Haytham sat patiently, listening to the conversation that bubbled around him. It was a rare treat to be allowed out of the cabin. This wasn't the real world - it was the complex's mess hall - but it wasn't far removed. Charles certainly had been busy.
The atmosphere was cheerful, morale was high, and when Haytham used his second sight it revealed a comforting sea of blue foot soldiers. High above him the ceilings stretched in dark, curved timbers, resembling an upside down boat. It was of a similar structure to the native longhouses that dotted the frontier in clustered communities. Heavy, study slabs of local timber had been converted into work ready tables, and they were used for all manner of activities. Scanning the hall, Haytham spotted weapons being cleaned, papers being reviewed, boardgames being considered, and of course, meals being eaten. There were eleven of these tables, ten of them set up to run parallel with the hall's length, while the eleventh had been arranged at a right angle. This one was smaller than the others, sitting ten people along one side only compared to the twenty for the larger tables. At present it was occupied by several captains and other higher-ranking soldiers.
The space was lit by iron chandeliers and black candelabras that squatted in the middle of the tables, glass domes scattering the candlelight. These men were on the dog's watch - their meal was breakfast rather than supper. Once they had finished, they would relieve their comrades, whom would hurry in, eager to eat and trot off to bed. In total, there were over two hundred men in each shift, and there were three shifts, pushing the current populous of the complex at over six hundred and thirty men.
Construction on the Lodge had been halted, delayed by a rising need for a fence. Initially Lee had hoped that they would be able to disguise the complex as a town, but it hadn't worked out as well as he had expected. Hence the new fence plans. Charles had fumed about it - the Initiation had to be pushed back by a month and a half.
"At least this will give the tailor more time to perfect the ceremonial uniform," Haytham had said and Charles had seemed to calm.
It had been a month and a half since he'd been taken. His hair was growing back with remarkable speed. Yet it would be a while before it was long enough to pull back into a ribbon. But Haytham didn't remember being captured. Not at the present.
As the men left for their watch, the few that passed Haytham tilted their hats respectfully, the others not at all perturbed by the Grand Master in the corner. Charles emerged from somewhere, going against the stream of men trickling out, but finding no difficulty in parting the ocean before him. They naturally separated, clearing a path for their superior.
"Charles," Haytham warmly greeted him. "Have you finished your errands?"
He stood and hooked his arm through Charles'. A flush of pleasure appeared on his companion's face. Haytham chuckled; for such a simple and innocent action, Charles always seemed surprised by it, as if each time was the first that Haytham had decided to display their friendship.
"Yes. They are quite done. However, I wish to show you something before we retire," said Charles.
Such a pup, thought Haytham. So eager to please. Afraid to offend but loyalty and truth comes before preservation of social niceties.
They trotted into the brisk air, heading towards the cabin. Charles turned them away before it was in sight and headed towards the prison-cells. Haytham could hear a steady stream of (remarkably religious) insults wafting through the air, and the voice sounded familiar but he couldn't place it.
Charles pulled back the peephole on one of the cells and gestured for Haytham to look inside. Confused, Haytham did, and spotted a man in an old priest's uniform. He slammed the peephole shut again.
"We do not capture priests," hissed Haytham.
Inside the cell the threats and snarls stopped. Perhaps the priest thought he might soon be free. It was easier to think without damnations being shouted at him from close range.
"He is not a priest, sir. Duncan Little of the Assassins," replied Charles.
"They have sunk to new lows, then," mused Haytham.
"Indeed. What should we do with him?"
Drawing the peephole back again, Haytham leaned in to observe Little pacing the room in agitation. The man snapped his head up at the sound. For a moment, their eyes locked.
"Keep him fed and clean. We can use him as leverage," decided Haytham.
"Very good, Haytham."
The assassin leapt forward and grabbed the iron bars that protected the peephole. Haytham instinctive moved back to avoid any rudimentary weapons the prisoner may have fashioned. They still maintained eye contact.
"You are not Haytham," whispered Little.
He pressed his face closer to the grill, trying to see Haytham in the shadows.
"Connor?" exclaimed Little, but Charles slammed the peephole shut.
Haytham ignored the desperate shouting and pleading that Little made, the sound fading as he and Charles walked away, arm in arm, from the prison cells. Connor was his son. His dead son.
Grief's Madness 7/? (TW: as above) previous part should've been 6
The atmosphere was cheerful, morale was high, and when Haytham used his second sight it revealed a comforting sea of blue foot soldiers. High above him the ceilings stretched in dark, curved timbers, resembling an upside down boat. It was of a similar structure to the native longhouses that dotted the frontier in clustered communities. Heavy, study slabs of local timber had been converted into work ready tables, and they were used for all manner of activities. Scanning the hall, Haytham spotted weapons being cleaned, papers being reviewed, boardgames being considered, and of course, meals being eaten. There were eleven of these tables, ten of them set up to run parallel with the hall's length, while the eleventh had been arranged at a right angle. This one was smaller than the others, sitting ten people along one side only compared to the twenty for the larger tables. At present it was occupied by several captains and other higher-ranking soldiers.
The space was lit by iron chandeliers and black candelabras that squatted in the middle of the tables, glass domes scattering the candlelight. These men were on the dog's watch - their meal was breakfast rather than supper. Once they had finished, they would relieve their comrades, whom would hurry in, eager to eat and trot off to bed. In total, there were over two hundred men in each shift, and there were three shifts, pushing the current populous of the complex at over six hundred and thirty men.
Construction on the Lodge had been halted, delayed by a rising need for a fence. Initially Lee had hoped that they would be able to disguise the complex as a town, but it hadn't worked out as well as he had expected. Hence the new fence plans. Charles had fumed about it - the Initiation had to be pushed back by a month and a half.
"At least this will give the tailor more time to perfect the ceremonial uniform," Haytham had said and Charles had seemed to calm.
It had been a month and a half since he'd been taken. His hair was growing back with remarkable speed. Yet it would be a while before it was long enough to pull back into a ribbon. But Haytham didn't remember being captured. Not at the present.
As the men left for their watch, the few that passed Haytham tilted their hats respectfully, the others not at all perturbed by the Grand Master in the corner. Charles emerged from somewhere, going against the stream of men trickling out, but finding no difficulty in parting the ocean before him. They naturally separated, clearing a path for their superior.
"Charles," Haytham warmly greeted him. "Have you finished your errands?"
He stood and hooked his arm through Charles'. A flush of pleasure appeared on his companion's face. Haytham chuckled; for such a simple and innocent action, Charles always seemed surprised by it, as if each time was the first that Haytham had decided to display their friendship.
"Yes. They are quite done. However, I wish to show you something before we retire," said Charles.
Such a pup, thought Haytham. So eager to please. Afraid to offend but loyalty and truth comes before preservation of social niceties.
They trotted into the brisk air, heading towards the cabin. Charles turned them away before it was in sight and headed towards the prison-cells. Haytham could hear a steady stream of (remarkably religious) insults wafting through the air, and the voice sounded familiar but he couldn't place it.
Charles pulled back the peephole on one of the cells and gestured for Haytham to look inside. Confused, Haytham did, and spotted a man in an old priest's uniform. He slammed the peephole shut again.
"We do not capture priests," hissed Haytham.
Inside the cell the threats and snarls stopped. Perhaps the priest thought he might soon be free. It was easier to think without damnations being shouted at him from close range.
"He is not a priest, sir. Duncan Little of the Assassins," replied Charles.
"They have sunk to new lows, then," mused Haytham.
"Indeed. What should we do with him?"
Drawing the peephole back again, Haytham leaned in to observe Little pacing the room in agitation. The man snapped his head up at the sound. For a moment, their eyes locked.
"Keep him fed and clean. We can use him as leverage," decided Haytham.
"Very good, Haytham."
The assassin leapt forward and grabbed the iron bars that protected the peephole. Haytham instinctive moved back to avoid any rudimentary weapons the prisoner may have fashioned. They still maintained eye contact.
"You are not Haytham," whispered Little.
He pressed his face closer to the grill, trying to see Haytham in the shadows.
"Connor?" exclaimed Little, but Charles slammed the peephole shut.
Haytham ignored the desperate shouting and pleading that Little made, the sound fading as he and Charles walked away, arm in arm, from the prison cells. Connor was his son. His dead son.
Haytham hoped the fence would be completed soon.