Shaking her victim roughly, Aveline shouted, "Where is he?" over and over, until Dobby had to step in and part them. The Templar soldier dropped to the ground, making pained sounds as he curled in on himself. Aveline kicked him, still enraged. With considerable effort, Dobby dragged her fellow assassin away, pointing her anger in the direction of higher officers. If anyone knew anything, it would be them.
One spotted them and levelled his pistol at the two women, but a recruit dropped from the trees, knocking him down, grinning happily at his mentors before dashing into the fight again. The officer cursed and reached for his gun again, but Dobby put her foot over his outstretched hand and pressed. Shrieking he tried to pull away, but only succeeded in having his hand crushed further.
"Take us to our Mentor," hissed Dobby.
"I do not know what you speak of!" wailed the officer.
“Liar,” snapped Aveline. “Now, where is Connor Davenport?”
The officer squealed. He sounded like a pig, thought Dobby, her eyes focused on him and him alone, blankly observing the fear that trembled in his shoulders. Aveline scoffed.
"No, you would not, now would you, Captain Peterson?" rumbled a voice that made Dobby freeze, her very soul plucked and skewered by a spindle of disbelief.
A pistol was shoved against her neck, another pointed at Aveline.
"Miss Carter, Madamoiselle de Grandpré, a pleasure to meet you both," said Connor, his eyes bright with the adrenaline of the fight.
"Connor, what are - " began Aveline.
"My name is Haytham. You would do well to remember that, it might come in handy when you grovel on the floor of the Lodge, begging for mercy," sneered Connor-not-Connor.
The wolves growled at him and he kept his eye on them. His child was nearby, he could tell; the little one hid in the folds of his cape, the one in snow and midnight flashed past his vision. His grip tightened on his pistols, edging out of reach of the fire wolves. Their eyes caught the glimmer of his ring, widened.
"There will not be a Lodge," said the Irish wolf, her chin raised. "Not at the rate of this fire."
"Did I say Lodge? I meant prison. Arson and murder - you could hang. In fact, I think you will hang, especially as we will press charges," said Haytham.
The other wolf snarled, "You are bluffing. Connor, stop this farce, it is safe now."
Haytham lowered his pistols. For a moment, he appeared quite innocent, his stance relaxed and leaning towards the two women. It vanished like smoke in a wind.
"Correct on both accounts."
They yelped as they were knocked to the ground, pricked with tranquilising needles that made them progressively more sluggish as they fought, bit, and struggled against the soldiers that surrounded them.
"I was bluffing - we do not need to bring the authorities into this," Haytham continued. "And I am safe now. Safe from you."
His child darted from his cape and wailed something at him in Kanien'kehá:ka, plucking at the fabric of the orange and red scarf Madamoiselle de Grandpré was wearing. Haytham silenced him with a stern look, the child running back immediately, but twisting his head over his shoulder to look back at the unconscious assassins as Haytham strode into the fray.
With equal, if not greater skill than the assassins, Haytham picked out the gold and red, spiraling into brutality. His men watched with admiration, when they could, and the pathetic number of attackers was dramatically reduced until he had the last of them enclosed in a circle, his men guarding them with muskets. Charles appeared at Haytham's side, their bodies brushing together as he counted them.
"Novices," Charles murmured. "They are even more desperate than I initially thought."
Haytham took note of the fallen, then re-counted the assassins in front of him. Someone was missing. In fact, many someones were missing. Their forces had been bigger than this.
"You five, go scout the tre-"
Smoke bombs rained down on them, the assassins already pushing through the now disorientated soldiers, their hands pulling scarves over their mouths. Haytham engaged his second vision, shoving his men out of the way as he went after the fleeing red and gold targets. Beside him, his child ran, scampered up a tree, and his grown son followed suit.
"Ratonhnhaké:ton!" he bellowed. "This is not the time for games."
Someone slammed into his back, knocking him down, and Haytham snarled, tried to flip his attacker over but felt a cold line of metal against his throat. He stilled, thinking perhaps it was only Ratonhnhaké:ton that had jumped him, that the cold was an exposed root in damp earth, not a knife. Ratonhnhaké:ton wasn't real, he told himself, he'd tripped. It was the sickness. His son was dead.
"Don't move," warned his captor.
"Clips was in the tree," said Ratonhnhaké:ton dancing in the snow in front of him. "Clips is kin."
"Shut your mouth," ordered Haytham.
"Who are you talking to, Connor?" asked his captor known as Clips.
Haytham supposed his real name was Clipper Wilkinson, one of his son's recruits. Clever boy, perched in the tree, won't you open that pretty mouth and a sing a song for me?
"My name is Haytham Kenway."
When would they learn? His son rotted in the earth, mincemeat for the scavengers of the cemetery. He saw his son and his child, but he knew they were not real (yet he spoke to them anyway). Why they persisted in this foolish crusade was beyond Haytham. A piercing cry made him flinch as Wilkinson summoned his comrades, and more feet approached, quietly padding from the shadows.
"No, you are Connor. Ratonhnhaké:ton - " and here Wilkinson stumbled over the letters of Connor's native name " - you are our Mentor."
"Then you won't slit my throat," said Haytham. "Charles!"
The other Assassins leapt forward to stop Haytham from shouting. Wilkinson panicked, jerking the knife away as Haytham arched against him, and it was almost thrown to one side in his haste. They tussled, and the telltale sound of extending hidden blades made the others even more frantic to subdue Haytham. Wilkinson yelped, a cut on his brow obscuring his vision with blood.
Finally, Haytham was grabbed and contained, thrashing viciously in an intense fight that ended with wrapping rope around Haytham's body to stop him while several of them sat on him.
"I retrieved the ladies," said Jamie. "It was easy in the confusion."
He looked quite proud of himself for accomplishing this. Haytham opened his mouth to shout again, but Wilkinson took advantage of this to shove a piece of cloth into Haytham's mouth. The fighting still raged on behind them - the noise was too great for Charles to hear him anyway.
Haytham howled against the gag despite this, jerking his body around as they wrestled a blindfold over his eyes and tied him to a post in a covered cart. Others pressed around him, progressively filling the cart even as it rolled away from the Lodge. Someone was stroking his hair, making soothing noises. He thought it might have been Connor or Ratonhnhaké:ton for a moment, but he realised that it was a real hand.
"What did they do to you?" asked a voice miserably.
"Charles loved me," replied Haytham, not sure how he came to the answer but knowing it was right even if it were muffled by cloth.
He sighed, and this time he felt the small form of Ratonhnhaké:ton lean against him, and his grown son embrace him, before they melted away, coaxing him to rest his weary body and play with them in the snow.
***
Charles had screamed and beat his fists wildly. Charles had wept. Examined the evidence, then wept again. Tears of sadness, bitterness, madness, tears of a man pushed too far. He had sworn not to lose Haytham again, but he had. He was not worthy.
In the dawn of the fight, the Lodge still smouldering, the men still collecting the bodies of the fallen to be identified and sent to their families, Charles Lee looked around at the sanctuary he had tried to build. It had been a fool's task. The gods must have been laughing at this entire business, this petty and dramatic theatre of human emotion that had played before them. He wished for forgiveness, for them to look benevolently upon him and allow him one wish.
Spado trotted up to him, an experienced war dog, loyal to his master, and licked Charles' hand. When his master crumpled to the ground, gunshot still ringing, he curled beside him and waited as his master bled to death on an earthen floor covered with ashes and blood of the fight of the previous night. When his master's hand stilled, fingers clutching the fluffy fur of his beloved dog, Spado snuffled closer, licked his master's face and slept next to him to wait for one of the other men to find them. Charles smiled and closed his eyes.
His wish for death had been granted.
END
*** A/N: Now's probably a good time to mention that I am probably writing an epilogue. I had a lot of difficulty in this part, so it's been left pretty open-ended as to what actually happened. The epilogue won't be written for a while, and it may even come in the form of a few chapters rather than just one part, but for now, this is the end. Thank you to everyone that has read, commented, shared, and squealed, I appreciate each an every one of you. Thank you for taking this journey with me. :) I hope to see you all again in the future!
Grief's Madness 16/16 (TW: as above)
One spotted them and levelled his pistol at the two women, but a recruit dropped from the trees, knocking him down, grinning happily at his mentors before dashing into the fight again. The officer cursed and reached for his gun again, but Dobby put her foot over his outstretched hand and pressed. Shrieking he tried to pull away, but only succeeded in having his hand crushed further.
"Take us to our Mentor," hissed Dobby.
"I do not know what you speak of!" wailed the officer.
“Liar,” snapped Aveline. “Now, where is Connor Davenport?”
The officer squealed. He sounded like a pig, thought Dobby, her eyes focused on him and him alone, blankly observing the fear that trembled in his shoulders. Aveline scoffed.
"No, you would not, now would you, Captain Peterson?" rumbled a voice that made Dobby freeze, her very soul plucked and skewered by a spindle of disbelief.
A pistol was shoved against her neck, another pointed at Aveline.
"Miss Carter, Madamoiselle de Grandpré, a pleasure to meet you both," said Connor, his eyes bright with the adrenaline of the fight.
"Connor, what are - " began Aveline.
"My name is Haytham. You would do well to remember that, it might come in handy when you grovel on the floor of the Lodge, begging for mercy," sneered Connor-not-Connor.
The wolves growled at him and he kept his eye on them. His child was nearby, he could tell; the little one hid in the folds of his cape, the one in snow and midnight flashed past his vision. His grip tightened on his pistols, edging out of reach of the fire wolves. Their eyes caught the glimmer of his ring, widened.
"There will not be a Lodge," said the Irish wolf, her chin raised. "Not at the rate of this fire."
"Did I say Lodge? I meant prison. Arson and murder - you could hang. In fact, I think you will hang, especially as we will press charges," said Haytham.
The other wolf snarled, "You are bluffing. Connor, stop this farce, it is safe now."
Haytham lowered his pistols. For a moment, he appeared quite innocent, his stance relaxed and leaning towards the two women. It vanished like smoke in a wind.
"Correct on both accounts."
They yelped as they were knocked to the ground, pricked with tranquilising needles that made them progressively more sluggish as they fought, bit, and struggled against the soldiers that surrounded them.
"I was bluffing - we do not need to bring the authorities into this," Haytham continued. "And I am safe now. Safe from you."
His child darted from his cape and wailed something at him in Kanien'kehá:ka, plucking at the fabric of the orange and red scarf Madamoiselle de Grandpré was wearing. Haytham silenced him with a stern look, the child running back immediately, but twisting his head over his shoulder to look back at the unconscious assassins as Haytham strode into the fray.
With equal, if not greater skill than the assassins, Haytham picked out the gold and red, spiraling into brutality. His men watched with admiration, when they could, and the pathetic number of attackers was dramatically reduced until he had the last of them enclosed in a circle, his men guarding them with muskets. Charles appeared at Haytham's side, their bodies brushing together as he counted them.
"Novices," Charles murmured. "They are even more desperate than I initially thought."
Haytham took note of the fallen, then re-counted the assassins in front of him. Someone was missing. In fact, many someones were missing. Their forces had been bigger than this.
"You five, go scout the tre-"
Smoke bombs rained down on them, the assassins already pushing through the now disorientated soldiers, their hands pulling scarves over their mouths. Haytham engaged his second vision, shoving his men out of the way as he went after the fleeing red and gold targets. Beside him, his child ran, scampered up a tree, and his grown son followed suit.
"Ratonhnhaké:ton!" he bellowed. "This is not the time for games."
Someone slammed into his back, knocking him down, and Haytham snarled, tried to flip his attacker over but felt a cold line of metal against his throat. He stilled, thinking perhaps it was only Ratonhnhaké:ton that had jumped him, that the cold was an exposed root in damp earth, not a knife. Ratonhnhaké:ton wasn't real, he told himself, he'd tripped. It was the sickness. His son was dead.
"Don't move," warned his captor.
"Clips was in the tree," said Ratonhnhaké:ton dancing in the snow in front of him. "Clips is kin."
"Shut your mouth," ordered Haytham.
"Who are you talking to, Connor?" asked his captor known as Clips.
Haytham supposed his real name was Clipper Wilkinson, one of his son's recruits. Clever boy, perched in the tree, won't you open that pretty mouth and a sing a song for me?
"My name is Haytham Kenway."
When would they learn? His son rotted in the earth, mincemeat for the scavengers of the cemetery. He saw his son and his child, but he knew they were not real (yet he spoke to them anyway). Why they persisted in this foolish crusade was beyond Haytham. A piercing cry made him flinch as Wilkinson summoned his comrades, and more feet approached, quietly padding from the shadows.
"No, you are Connor. Ratonhnhaké:ton - " and here Wilkinson stumbled over the letters of Connor's native name " - you are our Mentor."
"Then you won't slit my throat," said Haytham. "Charles!"
The other Assassins leapt forward to stop Haytham from shouting. Wilkinson panicked, jerking the knife away as Haytham arched against him, and it was almost thrown to one side in his haste. They tussled, and the telltale sound of extending hidden blades made the others even more frantic to subdue Haytham. Wilkinson yelped, a cut on his brow obscuring his vision with blood.
Finally, Haytham was grabbed and contained, thrashing viciously in an intense fight that ended with wrapping rope around Haytham's body to stop him while several of them sat on him.
"I retrieved the ladies," said Jamie. "It was easy in the confusion."
He looked quite proud of himself for accomplishing this. Haytham opened his mouth to shout again, but Wilkinson took advantage of this to shove a piece of cloth into Haytham's mouth. The fighting still raged on behind them - the noise was too great for Charles to hear him anyway.
Haytham howled against the gag despite this, jerking his body around as they wrestled a blindfold over his eyes and tied him to a post in a covered cart. Others pressed around him, progressively filling the cart even as it rolled away from the Lodge. Someone was stroking his hair, making soothing noises. He thought it might have been Connor or Ratonhnhaké:ton for a moment, but he realised that it was a real hand.
"What did they do to you?" asked a voice miserably.
"Charles loved me," replied Haytham, not sure how he came to the answer but knowing it was right even if it were muffled by cloth.
He sighed, and this time he felt the small form of Ratonhnhaké:ton lean against him, and his grown son embrace him, before they melted away, coaxing him to rest his weary body and play with them in the snow.
***
Charles had screamed and beat his fists wildly. Charles had wept. Examined the evidence, then wept again. Tears of sadness, bitterness, madness, tears of a man pushed too far. He had sworn not to lose Haytham again, but he had. He was not worthy.
In the dawn of the fight, the Lodge still smouldering, the men still collecting the bodies of the fallen to be identified and sent to their families, Charles Lee looked around at the sanctuary he had tried to build. It had been a fool's task. The gods must have been laughing at this entire business, this petty and dramatic theatre of human emotion that had played before them. He wished for forgiveness, for them to look benevolently upon him and allow him one wish.
Spado trotted up to him, an experienced war dog, loyal to his master, and licked Charles' hand. When his master crumpled to the ground, gunshot still ringing, he curled beside him and waited as his master bled to death on an earthen floor covered with ashes and blood of the fight of the previous night. When his master's hand stilled, fingers clutching the fluffy fur of his beloved dog, Spado snuffled closer, licked his master's face and slept next to him to wait for one of the other men to find them. Charles smiled and closed his eyes.
His wish for death had been granted.
END
***
A/N: Now's probably a good time to mention that I am probably writing an epilogue. I had a lot of difficulty in this part, so it's been left pretty open-ended as to what actually happened. The epilogue won't be written for a while, and it may even come in the form of a few chapters rather than just one part, but for now, this is the end. Thank you to everyone that has read, commented, shared, and squealed, I appreciate each an every one of you. Thank you for taking this journey with me. :) I hope to see you all again in the future!