The final fitting. It had come. Soon the Lodge would be complete, and Haytham would take his vows. Mr Babbington had done such a fine job of completing the two suits of clothing that Charles was inclined to pay him extra. Perhaps even move onto the complex, with his family. Soldiers had their families moving in. It was beginning to feel more like the harmless community it pretended to be. A good tailor would be incentive to stay.
There was rustling and murmuring, and once or twice a corner of white fabric flicking from behind the curtains. Charles leaned forward in anticipation, careful not to crease his own blood-red robes. He picked at his gloves, trying to distract himself. A clatter caught Charles' attention and his breath hitched as the curtain was pushed aside.
Haytham stepped forward, smoothing non-existent wrinkles from his coat, adjusting the ceremonial sword at his side. The pale cream shimmered in the sunlight that poured through the windows, the delicate embroidery and trims accentuating Haytham's body. It fell to just below his knee, allowing the red silk lining to flash and ripple as he walked, shouting a warning to his lethality. The shape of the coat was similar, with a split up the back to his tailbone. Lines of a darker gold-bronze decorated the seams, drawing attention to the undisturbed planes of his chest and back. The tailor fastened a heavy cape to Haytham's shoulders in a Roman fashion, draping the fabric to dip in a sweeping curve between his shoulders. It was also lined in the same blood red as his coat. White breeches, stockings and knee-high polished black boots with a snowy shirt, cravat and red waistcoat completed the look.
There had been quite a bit of lace at one point, but Charles and Haytham had agreed that it was unflattering to the crisply cut design, and had removed all of it save for the tiniest peep on Haytham's shirt sleeves. Charles couldn't keep himself from staring. Now if they just brushed out his hair, they might be able to disguise the shorter pieces with the longer.
"Like a true knight," said the tailor, lifting Haytham's arms to check the stitches.
"Would you like me to turn for you, Charles?" asked Haytham, a amusement honeying his voice.
Without receiving an answer, for Charles seemed to have been struck dumb, Haytham slowly turned on his heel. The cape barely brushed the ground, a perfect measurement.
"You have exceeded our expectations, Mr Babbington," said Charles. "Congratulations, sir, your commission is at an end."
Babbington bowed, and checked Haytham over one last time before asking both men to remove the clothing so it would be properly stored for the time being.
"I hope you gentlemen have a nice gathering, although this seems a bit extravagant for a simple ball," said the tailor, putting his scissors and threads into his toolbox.
"I do believe we shall," said Charles.
He held Haytham's waistcoat as the man tried to get his shirt tucked in properly. For some reason it didn't want to sit right.
"Damn this," he muttered.
Charles batted away his hands, and slung the waistcoat over his shoulder, pushing Haytham's shirttails back into his trousers. He was about to protest when one of their guards threw the curtain back, eyes wide.
"What do you think you're doing?" snapped Charles, tweaking the shirt on Haytham's shoulders.
"The Assassin has escaped!" he gasped. "His comrade freed him!"
Snatching his waistcoat from Charles, Haytham threw it and his coat on, not bothering with the buttons or his cravat. The soldier ducked to the side to avoid being trampled by the two much larger men as they left the nook that had been their temporary dressing room. Babbington was startled, but he didn't seem as startled as he should have been. He was packing up with far too much eagerness rather than cowering at the intrusion.
Taking the soldier's musket, Haytham made motions to leave, then turned at the last minute.
"Your widow will be compensated," he said.
The musket was brought up, the blade slicing through the vulnerable underside of Babbington's throat, penetrating his tongue and mouth. Haytham pulled the trigger.
***
Stephane spurred his horse, Duncan clinging to his back, hands entwined in his belt. They didn't have much time to escape before the alarm was raised. As it was, Duncan was in a state of shock and hadn't spoken a single word. If they were caught, Stephane feared that he would have to fight alone.
The branches whipped past them on either side of the rough track that led to the complex. A final watchtower lay ahead. Yellow light flickered in the distance - Stephane slowed his horse to turn down the hill to where he knew a sizeable stream lay. Water splashed noisily but there was nothing they could do except travel slower.
After around a mile, they left the river and headed for New York. Stephane patted Duncan's hand as they sped further and further away from the cursed place.
"I am sorry," said Duncan, although Stephane felt rather than heard the words against his back. "I ruined it."
"Yes. You did. But everything can be fixed."
The chef wasn't cross with Duncan. Well he was, because who would go into a Templar encampment by themselves like that? (Stephane ignored the voice that said "You would") But he wasn't angry at Duncan for getting caught.
Actually, no, he was furious at Duncan for getting caught.
If only for the fact that they could have killed him. Even though Stephane had given his assassin-in-distress a cursory check over for injuries in the cell, Duncan didn't seem to respond to the manhandling. No physical injuries discovered, yet Duncan was silent.
They took shelter in a tavern on the outskirts of New York. The Templars had been lost. Duncan collapsed onto one of the two beds provided and fell asleep. He didn't even take his boots off. Stephane paused to write a message, copied it several times, and took them to the Post Office, where they trickled away to his comrades. The Templars had been busy, their forces were huge; the others couldn't go in. Not yet. They needed to consolidate.
The entire time Stephane had been in the fort, he had not seen Haytham. But he hadn't seen Connor either - Duncan wasn't so foolish as to trot into the Templar lair without saying what he was doing. Stephane would have to wait for Duncan to éveiller for the full details of what had gone wrong.
He eased Duncan's boots off and threw a blanket over him. The man did not even stir. Stephane huffed - they were trained to sleep lightly, Duncan should have woken up. Taking off his own boots, Stephane flopped onto his own bed, his weapons within easy reaching distance, a chair wedged under the door handle. He glanced at the sleeping man beside him and wondered what had happened, thoughts racing through his head until he finally drifted off as well.
Grief's Madness 9/? (TW: as above)
There was rustling and murmuring, and once or twice a corner of white fabric flicking from behind the curtains. Charles leaned forward in anticipation, careful not to crease his own blood-red robes. He picked at his gloves, trying to distract himself. A clatter caught Charles' attention and his breath hitched as the curtain was pushed aside.
Haytham stepped forward, smoothing non-existent wrinkles from his coat, adjusting the ceremonial sword at his side. The pale cream shimmered in the sunlight that poured through the windows, the delicate embroidery and trims accentuating Haytham's body. It fell to just below his knee, allowing the red silk lining to flash and ripple as he walked, shouting a warning to his lethality. The shape of the coat was similar, with a split up the back to his tailbone. Lines of a darker gold-bronze decorated the seams, drawing attention to the undisturbed planes of his chest and back. The tailor fastened a heavy cape to Haytham's shoulders in a Roman fashion, draping the fabric to dip in a sweeping curve between his shoulders. It was also lined in the same blood red as his coat. White breeches, stockings and knee-high polished black boots with a snowy shirt, cravat and red waistcoat completed the look.
There had been quite a bit of lace at one point, but Charles and Haytham had agreed that it was unflattering to the crisply cut design, and had removed all of it save for the tiniest peep on Haytham's shirt sleeves. Charles couldn't keep himself from staring. Now if they just brushed out his hair, they might be able to disguise the shorter pieces with the longer.
"Like a true knight," said the tailor, lifting Haytham's arms to check the stitches.
"Would you like me to turn for you, Charles?" asked Haytham, a amusement honeying his voice.
Without receiving an answer, for Charles seemed to have been struck dumb, Haytham slowly turned on his heel. The cape barely brushed the ground, a perfect measurement.
"You have exceeded our expectations, Mr Babbington," said Charles. "Congratulations, sir, your commission is at an end."
Babbington bowed, and checked Haytham over one last time before asking both men to remove the clothing so it would be properly stored for the time being.
"I hope you gentlemen have a nice gathering, although this seems a bit extravagant for a simple ball," said the tailor, putting his scissors and threads into his toolbox.
"I do believe we shall," said Charles.
He held Haytham's waistcoat as the man tried to get his shirt tucked in properly. For some reason it didn't want to sit right.
"Damn this," he muttered.
Charles batted away his hands, and slung the waistcoat over his shoulder, pushing Haytham's shirttails back into his trousers. He was about to protest when one of their guards threw the curtain back, eyes wide.
"What do you think you're doing?" snapped Charles, tweaking the shirt on Haytham's shoulders.
"The Assassin has escaped!" he gasped. "His comrade freed him!"
Snatching his waistcoat from Charles, Haytham threw it and his coat on, not bothering with the buttons or his cravat. The soldier ducked to the side to avoid being trampled by the two much larger men as they left the nook that had been their temporary dressing room. Babbington was startled, but he didn't seem as startled as he should have been. He was packing up with far too much eagerness rather than cowering at the intrusion.
Taking the soldier's musket, Haytham made motions to leave, then turned at the last minute.
"Your widow will be compensated," he said.
The musket was brought up, the blade slicing through the vulnerable underside of Babbington's throat, penetrating his tongue and mouth. Haytham pulled the trigger.
***
Stephane spurred his horse, Duncan clinging to his back, hands entwined in his belt. They didn't have much time to escape before the alarm was raised. As it was, Duncan was in a state of shock and hadn't spoken a single word. If they were caught, Stephane feared that he would have to fight alone.
The branches whipped past them on either side of the rough track that led to the complex. A final watchtower lay ahead. Yellow light flickered in the distance - Stephane slowed his horse to turn down the hill to where he knew a sizeable stream lay. Water splashed noisily but there was nothing they could do except travel slower.
After around a mile, they left the river and headed for New York. Stephane patted Duncan's hand as they sped further and further away from the cursed place.
"I am sorry," said Duncan, although Stephane felt rather than heard the words against his back. "I ruined it."
"Yes. You did. But everything can be fixed."
The chef wasn't cross with Duncan. Well he was, because who would go into a Templar encampment by themselves like that? (Stephane ignored the voice that said "You would") But he wasn't angry at Duncan for getting caught.
Actually, no, he was furious at Duncan for getting caught.
If only for the fact that they could have killed him. Even though Stephane had given his assassin-in-distress a cursory check over for injuries in the cell, Duncan didn't seem to respond to the manhandling. No physical injuries discovered, yet Duncan was silent.
They took shelter in a tavern on the outskirts of New York. The Templars had been lost. Duncan collapsed onto one of the two beds provided and fell asleep. He didn't even take his boots off. Stephane paused to write a message, copied it several times, and took them to the Post Office, where they trickled away to his comrades. The Templars had been busy, their forces were huge; the others couldn't go in. Not yet. They needed to consolidate.
The entire time Stephane had been in the fort, he had not seen Haytham. But he hadn't seen Connor either - Duncan wasn't so foolish as to trot into the Templar lair without saying what he was doing. Stephane would have to wait for Duncan to éveiller for the full details of what had gone wrong.
He eased Duncan's boots off and threw a blanket over him. The man did not even stir. Stephane huffed - they were trained to sleep lightly, Duncan should have woken up. Taking off his own boots, Stephane flopped onto his own bed, his weapons within easy reaching distance, a chair wedged under the door handle. He glanced at the sleeping man beside him and wondered what had happened, thoughts racing through his head until he finally drifted off as well.