In a flurry, father and son are chained about the neck once more and hurried down the long hall. No breakfast for either of them, such is Hickey's haste to get them to the throne room. Haytham feels wretched; his knees bruised once again, the muscles of his legs smarting and aching, some of the cuts that his son had doctored bleeding anew beneath his shirt. He staggers like a drunk, legs trembling, skin still aflame where he had been touched. The boy had been made to clean him before their departure. Haytham would have rather stumbled into the throne room with his pants around his ankles, still soiled, then to have had the boy forced to touch him in such an embarrassingly intimate way. But no one asked his opinion, of course.

Connor walks ahead of Haytham, head down, shoulders hunched, arms bound behind his back, hands clenched so tight that it's a wonder that they do not bleed. He can't even begin to imagine what the boy must be feeling. Disgust, probably. Hatred, for a certainty. Despair... He hopes not.

When they enter the throne room, Washington and some of his commanders are seated at a large table overflowing with charts, correspondence, and food. Food. Oh, God, the food—there's bacon and honeyed ham, sausage, freshly baked bread, fried eggs, cider. It's been so long since he's had anything but gray slop, stale bread and those damned herbs—it's almost enough to make Haytham forget about the man consuming it. Almost, but not quite. Washington's eyes flick up at their approach, chips of ice, and there's that old, familiar fear again; muscles in his throat and chest constrict, his blood turn cold in his veins, all his previous feelings of rebelliousness evaporating.

“Why such a delay?” Washington asks, annoyed.

“The savage attacked us,” one of the guards sneers.

“Unprovoked?”

The guard hesitates. “Not—entirely.”

Washington's attention turns to Haytham. He can feel his face burning from embarrassment, hot as a sunburn. “And him?”

“Took the brunt of the punishment.”

“Fine,” Washington says, apparently uninterested, and points his fork behind Haytham and Connor to where the banquette tables have been arranged into a circle again, legs facing out. “Leave the bindings on, I think. And the gag.”

The blood in Haytham's veins turns to ice.

One of the guards snorts. “So much for entertainment,” he hears the warden mutter.

They're going to kill him. They're going to kill his only son. His mind races. There's too many of them. Haytham is unarmed, weakened, he can't—but there's the Apple. It's there on an ornate stand next to the throne. If he can get to it, perhaps—but, no, the guard that holds his chain reaches under the table, secures the end of it around a leg of heavy oak. They're forcing the struggling Connor into the ring; he's growling past the rag stuffed into his mouth, doing his best to yank free, to stomp on the toes of the guards that man-handle him, but they're yanking his head back by his collar, cutting off his air.

Haytham watches, frozen. What does he do? What can he do? One of the guards grasps Haytham by the shoulders, forcing him down on his knees next to Washington's place at the table. Should he give himself away? Reveal that he's aware? Grovel and beg for the monster to spare his son? Would Washington even do it? He has only one bargaining chip left to him, the thing that Washington wants the most out of him—his mind. Would the monster let the boy go if he... if he submitted?

A ringing voice gives him pause.

“You're sick bloody bastards, every last one of ya!”

Haytham can't help the quick snap of his head towards the impromptu ring. There's another slave standing there, an iron collar about his scrawny neck, his tall, lean frame drowning in rags that may have once been black. There's something about the man that's familiar. Something about the eyes. It's hard to determine who he is, though; his face is so gaunt, so emaciated, every line of his face etched in grit and fury. He could be thirty, he could be sixty.

“Mind yourself, peasant,” a guard snaps.

“Or what? You'll beat me? Turn me into that?” He jabs a finger in Haytham's direction and the Templar fights the urge to recoil. “Go ahead. Try. I fuckin' dare ya.” His accent is unmistakeably Irish, low-country, working class.

Duncan Little, the Assassin. Haytham's surprised he hadn't recognized him sooner. Haytham's guts twist. Duncan's face likewise contorts in disgust as Connor is shoved forward over the barrier of tables, landing in an ungainly, struggling heap on the flagstones.

“What in the hell is this?” the Irish Assassin demands, lips pulled back in a snarl. Half of his front teeth are missing or broken.

“Your latest challenge,” one of the guards replies.

“Do you mean to have me kill an unarmed, bound chap?” He sounds incredulous and unnerved. When the guards back off, leaving Connor to the man's mercy, he scoffs, “Well, that's a new low...”

He reaches down—not to strangle the boy, but to grasp him under the arms, “C'mon, lad, up with ya,” he grunts. He winces from the exertion; Duncan may be taller, but Connor outweighs him by a good margin. Connor staggers to his feet, tries to say something, eyes wide and frantic, but the gag muffles his words. The Irishman tugs the fabric from his mouth. “There y'are, lad; never say I never did anything for ya.”

“Duncan!” Connor gasps, “you're alive!”

So, the boy knows the Irishman as well. Had the man been an Assassin in both lives?

Duncan's brow beetles. “Do I know ya, lad?”

The look on Connor's face is agonized. Of course Duncan doesn't know him. That would be far too convenient. Connor is the only person Haytham has found in this strange place to be aware of the true reality, the only one aside from himself to know that that this world is part of some insane fantasy.

“I...Well...” Haytham can see the boy's mind working, trying to come up with something that doesn't sound completely and utterly mad. “No, but I know of you, sir. From before,” he says finally as Duncan side-steps to remove the lashings from his wrists.

Connor is about to go on but somewhere there's the sound of screaming, followed by an agonized, distant wail that echos from down an anterior hall. Elsewhere in the building there's some other ungodly form of torture taking place. Both men look up at the sound, their faces troubled—and then the sound abruptly ceases. The implications of the silence is even more unnerving than the screaming.

“I know you as a Brother,” Connor says shakily, softly, when the two turn their attention back to each other. Had Haytham not been straining to hear, he would have missed it.

Duncan stares at Connor, face anxious. He seizes Connor about the shoulders, his face drawn, whispers something urgent that sounds like a question or a plea. Connor shakes his head slightly, dark eyes full of sympathy and concern, whispers something in kind that is likewise too soft for anyone but the two of them to hear. There's a brief, intense exchange. Whatever the discourse, it seems to bring peace to neither of them. Duncan lets out a deep breath, shoulders collapsing, brow beetled. He releases Connor and shakes his head.

“I suppose it doesn't matter what we used to be; only what we've become,” Duncan says with a glance to Washington and his men, voice rough. He steps away from Connor, never once presenting his back. He squares his shoulders and balls his large hands into sharp fists, bringing them up before his chest, every muscle in his body tensing.

“What is this?” Connor asks, clearly confused.

“Survival of the fittest, lad,” Duncan responds, and then pulls his right fist back, launches it, goes right for the face. Connor sees the strike coming, eyes wide and shocked—perhaps he can't believe that the Irishman would ever seek to strike him—and he just barely manages to knock the blow aside with his forearm.

“What are you doing?” Connor hisses. “We fight for the same cause!”

“Sorry, lad,” Duncan huffs, drawing his fists back in a defensive posture. “It's you or me. thought I'd give ya a fighting chance, but that's all the quarter I can afford to give ya.”

“I don't want to fight you!” Connor shouts.

“Well, good on you, lad, but I've not had any food for two days—and if beating you means I get to eat—“ He lunges at Connor, aiming high again, but Connor artfully dodges, landing the man a blow to the gut in retaliation, “—Ah, good right hook,” Duncan gasps.

He'll be fine, Haytham tries to tell himself. He's young. Healthy. He has a good thirty pounds of muscle on the man. But fear claws at his chest. If it were a pure contest of skill and strength, Haytham would have had every confidence that Connor would have been the victor, but he's uncertain. The boy's soft heart will be the death of him, he thinks, maybe not today, but soon. These chaotic bouts have a sort of system to them. Food is the prize. If a man wins a fight by killing his opponent, he receives full meals for two days. If he merely lets his opponent yield, he gets about half, just enough to keep his stomach from eating itself, but not much more than that. If he loses and the victor is merciful enough to let him live, he gets nothing. It drives even good men into desperate, half-starved, violent rages. More than that, it saps their willpower, makes them more susceptible to the Apple's influence.

Duncan's fist connects. Connor gasps, staggers back, hand pressed to his ribs, wincing, eyes flashing in fear and betrayal. There's nothing Haytham can do for his son. Haytham can't even beg on his son's behalf; they would know that Connor had helped him regain his mind and the boy's punishment would be all the worse. Haytham watches helplessly, all of his righteous anger and indignation replaced by concern and anxiety.

Connor could probably kill the man easily, but he's deflecting, on the defensive, pleading with Duncan—“We have to stop this, we are playing right into his hands!”—but it's no use. Duncan's blows are fast and brutal, meant for maximum damage, face set in grim determination—if he'd had any reservations about killing the stranger set before him, they're gone now, pushed aside in favor of a hot meal and living another day. Haytham wonders if there's something else driving the Irishman. Was Washington hanging something over him? Did the man have any family to exploit? Were there any other Assassins in the holding cells, their lives hanging on the outcome of the match?

They come together, grappling, Connor trying to restrain the other man, Duncan doing his very best to pound Connor's ribs and stomp toes before Connor lurches them to the ground, the two of them struggling for dominance.

Something moist and warm hits Haytham on the cheek. He looks down at the ground, puzzled. It's a bit of bacon, mostly white with fat, glistening with grease. Haytham looks up, narrowly avoiding locking eyes with Washington. The monster's lip curls and his eyes twinkle in evident delight. He raises his eyebrows expectantly and gives a curt nod as if to say well go on, then.

Haytham has never hated anyone so much in his entire life, wants to send his hidden blade right through one of the man's mocking blue eyes and straight into that sick, delusional brain—but he has no blade of course. Just his hands. And any attempt at murder at this point would be suicide. So, he plays the role that he has been forced to take. Haytham reaches for the bit of meat with his hand but he hesitates noting how crooked his fingers are. Reluctantly, he places his hand flat on the floor, does the same with the other, and picks up the morsel with his lips. The piece of meat is delectable after going so long without but his treatment is so revolting, so abhorrent that he has a hard time swallowing.

Haytham realizes that he's paying his son and Duncan more far too much attention for a supposedly drug-addled slave. He stares down at the floor beneath his aching knees, trying to affect an air of indifference, but his hands twitch in his lap every time he hears a pained grunt or gasp, his own hands tightening into fists, bunching into the fabric of his filthy trousers when he hears the sound of a connecting impact. But Washington's interference brings him back to the matter at hand, to the real conflict and the larger concern.

“...And we've gotten a letter from a Frenchie,” someone says. General Putnam, he thinks—his face is blocked by the table, Haytham can't see more than the man's booted legs under the table. There's a whiff of cigar smoke; it must be him. He's seated near Washington, facing the two men battling for their lives.

“Oh?” asks Washington, sounding bored. From the projection of his voice Haytham can tell that he's looking at the fight, not at his general. “What does it say, sir?”

Putnam's laugh is a harsh bark. “How the hell should I know, y'Grace? It's in French!”

“Arrogant, insufferable...” A rustle of parchment. “What was the messenger’s explanation?”

“Couldn't say,” Putnam says, sounding like he's trying and failing to keep the glee from his voice, “My boys'd riddled him with shot on first sight. By the time we figured out who he was, he was babbling away in French and couldn't make himself understood.”

“Dead now, I presume?” A Pause. “Lord Franklin, you know a bit of the language, do you not?” A rustle of parchment being passed from one hand to another.

Lord Franklin? Of course; Haytham had been scrutinizing the legs of the man seated next to Putnam, wondering who they belonged to. He's wearing slippers rather than shoes, and the fabric of his socks are pulled tight over grotesquely swollen and lumpy ankles. Gout, most like. He wonders what sort of hideous thing the man had done to earn the title of 'Lord.'

“I do, I can try to translate—Oh. Oh, yes, this is rather significant.” Franklin sounds excited, which probably bodes ill. “It appears that the addressee rightfully recognizes you as the—“

There's a howl of pain; Connor's—Haytham looks up, he can't help it—Duncan has a hold of his son's left arm, twisting it backwards at an unnatural angle. Haytham's heart rises in his chest, but he looks away again, has to keep listening, it's the only thing he can do that's useful now—

“As I was saying,” Franklin says irritably, ahem-ing and clearing his throat, “This document is addressed to the rightful king, sovereign of Massachusetts, New York, Connecticut—all of the colonies, in fact—and that he wishes to extend his hand in friendship and welcome his Majesty in—oh my.”

“What, Ben? Don't keep us in suspense,” Putnam chides.

“It's—this is signed by Louis himself. This is the King of France acknowledging your claim on the Americas.”