapped around him, held him tighter, bit into his flesh but didn't penetrate. Breathing was so difficult yet he still screamed and hoped that someone would hear him, someone would take him away.
Who would rescue a half-breed like himself? So many people had told him he was an abomination, that he belonged neither with his people nor in the world of the white man. He was hideous. Deformed. It was best if he died in this fire, then his mother wouldn't be burdened with him, Kanen'tó:kon wouldn't have to pretend to like him anymore, and the clan could be done with him. One less unworthy mouth to feed, to dress, to teach. What was the word Kanen'tó:kon had used?
Traitor.
Yes. He was a traitor. He hadn't done enough to save his village and now they were gone. He wished the flames would hurry and kill him. Roast him. Give him release and send him to the place that foul, unlikable, half-breed, traitorous monsters like himself went. The air was thick with smoke and he sucked it in trying to suffocate. But it would never reach his lungs, filling them but not hurting him.
Ratonhnhaké:ton began to sob, tears freely falling down his face. Someone was massaging his neck. He hoped they were about to snap it. But that would be too quick a death for him. He was supposed to suffer first.
"Shh, it is the fever-dreams," murmured a kind voice. "Only fever-dreams."
They stroked his temples, and the log shifted into a human shape. A strong human shape, a protector. Ratonhnhaké:ton latched on and cried, trembling and burying his head in his protector's shoulder.
***
Lee wasn't surprised by the hallucinations, nor by the flashbacks. But he was surprised by the extremity. Never had he hoped that the drugs would be so quick and so powerful. Haytham was entirely placid, although crying quietly, and tucked into Lee's arms. All Lee had to do was make comforting noises and whisper to Haytham in Mohawk, and he would clutch closer, completely unaware of the outside world.
The sight was beautiful. It was as it should be. As it would be. Together, they would claim the colonies for the Templars, they would destroy Washington, and they would never be apart again.
Haytham's skin was darker, his chest was a little broader, and his features had more than a hint of savage blood, but he was Haytham. This was his Haytham. Lee held the man, now simply shivering against him, the warmth of his bath wearing off, and pressed a kiss to the shaved head. He wondered if this Haytham's hair would curl at the tips if left to dry naturally. Haytham's eyes were the wrong colour, but that couldn't be helped. Not yet, anyway.
Drawing his coat around both of them, Lee made a mental note to feed more of the hallucinogenic pellets to Haytham.