Interestingly enough, British English spelling was standardised in 1755, when the first dictionaries were published... All right, I'm the only one here who finds that interesting. Coming up in the next few parts: smut of a very questionable quality and more manipulation.
I decided to use a Shakespearian English version of Canterbury Tales, purely because Middle English is a mystery even to people who specialise in Middle English, and I forgot how evil Chaucer was. (this is a really good version of the poem: http://www.canterburytales.org/canterbury_tales.html)
Haytham leans in again. The boy looks stunned, a blush creeping along his cheeks. In all honesty, he hadn't expected things to move so quickly. Connor has only been here for, what, a week? Perhaps a little more?
This time, Connor tries to mimic what Haytham is doing. He opens his mouth, brushes Haytham's tongue with his own. The boy evidently has had no experience with this sort of thing. He breaks the kiss, much to Connor's obvious disappointment.
"Have you ever done this before?" he murmurs into Connor's ear. Connor tenses slightly, opens his mouth to speak, then shakes his head slowly.
"I thought not," Haytham chuckles. He kisses the side of Connor's mouth, trailing down his jaw, his throat, nibbling at his Adam's apple for a moment. When he gets to Connor's collarbone, he stops. Connor looks confused, probably wondering if he's done something wrong.
"Why are we stopping?" he manages, breathing heavily.
"As much as I would enjoy continuing this, I unfortunately have prior arrangements," Haytham replies. It's true. He agreed to speak with Pitcairn about the Order's progress in finding Connor's revolutionary allies, and if the clock in the corner of the room is right, he only has about five minutes before he needs to be in the library.
"Prior arrangements?" Connor looks annoyed now.
"Come on, now. Surely you don't think I knew you were going to come here, at this time? "
"You could have said something before," Connor mutters.
"Well, I apologise. Pitcairn will be here any moment, and we have much to discuss. Now, as much as I would like for you to stay here, you are still an assassin. The enemy. I can't afford to have you know all our plans and secrets just yet, on the off-chance you do somehow escape or find a way to communicate with the Brotherhood."
Connor glares at him, face flushed red in what's probably frustration. He wouldn't be surprised if Connor had momentarily forgotten that they are supposed to be enemies.
"Don't look at me like that," Haytham raises an eyebrow. "I'll come to your rooms this evening, if you like. That way we can... carry on."
Connor is silent for a moment. Probably feeling guilty, wondering what Achilles would think. What his allies would think. What those half-baked recruits would think.
"All right." Connor eventually says.
"Excellent. I'll be there at seven. Run along now."
Connor leaves, smoothing his clothes and brushing his fingers through his hair. He's muttering in a Native language. His words sound similar to the ones Ziio used when she was cross, but Haytham can't remember if they're the same or not. In all honesty, it was a long time ago and Haytham was never any good at foreign languages.
...
When he arrives, he opens the door quietly. He doesn't knock. The time for playing the perfect host is over. Now it's important to be seductive, needy even.
Connor is on the reclining couch, reading a book. Haytham leans in the doorway.
"What's that you're reading?" Haytham asks. He puts on his best charming smile. Connor twitches in surprise, head snapping up toward the door.
"Chaucer's Canterbury Tales," Connor replies, after a few seconds. He turns back to his book.
"Ah, how are you enjoying it?" Haytham steps into the room and closes the door behind him.
"It is difficult. The words are strange."
"That's because it was written a very long time ago. Words meant different things back then. It was, oh, four hundred years ago." Haytham walks to the bookcase and runs a finger along the spines of the books. "Would you like me to read it to you?"
"It's not that hard," Connor says, indignantly.
"I wasn't suggesting you couldn't read it. It's just that it was written to be read aloud, and there are few things more soothing in the world than having someone read to you."
"I don't need to be soothed," Connor snaps the book shut. Haytham decides that he's probably just being contrary because of the interruption to their... activities earlier. He plucks the book out of his hands, and uses his softest, most honeyed tone.
"Here beginneth the book of the tales of Canterbury. When April with his showers sweet with fruit the drought of March hath pierced unto the root and bathed each vein in liquor with power to generate therein and sire the flower..."
Connor shifts in his seat, sitting straighter. He looks vaguely unhappy, and his posture is stiff. Haytham pauses in his reading.
"...Are you uncomfortable?" Haytham asks, mildly. "You seem tense."
"I'm fine," Connor says, sullenly.
"If you like, I'll rub your shoulders."
"I thought you were reading to me."
"If you'll hold the book, I'll read over your shoulder," he flashes Connor a smile. "Shuffle forward."
Connor looks away, and obeys. Haytham realises what this strangely rude behaviour is all about. It's a crude attempt at manipulation. Childish, really, but understandable, given the circumstances. He moves to the couch, straddles the space behind Connor.
"Here," he says, placing the book into Connor's hands. "I think we were still on the first page."
Connor finds the page, and lets Haytham peer over one shoulder. His fingers brush over Connor's shoulderblades and he slowly starts to rub small circles into his back. Connor visibly relaxes, and Haytham doesn't need to see his face to know he's smiling at his little plan working.
"If you wanted me this close, all you had to do was ask," Haytham murmurs into Connor's ear. "I was starting to think you weren't really interested in me."
"Sorry," Connor stutters slightly as Haytham nibbles at his ear.
"It's all right. When Zephyr hath with his sweet breath," Haytham breathes, one hand slowly running through Connor's hair. "Quickened again with ev'ry holt and heath, the tender crops and the young sun into the Ram one half his course hath run."
"I thought you were meant to be giving me a back rub," Connor says, though he doesn't make a move to stop Haytham's hands, nor does he sound annoyed.
Haytham chuckles and nuzzles Connor's neck.
"I suppose I did say that, didn't I? And many fowl maketh melody that sleep through night with open eye. So nature does prick them onto ramp and rage. Then do folks long to go on pilgrimage... "
Haytham's hands continue to wander, as he murmurs the story of pilgrims journeying to St Paul's.
FILL 9/?
I decided to use a Shakespearian English version of Canterbury Tales, purely because Middle English is a mystery even to people who specialise in Middle English, and I forgot how evil Chaucer was. (this is a really good version of the poem: http://www.canterburytales.org/canterbury_tales.html)
Haytham leans in again. The boy looks stunned, a blush creeping along his cheeks. In all honesty, he hadn't expected things to move so quickly. Connor has only been here for, what, a week? Perhaps a little more?
This time, Connor tries to mimic what Haytham is doing. He opens his mouth, brushes Haytham's tongue with his own. The boy evidently has had no experience with this sort of thing. He breaks the kiss, much to Connor's obvious disappointment.
"Have you ever done this before?" he murmurs into Connor's ear. Connor tenses slightly, opens his mouth to speak, then shakes his head slowly.
"I thought not," Haytham chuckles. He kisses the side of Connor's mouth, trailing down his jaw, his throat, nibbling at his Adam's apple for a moment. When he gets to Connor's collarbone, he stops. Connor looks confused, probably wondering if he's done something wrong.
"Why are we stopping?" he manages, breathing heavily.
"As much as I would enjoy continuing this, I unfortunately have prior arrangements," Haytham replies. It's true. He agreed to speak with Pitcairn about the Order's progress in finding Connor's revolutionary allies, and if the clock in the corner of the room is right, he only has about five minutes before he needs to be in the library.
"Prior arrangements?" Connor looks annoyed now.
"Come on, now. Surely you don't think I knew you were going to come here, at this time? "
"You could have said something before," Connor mutters.
"Well, I apologise. Pitcairn will be here any moment, and we have much to discuss. Now, as much as I would like for you to stay here, you are still an assassin. The enemy. I can't afford to have you know all our plans and secrets just yet, on the off-chance you do somehow escape or find a way to communicate with the Brotherhood."
Connor glares at him, face flushed red in what's probably frustration. He wouldn't be surprised if Connor had momentarily forgotten that they are supposed to be enemies.
"Don't look at me like that," Haytham raises an eyebrow. "I'll come to your rooms this evening, if you like. That way we can... carry on."
Connor is silent for a moment. Probably feeling guilty, wondering what Achilles would think. What his allies would think. What those half-baked recruits would think.
"All right." Connor eventually says.
"Excellent. I'll be there at seven. Run along now."
Connor leaves, smoothing his clothes and brushing his fingers through his hair. He's muttering in a Native language. His words sound similar to the ones Ziio used when she was cross, but Haytham can't remember if they're the same or not. In all honesty, it was a long time ago and Haytham was never any good at foreign languages.
...
When he arrives, he opens the door quietly. He doesn't knock. The time for playing the perfect host is over. Now it's important to be seductive, needy even.
Connor is on the reclining couch, reading a book. Haytham leans in the doorway.
"What's that you're reading?" Haytham asks. He puts on his best charming smile. Connor twitches in surprise, head snapping up toward the door.
"Chaucer's Canterbury Tales," Connor replies, after a few seconds. He turns back to his book.
"Ah, how are you enjoying it?" Haytham steps into the room and closes the door behind him.
"It is difficult. The words are strange."
"That's because it was written a very long time ago. Words meant different things back then. It was, oh, four hundred years ago." Haytham walks to the bookcase and runs a finger along the spines of the books. "Would you like me to read it to you?"
"It's not that hard," Connor says, indignantly.
"I wasn't suggesting you couldn't read it. It's just that it was written to be read aloud, and there are few things more soothing in the world than having someone read to you."
"I don't need to be soothed," Connor snaps the book shut. Haytham decides that he's probably just being contrary because of the interruption to their... activities earlier. He plucks the book out of his hands, and uses his softest, most honeyed tone.
"Here beginneth the book of the tales of Canterbury. When April with his showers sweet with fruit the drought of March hath pierced unto the root and bathed each vein in liquor with power to generate therein and sire the flower..."
Connor shifts in his seat, sitting straighter. He looks vaguely unhappy, and his posture is stiff. Haytham pauses in his reading.
"...Are you uncomfortable?" Haytham asks, mildly. "You seem tense."
"I'm fine," Connor says, sullenly.
"If you like, I'll rub your shoulders."
"I thought you were reading to me."
"If you'll hold the book, I'll read over your shoulder," he flashes Connor a smile. "Shuffle forward."
Connor looks away, and obeys. Haytham realises what this strangely rude behaviour is all about. It's a crude attempt at manipulation. Childish, really, but understandable, given the circumstances. He moves to the couch, straddles the space behind Connor.
"Here," he says, placing the book into Connor's hands. "I think we were still on the first page."
Connor finds the page, and lets Haytham peer over one shoulder. His fingers brush over Connor's shoulderblades and he slowly starts to rub small circles into his back. Connor visibly relaxes, and Haytham doesn't need to see his face to know he's smiling at his little plan working.
"If you wanted me this close, all you had to do was ask," Haytham murmurs into Connor's ear. "I was starting to think you weren't really interested in me."
"Sorry," Connor stutters slightly as Haytham nibbles at his ear.
"It's all right. When Zephyr hath with his sweet breath," Haytham breathes, one hand slowly running through Connor's hair. "Quickened again with ev'ry holt and heath, the tender crops and the young sun into the Ram one half his course hath run."
"I thought you were meant to be giving me a back rub," Connor says, though he doesn't make a move to stop Haytham's hands, nor does he sound annoyed.
Haytham chuckles and nuzzles Connor's neck.
"I suppose I did say that, didn't I? And many fowl maketh melody that sleep through night with open eye. So nature does prick them onto ramp and rage. Then do folks long to go on pilgrimage... "
Haytham's hands continue to wander, as he murmurs the story of pilgrims journeying to St Paul's.