They were going to strike during the ceremony, but the raid had changed that. Stranded in the underground, they hurried, scurried, and sought shelter where there was none. Some of their recruits left, the weight of their decision only becoming apparent now. Tried to leave.
Aveline brought them back. They were shamefaced and humbled. Someone screamed something about loyalty, another pointed out that they had not been given sufficient information when they joined the Brotherhood. Clipper coldly cut through the chaos and snarled that they were not playing a game. This was a war, bigger than themselves, part of turmoil that had raged and scathed thousands of years of history. This wasn’t just England versus America. To fail in this mission would be to allow the future to crumble in front of their eyes.
They deserters were silenced by this abrupt change in character.
They did not try to run again.
***
Soot. Covered in soot. Both of them. Haytham picked the ash from Charles’ hair, laughed as it smudged and turned it grey.
“You look old,” he commented.
“I feel old,” replied Charles. “Especially next to you.”
“Well that’s because you put me in my son’s body,” murmured Haytham.
Charles paused for a moment, inspecting Haytham with a strange and alien look. It was uncomfortable, and made Haytham want to shift and squirm, and he gasped as Charles grasped his chin firmly. Blue eyes - blind beggar-eyes - flicked over his face.
“Yes. Yes I did,” he admitted. “But you will outlive me now. I feared that I would spend my last days waiting for death to take me, so that I might see you again.”
He released Haytham, rubbing the marks that his fingers had left on the darker skin, his ghost limbs moving of their own accord.
“I understand why,” said Connor. “But it does not make it right.”
The splash of white and blue danced around them, reflected in his mind’s eye. Lee had been lonely. Haytham had provided stability. Haytham had been his idol, his mentor, his master, and his companion. His lover, perhaps. The kisses suggested lover, but then again, Lee was aware that he was not entirely Haytham, not entirely the same, and therefore would treat him slightly differently.
Connor understood. And he retreated because he had come to care somewhat.
“Oh Charles, I was only joking,” said Haytham. “You do not look old at all.”
It was times like these that completely threw Charles off-balance. Not even a moment of that brief conversation to Connor seemed apparent in Haytham’s mind. He had skipped over it, like an orchestra missing a page of music, and continued on as if nothing had happened to begin with. Haytham touched Charles’ brow, smoothing the frown that had appeared.
“Of course,” said Charles, trying to laugh.
Haytham brushed some more of the soot from his cloak. It had been dumped over the dark navy wool when Charles had embraced him upon their return. He had been unsure of Charles’ business, and why he had to leave so suddenly. An unease had crept into his heart after Charles had left, as if the sleepy farewell would be the last time he ever saw Charles.
He had fretted and worried, his nightmares returning without Charles to chase them away. In the fire, he had burned, his flesh peeling from his skin. In the snow, he was torn to pieces by wolves - sometimes he became the wolf, and he would chase the threads of blue, brown, and red; the figures that ran from him, their hands clasped. The little one would hide in the trees, the large one liked to stalk Haytham from behind.
The screams would scare his guards, and they would burst in only to have whatever was close to Haytham’s hand hurtling towards them. Still they did their duty, and loyally checked on him up to four times a night.
“You are pale,” said Charles.
“I have not been sleeping well,” Haytham admitted.
Even the guards shifted their weight, surreptitiously exchanging a twist in their mouths and a tighter grip on their rifles.
Charles sighed, and patted Haytham on the shoulder, promising, “It will be better tonight.”
Boston. Then the Homestead. Smoke out the rats. Burn them to their root. Destroy the Brotherhood, and claim Haytham for good. This was his Haytham. They would not be allowed to tear him away again.
“Would you like to take a cup of tea in the cabin?” asked Haytham. “The Lawrences were kind enough to gift me with the most delectable strawberries as thanks for helping them settle.”
“Of course,” said Charles.
He had noticed the guards skittishness. Something had disturbed their reasonably peaceful camp. The question was strange - Haytham wasn’t talking about strawberries.
As soon as the door to the cabin closed, and Haytham had put the kettle on to boil, the reason for the interrogation became clear. He motioned for Charles to sit. A temper growled under the surface of Haytham’s skin.
“Why were you in New York?” demanded Haytham. “Were you behind the arson?”
“Arson? I do not know what you are talking about,” said Charles, quite startled by this outburst.
Haytham slammed his fist on the table, barking “Damn it, man! I told you the location of their den so we could keep an eye on them, not make them angry. You are covered in soot. I am not a fool.”
“No, sir, I-”
“Do not ‘no, sir’ me, Charles!” “I am sorry. It was a mistake. I had hoped to kill them off.”
Reaching for something in his pocket, Charles laid out a package, with a cord and amulet wrapped around the outside of it. He pushed it towards Haytham.
“And did you?” snapped Haytham.
“No,” said Charles, lifting his head defiantly. “It was for the good of the Order. They know we can find them and we know that they’re building an army. Trying to, at least. The sealed rooms contained multiple artefacts that could be of use to us. They had extensive weaponry, art, and quite a few First Civ trinkets.”
Plucking the package up, Haytham undid the cord, flipping the amulet between his fingers. “This is the key that I gave you to safeguard.”
A curious gaze returned to the package, unfolding the brown paper. Dried leaves sat inside it, raw tea, and from the scent that rose to his nose Haytham judged it to an Indian Chai, with a rich brown tone, long unbroken leaves and tiny jasmine flowers. He put the package down.
“This is an apology?”
“No, it was a gift. And a suggestion,” said Charles, speaking carefully.
The kettle whistled. Haytham stood, grasped the handle with a wrapped up cloth, and poured the hot water into a porcelain teapot. He put the kettle back, the burning sensation of the metal already seeping through the cloth. Charles didn’t touch the teapot - Haytham always took charge of making the tea. He slowly pushed his chair back while Haytham’s back was turned, snagging the amulet.
“The cave requires another key,” continued Charles. “And I believe you know where that is, Ratonhaké:ton.”
Before Haytham could duck away, Charles dashed forward and tossed the amulet around Haytham’s neck. As much as he hated having to do this, the boy knew where the real key was. Haytham shrieked, arching his back. The amulet hadn’t had this effect before. But then again, there hadn’t been two personalities in the one body before.
Charles clapped a hand over Haytham’s mouth, pulling him flush against his front, wrestling him to the ground. He wished he’d done this earlier - the Haytham personality had forceful dominance. But Ratohnhaké:ton was strong.
“Tell me, and the pain will stop.”
The child screamed and howled behind Charles’ hand, even bit it, but Charles didn’t let go. They kept it up for three hours, until they collapsed, exhausted.
“Charles, why are we on the floor?”
“You had a dizzy spell, sir,” said Charles, stroking Haytham’s hair.
“I remember the tea, and the amulet, but...” the other man trailed off.
“The heat from the fire and the steam of the kettle made you faint. Perhaps you are ill.”
“Yes,” Haytham paused. “Yes, that must be it.”
******
Author Note: Thank you everyone for the lovely feedback. I will get around to replying to you all tomorrow, but for now I must sleep. :) This is also a notice to say that there will likely only be two or three more parts to this, and then it's all wrapped up. OP, this is close to your last chance to influence the ending! Bittersweet or sad? (I am fully able to go either way).
Grief's Madness 14/? (TW: as above)
Aveline brought them back. They were shamefaced and humbled. Someone screamed something about loyalty, another pointed out that they had not been given sufficient information when they joined the Brotherhood. Clipper coldly cut through the chaos and snarled that they were not playing a game. This was a war, bigger than themselves, part of turmoil that had raged and scathed thousands of years of history. This wasn’t just England versus America. To fail in this mission would be to allow the future to crumble in front of their eyes.
They deserters were silenced by this abrupt change in character.
They did not try to run again.
***
Soot. Covered in soot. Both of them. Haytham picked the ash from Charles’ hair, laughed as it smudged and turned it grey.
“You look old,” he commented.
“I feel old,” replied Charles. “Especially next to you.”
“Well that’s because you put me in my son’s body,” murmured Haytham.
Charles paused for a moment, inspecting Haytham with a strange and alien look. It was uncomfortable, and made Haytham want to shift and squirm, and he gasped as Charles grasped his chin firmly. Blue eyes - blind beggar-eyes - flicked over his face.
“Yes. Yes I did,” he admitted. “But you will outlive me now. I feared that I would spend my last days waiting for death to take me, so that I might see you again.”
He released Haytham, rubbing the marks that his fingers had left on the darker skin, his ghost limbs moving of their own accord.
“I understand why,” said Connor. “But it does not make it right.”
The splash of white and blue danced around them, reflected in his mind’s eye. Lee had been lonely. Haytham had provided stability. Haytham had been his idol, his mentor, his master, and his companion. His lover, perhaps. The kisses suggested lover, but then again, Lee was aware that he was not entirely Haytham, not entirely the same, and therefore would treat him slightly differently.
Connor understood. And he retreated because he had come to care somewhat.
“Oh Charles, I was only joking,” said Haytham. “You do not look old at all.”
It was times like these that completely threw Charles off-balance. Not even a moment of that brief conversation to Connor seemed apparent in Haytham’s mind. He had skipped over it, like an orchestra missing a page of music, and continued on as if nothing had happened to begin with. Haytham touched Charles’ brow, smoothing the frown that had appeared.
“Of course,” said Charles, trying to laugh.
Haytham brushed some more of the soot from his cloak. It had been dumped over the dark navy wool when Charles had embraced him upon their return. He had been unsure of Charles’ business, and why he had to leave so suddenly. An unease had crept into his heart after Charles had left, as if the sleepy farewell would be the last time he ever saw Charles.
He had fretted and worried, his nightmares returning without Charles to chase them away. In the fire, he had burned, his flesh peeling from his skin. In the snow, he was torn to pieces by wolves - sometimes he became the wolf, and he would chase the threads of blue, brown, and red; the figures that ran from him, their hands clasped. The little one would hide in the trees, the large one liked to stalk Haytham from behind.
The screams would scare his guards, and they would burst in only to have whatever was close to Haytham’s hand hurtling towards them. Still they did their duty, and loyally checked on him up to four times a night.
“You are pale,” said Charles.
“I have not been sleeping well,” Haytham admitted.
Even the guards shifted their weight, surreptitiously exchanging a twist in their mouths and a tighter grip on their rifles.
Charles sighed, and patted Haytham on the shoulder, promising, “It will be better tonight.”
Boston. Then the Homestead. Smoke out the rats. Burn them to their root. Destroy the Brotherhood, and claim Haytham for good. This was his Haytham. They would not be allowed to tear him away again.
“Would you like to take a cup of tea in the cabin?” asked Haytham. “The Lawrences were kind enough to gift me with the most delectable strawberries as thanks for helping them settle.”
“Of course,” said Charles.
He had noticed the guards skittishness. Something had disturbed their reasonably peaceful camp. The question was strange - Haytham wasn’t talking about strawberries.
As soon as the door to the cabin closed, and Haytham had put the kettle on to boil, the reason for the interrogation became clear. He motioned for Charles to sit. A temper growled under the surface of Haytham’s skin.
“Why were you in New York?” demanded Haytham. “Were you behind the arson?”
“Arson? I do not know what you are talking about,” said Charles, quite startled by this outburst.
Haytham slammed his fist on the table, barking “Damn it, man! I told you the location of their den so we could keep an eye on them, not make them angry. You are covered in soot. I am not a fool.”
“No, sir, I-”
“Do not ‘no, sir’ me, Charles!”
“I am sorry. It was a mistake. I had hoped to kill them off.”
Reaching for something in his pocket, Charles laid out a package, with a cord and amulet wrapped around the outside of it. He pushed it towards Haytham.
“And did you?” snapped Haytham.
“No,” said Charles, lifting his head defiantly. “It was for the good of the Order. They know we can find them and we know that they’re building an army. Trying to, at least. The sealed rooms contained multiple artefacts that could be of use to us. They had extensive weaponry, art, and quite a few First Civ trinkets.”
Plucking the package up, Haytham undid the cord, flipping the amulet between his fingers. “This is the key that I gave you to safeguard.”
A curious gaze returned to the package, unfolding the brown paper. Dried leaves sat inside it, raw tea, and from the scent that rose to his nose Haytham judged it to an Indian Chai, with a rich brown tone, long unbroken leaves and tiny jasmine flowers. He put the package down.
“This is an apology?”
“No, it was a gift. And a suggestion,” said Charles, speaking carefully.
The kettle whistled. Haytham stood, grasped the handle with a wrapped up cloth, and poured the hot water into a porcelain teapot. He put the kettle back, the burning sensation of the metal already seeping through the cloth. Charles didn’t touch the teapot - Haytham always took charge of making the tea. He slowly pushed his chair back while Haytham’s back was turned, snagging the amulet.
“The cave requires another key,” continued Charles. “And I believe you know where that is, Ratonhaké:ton.”
Before Haytham could duck away, Charles dashed forward and tossed the amulet around Haytham’s neck. As much as he hated having to do this, the boy knew where the real key was. Haytham shrieked, arching his back. The amulet hadn’t had this effect before. But then again, there hadn’t been two personalities in the one body before.
Charles clapped a hand over Haytham’s mouth, pulling him flush against his front, wrestling him to the ground. He wished he’d done this earlier - the Haytham personality had forceful dominance. But Ratohnhaké:ton was strong.
“Tell me, and the pain will stop.”
The child screamed and howled behind Charles’ hand, even bit it, but Charles didn’t let go. They kept it up for three hours, until they collapsed, exhausted.
“Charles, why are we on the floor?”
“You had a dizzy spell, sir,” said Charles, stroking Haytham’s hair.
“I remember the tea, and the amulet, but...” the other man trailed off.
“The heat from the fire and the steam of the kettle made you faint. Perhaps you are ill.”
“Yes,” Haytham paused. “Yes, that must be it.”
******
Author Note: Thank you everyone for the lovely feedback. I will get around to replying to you all tomorrow, but for now I must sleep. :) This is also a notice to say that there will likely only be two or three more parts to this, and then it's all wrapped up. OP, this is close to your last chance to influence the ending! Bittersweet or sad? (I am fully able to go either way).