His father's shirt was soft, softer than he was used to, and Connor stood in it to finger the fabric for a few minutes before tucking it into his trousers. After finally breaking from his nightmare he'd found himself alone, still naked and curled in front of the fire. He remembered flames. But someone had rescued him and he couldn't be sure that it was the same person that had dragged him away from his mother when he was four.
His wet clothes were gone, replaced by a pile of neatly stacked boxes. The first and the biggest box made Connor throw it across the room in a fit of rage. It's lid flew off, the tricorn hat inside falling out and tumbling away to a dark corner where he didn't have to look at it. He pawed his way through the other boxes, tossing some to the side (cape, coat, ribbons). The trousers he pulled on immediately. One of the snowy white shirts was laid on the rug, edged nervously towards the fire. Connor didn't face the flames directly. He pulled the shirt away far too early for it to have warmed properly.
Haytham's waistcoat was a piece of beauty. Although it was quite loose around his waist, it had been designed in a manner that was agreeable with the activities of murder. Small darts allowed it to roll with his shoulders, letting his hands reach above his head without any fear that it would be rumpled when he lowered them. The colour was a red deeper and richer than the evening sun against the clouds, tiny strands of golden thread decorating the fleur-de-lis and Templar cross pattern. It was a clever design.
Connor removed it, not feeling comfortable in a piece of clothing that was so obviously his father's.
Still quite alone, he stood to investigate the cabin, but he couldn't find anything new that he hadn't seen the first time around. Desk drawers and books were rummaged through with nothing to show for his efforts. He took a bite of the stew - now disgustingly cold - and settled for the bread, chewing slowly as he picked out a book.
The sun was quite high now. It wasn't quite midday, and outside it was eerily quiet, but a glance at the yard with his eagle vision told him all he needed to know. Surrounded. Even the animals knew to stay away from so many soldiers. Settling in next to the window, he tore into the bread, wondering if he would ever be able to explore the outside world again.
The book he had chosen out of boredom than a desire to read, lay open in his lap. Seeing nothing else to do, and having no idea when Lee would return, Connor started to read. He wasn't sure he understood most of it since it was based on a political system he'd never seen in action, but it was interesting enough to keep his attention.
The book was plucked from his hands. Connor lunged into an attack out of surprised reflex, sweeping the thief's feet from underneath them, grabbing the book before it had a chance to fall. The thief rolled and used the momentum to get back up again. They pulled a riding crop from their hip, but Connor threw his book first, slamming them square in the forehead. With a moan, they collapsed in a heap, revealing themselves to be nothing but a foolish young soldier.
"Haytham, that is enough!" called Lee, appearing in the doorway, but he had a smirk as the attacker was dragged away by his friends.
A heady scent of fresh food wafted from the tray Lee was holding. More stew, but at least it was hot. Connor's stance relaxed, although he was still wary of the large pitcher of water. His stomach rumbled, finding the thought of food to be quite agreeable. As Lee came into the room, Connor shuffled back, edging away from his captor.
Lee's foot kicked the abandoned tricorn. The tray was placed next to the first as he bent to pick up the discarded clothing, draping them over his arm. He brushed the dust from them, arranging them over the armchair, and glared at Connor.
"You have not dressed yourself properly. I had hoped that you would since I had given you the privilege of remaining unchained, but alas, it is not so," said Lee.
Guards hustled in, a stocky bear collar in their hands. Connor's throat clenched up, still sore from Charles' earlier choking, and he shook his head.
"What is this? You do not want it?" asked Charles. "Then dress."
"They are my father's clothes," protested Connor.
With a displeased noise, Lee snatched up the guard's riding crop and cracked it over Connor's shoulder.
"I said dress!" he screamed, bringing the crop down again. "I know every mark and scar that has been erased by your reincarnation, and I will make them again if you force me. Now dress yourself, and then you may eat."
The crop lashed for a third time, right across the shoulderblades. The collar loomed in the corner of Connor's vision, making quite a bit of noise as it's bells and weights clinked together. He shuddered, and took up the red waistcoat.
When he was finished, Lee gestured for him to turn around. He tugged and pulled, smoothed the fabric over Connor's shoulders, and fixed the narrow necktie that bound his throat in crimson. One hand touched the soft bristles on his head, stroking the velvet with an ever widening smile. Connor stared out the window, focusing on the dripping ice in a tree, ignoring the hands that confidently examined him.
"You are coming together well, Haytham."
"Yes, Charles," murmured Connor absently.
The tricorn was the last to go on. He'd left it off on purpose, hoping that Lee would forget about it. But now Lee placed it on his head and Connor didn't notice, even as Lee tilted it forward in that particular manner with which Haytham had worn it. He blinked, looked down at himself, and clutched at his cape, trying to hide the outfit.
"Come now, Grand Master, tell me your name," whispered Lee.
Spitefully, the assassin leaned in and replied, "Connor Davenport."
Pain exploded from his groin as Lee struck him with the crop, and he keened, doubling over slightly. He shoved at Lee as the man grabbed the injury and squeezed, his large hands full of strength. Connor yelped, and the heavy bear collar settled on his shoulders, the chains looping around his body. They toppled him, and he crashed onto his bed, quickly chained to the wall, hands and feet being captured and cuffed.
Lee sat next to him, a spoon and the stew in his hands.
"Are you going to behave now?" he asked.
Connor nodded, winded. Pain still radiated from his prick, the chains sitting heavily over it. Lee offered him a bite of stew, and he took it, anything to distract him.
"Tomorrow, we will wake you early. There is a fitness regimes that you are fond of. Then some breakfast, and lessons. In two months our Lodge will be completed," said Lee. "You will be ready for your debut by then, Haytham. I am sure the men will be quite pleased with their new Grand Master."
Connor continued to chew. He didn't want to say anything more to this madman. Not even to ask why the peas hadn't been properly soaked.
He fingered the soft fabric of his shirt cuffs and smelt the lingering perfume Haytham had used. He hadn't thought that it would be a comfort at any point in his life - Haytham may have been his father by blood, but Connor had felt detached from him. But this subtle reminder soothed him, just like African potpourri that reminded him of Achilles, or of the fresh herbs that his mother had grown and seasoned their meat with. These were the memories that Lee couldn't have, couldn't stop.
The stew was finished, and Lee gave him some water to wash it down, the salty taste making him thirsty despite needing to take a trip to the outhouse. In full chains he was taken, startled gasps of some of the men positioned outside making him keep his head up and stare them in the eye. Connor did not know why they gasped - for his resemblance to their former master, or for his dramatic restraints - but they were afraid. Good. Let them be afraid.
"Look how they respond," said Charles. "They recognise you. They want you to lead them, sir."
"I am chained, not blind," snapped Haytham. "Honestly, Charles, you baffle me sometimes."
Charles' back stiffened as he assumed a military posture. For a moment, Connor thought he was going to be punished, but Charles' expression was too lively, as if a dark veil of mourning had been pulled away. It was pleasant. He actually looked human, a lightness in his step as he waited for Connor to do his business. Even the smile had lost it's sinister touch, and Connor gave pause to this image; it must have been something much similar to what greeted his father when Haytham had first landed in America.
Lee left him undisturbed for the rest of the day, secured to the cabin wall.
Re: Grief's Madness 4/? (TW: as above, PTSD, hallucenogenics.)
His wet clothes were gone, replaced by a pile of neatly stacked boxes. The first and the biggest box made Connor throw it across the room in a fit of rage. It's lid flew off, the tricorn hat inside falling out and tumbling away to a dark corner where he didn't have to look at it. He pawed his way through the other boxes, tossing some to the side (cape, coat, ribbons). The trousers he pulled on immediately. One of the snowy white shirts was laid on the rug, edged nervously towards the fire. Connor didn't face the flames directly. He pulled the shirt away far too early for it to have warmed properly.
Haytham's waistcoat was a piece of beauty. Although it was quite loose around his waist, it had been designed in a manner that was agreeable with the activities of murder. Small darts allowed it to roll with his shoulders, letting his hands reach above his head without any fear that it would be rumpled when he lowered them. The colour was a red deeper and richer than the evening sun against the clouds, tiny strands of golden thread decorating the fleur-de-lis and Templar cross pattern. It was a clever design.
Connor removed it, not feeling comfortable in a piece of clothing that was so obviously his father's.
Still quite alone, he stood to investigate the cabin, but he couldn't find anything new that he hadn't seen the first time around. Desk drawers and books were rummaged through with nothing to show for his efforts. He took a bite of the stew - now disgustingly cold - and settled for the bread, chewing slowly as he picked out a book.
The sun was quite high now. It wasn't quite midday, and outside it was eerily quiet, but a glance at the yard with his eagle vision told him all he needed to know. Surrounded. Even the animals knew to stay away from so many soldiers. Settling in next to the window, he tore into the bread, wondering if he would ever be able to explore the outside world again.
The book he had chosen out of boredom than a desire to read, lay open in his lap. Seeing nothing else to do, and having no idea when Lee would return, Connor started to read. He wasn't sure he understood most of it since it was based on a political system he'd never seen in action, but it was interesting enough to keep his attention.
The book was plucked from his hands. Connor lunged into an attack out of surprised reflex, sweeping the thief's feet from underneath them, grabbing the book before it had a chance to fall. The thief rolled and used the momentum to get back up again. They pulled a riding crop from their hip, but Connor threw his book first, slamming them square in the forehead. With a moan, they collapsed in a heap, revealing themselves to be nothing but a foolish young soldier.
"Haytham, that is enough!" called Lee, appearing in the doorway, but he had a smirk as the attacker was dragged away by his friends.
A heady scent of fresh food wafted from the tray Lee was holding. More stew, but at least it was hot. Connor's stance relaxed, although he was still wary of the large pitcher of water. His stomach rumbled, finding the thought of food to be quite agreeable. As Lee came into the room, Connor shuffled back, edging away from his captor.
Lee's foot kicked the abandoned tricorn. The tray was placed next to the first as he bent to pick up the discarded clothing, draping them over his arm. He brushed the dust from them, arranging them over the armchair, and glared at Connor.
"You have not dressed yourself properly. I had hoped that you would since I had given you the privilege of remaining unchained, but alas, it is not so," said Lee.
Guards hustled in, a stocky bear collar in their hands. Connor's throat clenched up, still sore from Charles' earlier choking, and he shook his head.
"What is this? You do not want it?" asked Charles. "Then dress."
"They are my father's clothes," protested Connor.
With a displeased noise, Lee snatched up the guard's riding crop and cracked it over Connor's shoulder.
"I said dress!" he screamed, bringing the crop down again. "I know every mark and scar that has been erased by your reincarnation, and I will make them again if you force me. Now dress yourself, and then you may eat."
The crop lashed for a third time, right across the shoulderblades. The collar loomed in the corner of Connor's vision, making quite a bit of noise as it's bells and weights clinked together. He shuddered, and took up the red waistcoat.
When he was finished, Lee gestured for him to turn around. He tugged and pulled, smoothed the fabric over Connor's shoulders, and fixed the narrow necktie that bound his throat in crimson. One hand touched the soft bristles on his head, stroking the velvet with an ever widening smile. Connor stared out the window, focusing on the dripping ice in a tree, ignoring the hands that confidently examined him.
"You are coming together well, Haytham."
"Yes, Charles," murmured Connor absently.
The tricorn was the last to go on. He'd left it off on purpose, hoping that Lee would forget about it. But now Lee placed it on his head and Connor didn't notice, even as Lee tilted it forward in that particular manner with which Haytham had worn it. He blinked, looked down at himself, and clutched at his cape, trying to hide the outfit.
"Come now, Grand Master, tell me your name," whispered Lee.
Spitefully, the assassin leaned in and replied, "Connor Davenport."
Pain exploded from his groin as Lee struck him with the crop, and he keened, doubling over slightly. He shoved at Lee as the man grabbed the injury and squeezed, his large hands full of strength. Connor yelped, and the heavy bear collar settled on his shoulders, the chains looping around his body. They toppled him, and he crashed onto his bed, quickly chained to the wall, hands and feet being captured and cuffed.
Lee sat next to him, a spoon and the stew in his hands.
"Are you going to behave now?" he asked.
Connor nodded, winded. Pain still radiated from his prick, the chains sitting heavily over it. Lee offered him a bite of stew, and he took it, anything to distract him.
"Tomorrow, we will wake you early. There is a fitness regimes that you are fond of. Then some breakfast, and lessons. In two months our Lodge will be completed," said Lee. "You will be ready for your debut by then, Haytham. I am sure the men will be quite pleased with their new Grand Master."
Connor continued to chew. He didn't want to say anything more to this madman. Not even to ask why the peas hadn't been properly soaked.
He fingered the soft fabric of his shirt cuffs and smelt the lingering perfume Haytham had used. He hadn't thought that it would be a comfort at any point in his life - Haytham may have been his father by blood, but Connor had felt detached from him. But this subtle reminder soothed him, just like African potpourri that reminded him of Achilles, or of the fresh herbs that his mother had grown and seasoned their meat with. These were the memories that Lee couldn't have, couldn't stop.
The stew was finished, and Lee gave him some water to wash it down, the salty taste making him thirsty despite needing to take a trip to the outhouse. In full chains he was taken, startled gasps of some of the men positioned outside making him keep his head up and stare them in the eye. Connor did not know why they gasped - for his resemblance to their former master, or for his dramatic restraints - but they were afraid. Good. Let them be afraid.
"Look how they respond," said Charles. "They recognise you. They want you to lead them, sir."
"I am chained, not blind," snapped Haytham. "Honestly, Charles, you baffle me sometimes."
Charles' back stiffened as he assumed a military posture. For a moment, Connor thought he was going to be punished, but Charles' expression was too lively, as if a dark veil of mourning had been pulled away. It was pleasant. He actually looked human, a lightness in his step as he waited for Connor to do his business. Even the smile had lost it's sinister touch, and Connor gave pause to this image; it must have been something much similar to what greeted his father when Haytham had first landed in America.
Lee left him undisturbed for the rest of the day, secured to the cabin wall.