Snow fell in small flakes around him. Haytham brushed the ice from his shoulders, and adjusted his cape. Hadn't it been spring? A wolf howled in the distance, several others replying. There were only trees around him, and the ground did not seem to rise nor fall in gradient.
Something moved at his feet, and from the snow popped a very familiar face. Spado. Haytham tucked the dog under his arm, drawing his coat over the immaculately groomed pet. He glimpsed a flash of brown, a splash of blue, a trickle of red. There was no sound but the crunch of his boots - the wolves had ceased.
A tugging sensation spiralled from his chest, a thread coaxing him forward. Spado growled and wriggled, leaping from Haytham's arms, taking hold of the hem on his cape, and tried to pull him back. Unfastening the chain that held it, the fabric dropped over Spado's head and he frantically spun around, trapped. Yet when Haytham lifted it, feeling guilty, the dog had vanished. He scrabbled in the snow for a few minutes but to no avail. Spado was gone.
He decided to follow the thread.
The cloak was a black speck behind him when the ground suddenly sloped upwards. So he climbed it, losing his hat on a clawed branch, but he ignored the loss and kept climbing. Somewhere, someone cried outraged, and it echoed thrice then fell victim to the silence. The slope was steep but consistent, and when Haytham reached the top, he came face-to-face with Spado again.
Haytham scolded the dog for wandering off, and ignored Spado's sharp barking as he walked past.
There was a house. A manor. A manor with a door. An axe - a tomahawk - the handle yellowed by the sun, cracks in the wood from a lack of oil (how long had it been since this war started? How long had he been away? How long would it be before he could remove it, wipe away the dust, and place it on his bedroom wall as memory of a friend who had died at his hands?) was embedded in a white pillar. Haytham didn't touch it, and pushed the door open.
He peered to the left - a study or parlour - and then to the right - a dining room, and before him a set of stairs. The thread led up to a bedroom. When Haytham padded in and looked around the room, the sliver of blue and red and brown belonged to someone.
Two someones.
A child. His child. A man. His child still but grown.
They extended their hands in invitation while their eyes burned with fury.
Then Spado bit his ankle and Haytham yelped, turned away, and chased the dog with idle threats. He clattered down the stairs, out the door, slid down the hill, and chased, chased, chased, until he found his cloak, and feeling cold, put it on.
He grasped at the hands pulling a blanket over his shoulders, petting them. A huff of laughter made him crack open an eye. Haytham was in bed - he'd kicked the blankets off. It was too early to be getting up, the nip of spring mornings still curled around the complex.
"Where are you going?" he mumbled sleepily.
Charles pressed a kiss to Haytham's forehead.
"To business in New York. I will not be gone long."
"Do not leave me with nothing to do," groaned Haytham.
Chuckling, Charles patted a parcel of papers.
"I thought you might like to check my paperwork," he replied. "Then check on the new families. I am sure you will find something else that requires attention."
Fingers stretched from under the blanket and stroked Charles' cheek tenderly.
"Of course. Stay safe," said Haytham.
He didn't quite catch Charles' reply, but he did see the longing gaze that Charles gave him before Haytham fell asleep again.
***
It was Stephane's turn to cook. It was nearly always Stephane's turn to cook, and for that the Assassins were grateful. They ate in relative cheer, passing a few bottles of wine around. Tomorrow Duncan and a few recruits would ride for the Homestead to prepare the people there.
For some, this was the last time they would see Duncan, their glass eyes only staring at huts and clear skies, stars, smoke, and fire. An orange glow. Their blood spilt in the name of freeing a man they had never known. Their loyalty repaid by death. They knew the risks of their new lives and afterwards someone would swear and damn the ground, damn the skies, and damn the bastards that convinced them to take so few into so terrible a battlefield.
But this is the future. This is not now, with Aveline at the head of the table and Stephane at the other, good food between them, and hungry mouths of their comrades, one or two whispering grace while others looked on with mixed amusement, bemusement and annoyance at being restrained from eating.
"A toast!" cheered Aveline, taking her glass and raising it. "To the success of our mission!"
Glasses were raised, the sentiment repeated, and they drank the spiced wine.
After the meal, the table was cleared away and pushed to the side, and more than a dozen bedrolls were set up. Hammocks were slung above these, as the den was a small house squashed with no dignity between two other similar houses, and Connor had sealed off the upper floors, including several bedrooms. If one hadn't known exactly where he'd plastered and wallpapered the staircase, a person would never find it. It was easy to assume that the upper floors were occupied by another family.
The first watch set themselves up for their three hour duty. As the Assassins nestled into their beds, the chatter decreased into a comfortable silence as they fell asleep. Sleep was a precious commodity the recruits had learnt after the first night.
Again, they assumed the pattern of Aveline at one end and Stephane at the other, a mix of their people in between them. The novices were clustered towards the middle, the more advanced assassins near the outer edges. Quite a number of them had rolled together in their slumber, heads nestled in the crooks of necks and arms thrown across chests and shoulders.
The second watch saw Duncan and his group leave so they might slip out of the town without being noticed.
The third watch sounded an alarm.
"Templars, heading straight for us! Lee is with them."
In less than five minutes, the bedding had been packed, as well as food, and they were escaping into the underground passages. The option of fighting was impossible - they did not need to display their power, or lack thereof, before it was necessary.
"How?" snarled Dobby. "How did he know?"
Aveline shook her head, "Perhaps my arrival was more conspicuous than I first realised."
They split into five smaller travelling teams, and ran for their lives while Templars riffled through the pots and pans they had left behind.
"Do we always flee?" asked a recruit.
"No," replied Stephane. "But sometimes it is better to."
Through grates and cellar doors, they heard the piercing cries of, "Fire, fire!" that disturbed New York. Her citizens awoke in terror, and the newspaper described the destruction in minute detail, claiming no bodies had been found in this heinous and random act of arson, the ink still wet as it was waved by newsboys before the embers of the former den had cooled.
Yet the sealed rooms remained so, and the house was untouched by scavengers.
Burn the rats from their nest. Burn them before they breed and wring the necks of their helpless young, pink and hairless and disgusting. Watch them jump overboard as the ship burnt merrily, the fire singing in a twanging tune of creaks and groans, snapping flint and buckling copper, to accompany their three day trek to find land before they too drown like the sailors that were thrown from their Crow's Nests.
Lee inspected the remains. The rats may flee but they would die soon enough.
Grief's Madness 13/? (TW: as above)
Something moved at his feet, and from the snow popped a very familiar face. Spado. Haytham tucked the dog under his arm, drawing his coat over the immaculately groomed pet. He glimpsed a flash of brown, a splash of blue, a trickle of red. There was no sound but the crunch of his boots - the wolves had ceased.
A tugging sensation spiralled from his chest, a thread coaxing him forward. Spado growled and wriggled, leaping from Haytham's arms, taking hold of the hem on his cape, and tried to pull him back. Unfastening the chain that held it, the fabric dropped over Spado's head and he frantically spun around, trapped. Yet when Haytham lifted it, feeling guilty, the dog had vanished. He scrabbled in the snow for a few minutes but to no avail. Spado was gone.
He decided to follow the thread.
The cloak was a black speck behind him when the ground suddenly sloped upwards. So he climbed it, losing his hat on a clawed branch, but he ignored the loss and kept climbing. Somewhere, someone cried outraged, and it echoed thrice then fell victim to the silence. The slope was steep but consistent, and when Haytham reached the top, he came face-to-face with Spado again.
Haytham scolded the dog for wandering off, and ignored Spado's sharp barking as he walked past.
There was a house. A manor. A manor with a door. An axe - a tomahawk - the handle yellowed by the sun, cracks in the wood from a lack of oil (how long had it been since this war started? How long had he been away? How long would it be before he could remove it, wipe away the dust, and place it on his bedroom wall as memory of a friend who had died at his hands?) was embedded in a white pillar. Haytham didn't touch it, and pushed the door open.
He peered to the left - a study or parlour - and then to the right - a dining room, and before him a set of stairs. The thread led up to a bedroom. When Haytham padded in and looked around the room, the sliver of blue and red and brown belonged to someone.
Two someones.
A child. His child. A man. His child still but grown.
They extended their hands in invitation while their eyes burned with fury.
Then Spado bit his ankle and Haytham yelped, turned away, and chased the dog with idle threats. He clattered down the stairs, out the door, slid down the hill, and chased, chased, chased, until he found his cloak, and feeling cold, put it on.
He grasped at the hands pulling a blanket over his shoulders, petting them. A huff of laughter made him crack open an eye. Haytham was in bed - he'd kicked the blankets off. It was too early to be getting up, the nip of spring mornings still curled around the complex.
"Where are you going?" he mumbled sleepily.
Charles pressed a kiss to Haytham's forehead.
"To business in New York. I will not be gone long."
"Do not leave me with nothing to do," groaned Haytham.
Chuckling, Charles patted a parcel of papers.
"I thought you might like to check my paperwork," he replied. "Then check on the new families. I am sure you will find something else that requires attention."
Fingers stretched from under the blanket and stroked Charles' cheek tenderly.
"Of course. Stay safe," said Haytham.
He didn't quite catch Charles' reply, but he did see the longing gaze that Charles gave him before Haytham fell asleep again.
***
It was Stephane's turn to cook. It was nearly always Stephane's turn to cook, and for that the Assassins were grateful. They ate in relative cheer, passing a few bottles of wine around. Tomorrow Duncan and a few recruits would ride for the Homestead to prepare the people there.
For some, this was the last time they would see Duncan, their glass eyes only staring at huts and clear skies, stars, smoke, and fire. An orange glow. Their blood spilt in the name of freeing a man they had never known. Their loyalty repaid by death. They knew the risks of their new lives and afterwards someone would swear and damn the ground, damn the skies, and damn the bastards that convinced them to take so few into so terrible a battlefield.
But this is the future. This is not now, with Aveline at the head of the table and Stephane at the other, good food between them, and hungry mouths of their comrades, one or two whispering grace while others looked on with mixed amusement, bemusement and annoyance at being restrained from eating.
"A toast!" cheered Aveline, taking her glass and raising it. "To the success of our mission!"
Glasses were raised, the sentiment repeated, and they drank the spiced wine.
After the meal, the table was cleared away and pushed to the side, and more than a dozen bedrolls were set up. Hammocks were slung above these, as the den was a small house squashed with no dignity between two other similar houses, and Connor had sealed off the upper floors, including several bedrooms. If one hadn't known exactly where he'd plastered and wallpapered the staircase, a person would never find it. It was easy to assume that the upper floors were occupied by another family.
The first watch set themselves up for their three hour duty. As the Assassins nestled into their beds, the chatter decreased into a comfortable silence as they fell asleep. Sleep was a precious commodity the recruits had learnt after the first night.
Again, they assumed the pattern of Aveline at one end and Stephane at the other, a mix of their people in between them. The novices were clustered towards the middle, the more advanced assassins near the outer edges. Quite a number of them had rolled together in their slumber, heads nestled in the crooks of necks and arms thrown across chests and shoulders.
The second watch saw Duncan and his group leave so they might slip out of the town without being noticed.
The third watch sounded an alarm.
"Templars, heading straight for us! Lee is with them."
In less than five minutes, the bedding had been packed, as well as food, and they were escaping into the underground passages. The option of fighting was impossible - they did not need to display their power, or lack thereof, before it was necessary.
"How?" snarled Dobby. "How did he know?"
Aveline shook her head, "Perhaps my arrival was more conspicuous than I first realised."
They split into five smaller travelling teams, and ran for their lives while Templars riffled through the pots and pans they had left behind.
"Do we always flee?" asked a recruit.
"No," replied Stephane. "But sometimes it is better to."
Through grates and cellar doors, they heard the piercing cries of, "Fire, fire!" that disturbed New York. Her citizens awoke in terror, and the newspaper described the destruction in minute detail, claiming no bodies had been found in this heinous and random act of arson, the ink still wet as it was waved by newsboys before the embers of the former den had cooled.
Yet the sealed rooms remained so, and the house was untouched by scavengers.
Burn the rats from their nest. Burn them before they breed and wring the necks of their helpless young, pink and hairless and disgusting. Watch them jump overboard as the ship burnt merrily, the fire singing in a twanging tune of creaks and groans, snapping flint and buckling copper, to accompany their three day trek to find land before they too drown like the sailors that were thrown from their Crow's Nests.
Lee inspected the remains. The rats may flee but they would die soon enough.