I forgot to mention at the top of the chapter that I'm going to do a few back story chapters interspersed in the story. I apologize if this threw you off. --------------------------------------------
He didn't know, not entirely, but when all the color drains from the man's face, Haytham realizes his suspicions were correct. He's treated to the rare sight of Charles Lee's true emotions. His light green eyes widen and his mouth is slack with abject horror. Haytham flushes, mutually uncomfortable. Ambushing his friend is a new low... this is the last thing he wants to do to the man, but he needs to put Charles in his place.
“I—I—” Charles sputters, his face this time flushing with embarrassment, “But—how?”
“I made inquiries,” Haytham says, gently.
Charles' mouth bows wretchedly and he looks past Haytham to the creek beyond that the path follows, the trees, his horse—in short, looking everywhere but at Haytham's face. Finally, his gaze settles on the ground.
“Who was it?” He asks quietly, voice quavering. Oh dear lord, please, don't let him start to weep...
“Does it matter?”
“Who, sir?” He demands. Haytham doesn't care for the tone of that. He hopes he's not going to be on the receiving end of Charles' temper.
“Thomas.”
When Haytham had brought Thomas Hickey into the fold, Captain Pitcarin had privately voiced his dissent. “Mr Hickey,” He had said, “Is brutish, vulgar, and has a hand in almost every unseemly business in Boston, legal or no.” Haytham had responded, “You are most correct, sir. Which is why we need him on our side.” With Thomas' invaluable knowledge, Haytham had his finger on the pulse of the seedier aspect of the colonies; who was evading their taxes, who was flouting the Navigation Acts and smuggling in goods not produced in England, who was running protection rackets, pyramid schemes, engaging in blackmail, killing for profit, ad infinitum.
Mr Hickey also knew who visited whore houses, which ones they frequented, and what sort of services the client asked for. It had taken almost no prompting at all for Thomas to supply the name and location of Charles' favorite haunt; a place in Boston that was similar in reputation to the establishment where Captain Pitcarin's relation would later be murdered. Thomas had been most reluctant to volunteer anything else, though. When Haytham went to go investigate himself, he bribed the madam quite liberally and had asked about Charles' habits. She had pointed out a man that had looked as if he could have passed as Haytham's brother. He had thought the resemblance too strong to be mere coincidence.
“That uncouth, disingenuous, whoreson!” Charles growls.
“Don't blame him, Charles. He was just following orders.” Haytham goes to place a placating hand on Charles' shoulder but he jerks away.
“You had no right,” He says miserably, “My... what I do it—it was a matter that did not concern you!”
“I had a right to know if you were engaging in any activities that would compromise our Order,” Haytham tells him, a gentle reprimand, “We investigate every man and woman who seeks to join us, recommendation from a Grandmaster or no. The Assassins would have wiped us out centuries ago if we didn't take such precautions. I looked into you and didn't find anything about you that suggested that you had divided loyalties. Thus, when the time was appropriate, I made you my Brother.”
Charles looks at him sharply, shocked. “You—you knew, all this time?”
“I did.”
“And you said nothing.”
“As you said, it's a private matter. I didn't want to be having this conversation. I knew it would upset you.”
“And yet we are still having it. And you have upset me.”
“To illustrate a point, Charles,” Says Haytham, and he tugs on the lead of his horse, beginning their slow walk again.
“And that is?” Charles asks, voice rough, following.
“That we can't always choose who we care about.”
They walk. They had been walking side by side, when the width of the path had allowed it, but now the younger man hangs back. Haytham can scarcely recall a more deafening silence; the void between them drowns out the birdsong, the gurgle of the stream, and the hooves of their horses until all Haytham can hear is the words that they are not saying to each other.
“I'm sorry, Charles,” Haytham says, trying to defuse the tension. When Charles doesn't reply Haytham looks at him back over his shoulder. The other man watches the ground, shoulders slumped. Haytham shoots him a smile that is supposed to look warm and comforting but in all likelihood is wan and anxious. “If it's any consolation, I don't mind. I've never thought ill of you for it. I'm actually rather flattered.” He isn't lying. Had he found the information disturbing? Yes, but only at first, really. The knowledge had explained quite a bit about Charles' behavior towards him.
Evidently, it is not consoling. Charles' eyes flick to his and he looks away again, shamefaced. “Oh, good lord...” Charles moans.
“I did not wish for any awkwardness between us, that's why I waited so long to tell you—”
“Sir, please,” He begs, “May we just change the subject?”
Whole minutes pass in silence. Haytham fingers the odd bit of metal that is hanging from a leather cord around his neck.
“I sent to Reginald for an expert about a fortnight ago,” He says, trying to broach the silence once more. “The markings in that cave are indeed consistent with other Precursor antiquities. This pendant—it is connected in all of this, somehow. When I brought it inside the cave, the markings glowed, Charles. I've never seen anything quite like it.”
He's told him all this before; Haytham's just trying to bridge the void between them. Charles makes no indication that he's even listening. He continues anyway, perhaps hoping that their work will take Charles' mind from the bomb that Haytham had so casually and tactlessly thrown into his lap.
“It's a door, I'm almost certain of it; there's a seam in the wall where air escapes from the other side. There's a hollow in the wall, smooth and even as the finest porcelain bowl, a little larger than a fist. I think, maybe, that is the lock. All we need is a different key. I have my suspicions on what that key may be, but I wanted to get a second opinion from someone more scholarly.”
“Very good, sir,” Charles says stiffly. Obviously, he could care less about the cave at this point.
More silence passes.
“The crab apple blossoms are lovely,” Haytham observes when he can stand it no longer.
“Yes,” Charles agrees glumly, “Yes, they are quite lovely.”
Haytham sighs. Well. This is perfectly disastrous.
Neither man says another word for the rest of their walk.
------------------
Alright, since it looks like my chapters are getting longer and longer, I'll probably start posting links to the chapters at AO3 when I update here, unless someone objects.
FILL ---------9 (part 2) of ? -------Enthralled
--------------------------------------------
He didn't know, not entirely, but when all the color drains from the man's face, Haytham realizes his suspicions were correct. He's treated to the rare sight of Charles Lee's true emotions. His light green eyes widen and his mouth is slack with abject horror. Haytham flushes, mutually uncomfortable. Ambushing his friend is a new low... this is the last thing he wants to do to the man, but he needs to put Charles in his place.
“I—I—” Charles sputters, his face this time flushing with embarrassment, “But—how?”
“I made inquiries,” Haytham says, gently.
Charles' mouth bows wretchedly and he looks past Haytham to the creek beyond that the path follows, the trees, his horse—in short, looking everywhere but at Haytham's face. Finally, his gaze settles on the ground.
“Who was it?” He asks quietly, voice quavering. Oh dear lord, please, don't let him start to weep...
“Does it matter?”
“Who, sir?” He demands. Haytham doesn't care for the tone of that. He hopes he's not going to be on the receiving end of Charles' temper.
“Thomas.”
When Haytham had brought Thomas Hickey into the fold, Captain Pitcarin had privately voiced his dissent. “Mr Hickey,” He had said, “Is brutish, vulgar, and has a hand in almost every unseemly business in Boston, legal or no.” Haytham had responded, “You are most correct, sir. Which is why we need him on our side.” With Thomas' invaluable knowledge, Haytham had his finger on the pulse of the seedier aspect of the colonies; who was evading their taxes, who was flouting the Navigation Acts and smuggling in goods not produced in England, who was running protection rackets, pyramid schemes, engaging in blackmail, killing for profit, ad infinitum.
Mr Hickey also knew who visited whore houses, which ones they frequented, and what sort of services the client asked for. It had taken almost no prompting at all for Thomas to supply the name and location of Charles' favorite haunt; a place in Boston that was similar in reputation to the establishment where Captain Pitcarin's relation would later be murdered. Thomas had been most reluctant to volunteer anything else, though. When Haytham went to go investigate himself, he bribed the madam quite liberally and had asked about Charles' habits. She had pointed out a man that had looked as if he could have passed as Haytham's brother. He had thought the resemblance too strong to be mere coincidence.
“That uncouth, disingenuous, whoreson!” Charles growls.
“Don't blame him, Charles. He was just following orders.” Haytham goes to place a placating hand on Charles' shoulder but he jerks away.
“You had no right,” He says miserably, “My... what I do it—it was a matter that did not concern you!”
“I had a right to know if you were engaging in any activities that would compromise our Order,” Haytham tells him, a gentle reprimand, “We investigate every man and woman who seeks to join us, recommendation from a Grandmaster or no. The Assassins would have wiped us out centuries ago if we didn't take such precautions. I looked into you and didn't find anything about you that suggested that you had divided loyalties. Thus, when the time was appropriate, I made you my Brother.”
Charles looks at him sharply, shocked. “You—you knew, all this time?”
“I did.”
“And you said nothing.”
“As you said, it's a private matter. I didn't want to be having this conversation. I knew it would upset you.”
“And yet we are still having it. And you have upset me.”
“To illustrate a point, Charles,” Says Haytham, and he tugs on the lead of his horse, beginning their slow walk again.
“And that is?” Charles asks, voice rough, following.
“That we can't always choose who we care about.”
They walk. They had been walking side by side, when the width of the path had allowed it, but now the younger man hangs back. Haytham can scarcely recall a more deafening silence; the void between them drowns out the birdsong, the gurgle of the stream, and the hooves of their horses until all Haytham can hear is the words that they are not saying to each other.
“I'm sorry, Charles,” Haytham says, trying to defuse the tension. When Charles doesn't reply Haytham looks at him back over his shoulder. The other man watches the ground, shoulders slumped. Haytham shoots him a smile that is supposed to look warm and comforting but in all likelihood is wan and anxious. “If it's any consolation, I don't mind. I've never thought ill of you for it. I'm actually rather flattered.” He isn't lying. Had he found the information disturbing? Yes, but only at first, really. The knowledge had explained quite a bit about Charles' behavior towards him.
Evidently, it is not consoling. Charles' eyes flick to his and he looks away again, shamefaced. “Oh, good lord...” Charles moans.
“I did not wish for any awkwardness between us, that's why I waited so long to tell you—”
“Sir, please,” He begs, “May we just change the subject?”
Whole minutes pass in silence. Haytham fingers the odd bit of metal that is hanging from a leather cord around his neck.
“I sent to Reginald for an expert about a fortnight ago,” He says, trying to broach the silence once more. “The markings in that cave are indeed consistent with other Precursor antiquities. This pendant—it is connected in all of this, somehow. When I brought it inside the cave, the markings glowed, Charles. I've never seen anything quite like it.”
He's told him all this before; Haytham's just trying to bridge the void between them. Charles makes no indication that he's even listening. He continues anyway, perhaps hoping that their work will take Charles' mind from the bomb that Haytham had so casually and tactlessly thrown into his lap.
“It's a door, I'm almost certain of it; there's a seam in the wall where air escapes from the other side. There's a hollow in the wall, smooth and even as the finest porcelain bowl, a little larger than a fist. I think, maybe, that is the lock. All we need is a different key. I have my suspicions on what that key may be, but I wanted to get a second opinion from someone more scholarly.”
“Very good, sir,” Charles says stiffly. Obviously, he could care less about the cave at this point.
More silence passes.
“The crab apple blossoms are lovely,” Haytham observes when he can stand it no longer.
“Yes,” Charles agrees glumly, “Yes, they are quite lovely.”
Haytham sighs. Well. This is perfectly disastrous.
Neither man says another word for the rest of their walk.
------------------
Alright, since it looks like my chapters are getting longer and longer, I'll probably start posting links to the chapters at AO3 when I update here, unless someone objects.