One of the guards lunges forward with a polished wooden club, held high to strike at the boy's face. “Insolent, fucking heathen!” The guard snarls with all the fervor and vitriol of a fanatic.
For an instant, Connor does nothing, and Haytham for one awful instant he thinks he's going to see the boy's scalp split open at the temple but, no, the boy was just waiting, ever so patient, and then at the very last instant he moves. He sidesteps easily, almost lazily, the guard overextending himself to compensate at the last minute but his club misses its target by inches but what may as well been miles. This isn't Connor—the boy with the sad eyes and the reserved, ever-so-elusive smile. This is the peerless Mohawk warrior, the unflinching Captain of the Aquila, the grim Assassin that had brought Grandmaster Haytham Kenway's precious Order to its ever-loving knees. Connor seizes the man by the wrist and for a ludicrous instant it looks like the two are going to dance a minuet, and then Connor uses the man's momentum against him, slamming the man face first into the brick wall with enough force that the sickening snap of cartilage and bone can be heard over someone's warning shout—“Men! I need more men!”—and the guard slides bonelessly to the floor.
Connor's father watches him, marveling—had Haytham ever been so fast, moved so fluidly? It'd been a long time since he'd had a young man's body, moved with such an effortless, natural grace, unhindered by old wounds and aching joints. Another guard instantly follows, this time aiming low, poised to hit the Assassin in the gut with the butt of a musket but Connor deftly turns the blow with his forearm and then uses the same hand to grab at the offending weapon, turning it, sending the bayonet to slash blood across the howling guard's face as he staggers back.
The Assassin's eyes catch his for an instant, and he's just a boy again, looking at his father pleadingly—Fight with me, They say, We can do this. And he wants to—he does, more than anything—wants to feel the hot blood lust sing in his veins again, wants to hold a man's life in his hands and then reap the pleasure of snuffing it out like a candle—but he can't, doesn't the boy know that? Can't he see what his father has been reduced to? How weak he's become?
There's the ominous click of metal and both father and son know what that sound means, both of them looking at once for the source—It's the warden, Church's flunkey, and his pistol is out, hammer ready to fall. He isn't aiming at Connor, though; he's got his sights on Haytham.
“Stop!” He shouts, “Nobody move a fuckin' muscle or I'll blow his bloody brains out!”
Connor hesitates and Haytham wants to scream at the boy, tell him to keep moving, to keep fighting. It's a bluff, they won't shoot me. And even if the warden did shoot him—well, no great loss, he was supposed to be dead, anyway, and then they wouldn't be able to use him against the boy, he'd be free to slaughter his way right out the front door—
But Connor freezes on the spot. Idiot child, Haytham despairs.
In an instant, they're on him. Haytham just sits there like a mute, stupid doll, his hands clenching in the fabric of his pants; never before has he felt so helpless to stop what's happening. With the exception of the warden and the guard that's trying to hold his gaping and bleeding face together, the guards descend with fists and clubs, moving to viciously subdue the now unresisting Assassin. He forces himself not to flinch when he hears Connor grunt in pain, lets nothing pass over his face as the boy is hauled bodily to his feet, hands wrenched behind his back.
“Goddamn bloody savage,” The warden huffs, replacing his pistol in its holster and striding forward, punching Connor in the gut. Coward, Haytham thinks. Didn't want to get in close while the boy had a fighting chance, it's only when his enemy can do nothing to help himself that the man strikes. Connor doubles over with a hiss, his teeth bared.
“What now, sir?” One of the guards asks, the youngest of the group, “Do we kill him?”
“No,” The warden snaps, “Now we're gonna have our fun.”
“But sir, he's wanted in the throne room, the fight—”
“Can wait,” the warden growls, and his hands are working at the buttons at the front of his breeches. “If he's willin' to fight so hard for this slut's virtue, then he's gonna watch me fuck him into the floor.”
FILL ---------11 (part 2) of ? -------Enthralled
For an instant, Connor does nothing, and Haytham for one awful instant he thinks he's going to see the boy's scalp split open at the temple but, no, the boy was just waiting, ever so patient, and then at the very last instant he moves. He sidesteps easily, almost lazily, the guard overextending himself to compensate at the last minute but his club misses its target by inches but what may as well been miles. This isn't Connor—the boy with the sad eyes and the reserved, ever-so-elusive smile. This is the peerless Mohawk warrior, the unflinching Captain of the Aquila, the grim Assassin that had brought Grandmaster Haytham Kenway's precious Order to its ever-loving knees. Connor seizes the man by the wrist and for a ludicrous instant it looks like the two are going to dance a minuet, and then Connor uses the man's momentum against him, slamming the man face first into the brick wall with enough force that the sickening snap of cartilage and bone can be heard over someone's warning shout—“Men! I need more men!”—and the guard slides bonelessly to the floor.
Connor's father watches him, marveling—had Haytham ever been so fast, moved so fluidly? It'd been a long time since he'd had a young man's body, moved with such an effortless, natural grace, unhindered by old wounds and aching joints. Another guard instantly follows, this time aiming low, poised to hit the Assassin in the gut with the butt of a musket but Connor deftly turns the blow with his forearm and then uses the same hand to grab at the offending weapon, turning it, sending the bayonet to slash blood across the howling guard's face as he staggers back.
The Assassin's eyes catch his for an instant, and he's just a boy again, looking at his father pleadingly—Fight with me, They say, We can do this. And he wants to—he does, more than anything—wants to feel the hot blood lust sing in his veins again, wants to hold a man's life in his hands and then reap the pleasure of snuffing it out like a candle—but he can't, doesn't the boy know that? Can't he see what his father has been reduced to? How weak he's become?
There's the ominous click of metal and both father and son know what that sound means, both of them looking at once for the source—It's the warden, Church's flunkey, and his pistol is out, hammer ready to fall. He isn't aiming at Connor, though; he's got his sights on Haytham.
“Stop!” He shouts, “Nobody move a fuckin' muscle or I'll blow his bloody brains out!”
Connor hesitates and Haytham wants to scream at the boy, tell him to keep moving, to keep fighting. It's a bluff, they won't shoot me. And even if the warden did shoot him—well, no great loss, he was supposed to be dead, anyway, and then they wouldn't be able to use him against the boy, he'd be free to slaughter his way right out the front door—
But Connor freezes on the spot. Idiot child, Haytham despairs.
In an instant, they're on him. Haytham just sits there like a mute, stupid doll, his hands clenching in the fabric of his pants; never before has he felt so helpless to stop what's happening. With the exception of the warden and the guard that's trying to hold his gaping and bleeding face together, the guards descend with fists and clubs, moving to viciously subdue the now unresisting Assassin. He forces himself not to flinch when he hears Connor grunt in pain, lets nothing pass over his face as the boy is hauled bodily to his feet, hands wrenched behind his back.
“Goddamn bloody savage,” The warden huffs, replacing his pistol in its holster and striding forward, punching Connor in the gut. Coward, Haytham thinks. Didn't want to get in close while the boy had a fighting chance, it's only when his enemy can do nothing to help himself that the man strikes. Connor doubles over with a hiss, his teeth bared.
“What now, sir?” One of the guards asks, the youngest of the group, “Do we kill him?”
“No,” The warden snaps, “Now we're gonna have our fun.”
“But sir, he's wanted in the throne room, the fight—”
“Can wait,” the warden growls, and his hands are working at the buttons at the front of his breeches. “If he's willin' to fight so hard for this slut's virtue, then he's gonna watch me fuck him into the floor.”