The inn is not anything special, but it is warm, and Connor can admit (in the privacy of his own head, at least) to being slightly disgusted at the colour his bathwater turned to – at Haytham’s insistence that he take the bath as soon as they arrived.
Now, they sit at a table in the far corner, eating a stew that is… well, if not enjoyable at least hearty. Connor’s hair is still damp, and he takes great delight in leaning over at just the right moment to drip over Haytham.
Haytham, to his credit, has not yet complained.
The barmaid comes over, asks if they need anything else. It’s the third time that evening she’s done so, and every time she smiles at Connor. This time she brushes against him as she turns back towards the bar.
Haytham clears his throat. “Nice girl,” he says mildly, and there is something in his tone Connor can’t quite work out.
“She seems pleasant enough.”
Haytham gives him a sideways look, and then clears his throat again. “And do you… have anyone back home?”
This may be the most awkward conversation Connor has ever had, and he suddenly finds himself fascinated with a lump of meat in his stew. (He still hasn’t worked out what animal it is from, and in his life he has eaten most of what the forest has to offer. He’s trying hard not to think about what that means.)
“I do not have the time,” he says, because people are far more willing to accept that answer than ‘I’m not interested in such things.’
“Only the occasional dalliance, then?” Haytham asks.
Connor stares at him. “What do you mean?”
“That… fellow back in the jail. Oh, don’t worry,” Haytham continues, clearly reading Connor’s look of shock for something else, “Ziio told me that your people do things a bit differently. A little discretion, and no harm done.”
The stew, already unpleasant enough on the way down, is threatening to come up once more. Connor’s fingers find themselves gripping the table tightly, his mouth twisted in disgust. “You… you thought I wanted…”
Haytham is very good at keeping his emotions under control, Connor has noticed. It’s something he himself needs to work on, or so he’s been told. Achilles has scolded him before for being so open, for wearing his heart on his sleeve, and it’s taken him a long time to realise that the old man means it for his own protection rather than that of the Order.
To a casual observer, whatever emotion passes through Haytham’s features could be easily missed. Connor is looking closely, however, and sees the tiny flickers, one after the other. It doesn’t mean he can read them though, and Haytham’s expression is quickly impassive once more.
“I see,” Haytham says, quite calmly, though there is steel in his voice that was not there earlier. “Our lines of work often lead us to do things we may find… distasteful.”
“Distasteful?!” Connor gets to his feet, slams his hands against the table. He isn’t even aware of how loud his voice was until he notices the silence that has spread across the inn, all eyes on him. Even the barmaid is eyeing him warily, whispering something to the innkeeper. He averts his eyes, makes sure his next words are low enough so that only Haytham can hear him. “This was a mistake.”
He steps lightly out of the inn – ignoring Haytham calling his name – and lets the door fall closed behind him before breaking into a sprint. His heart is already racing, and it’s easier to blame it on the exertion than anything else. His muscles protest and his lungs quickly start aching from the cold, but he runs until there is at least a couple of miles between himself and the inn.
It’s a deeply foolish thing to do, and so – like so many other things he’s done – it’s something he needed to do. His run slows to a walk, and finally a stop. He slumps against a nearby tree, breathing in deep gulps that bite at his chest with each inhale.
He stares at nothing, and thinks of everything he’s carefully placed deep to the back of his mind.
He’s not sure how long he sits there, but is not surprised by the crunch of footsteps through snow, nor who they belong to.
Connor meets his father’s gaze. It’s gratifying to see Haytham look away first.
“I hope,” Haytham says, a little stiffly, “that you don’t expect me to take you in my arms and tell you that everything is going to be alright.”
Connor narrows his eyes. “I am not a child. And I wouldn’t look for comfort from you even if I were.”
Haytham’s own eyes soften a little. “No. I can see that. But for what little it is worth, I am sorry.”
“But not for ordering my execution.”
Connor catches Haytham’s hesitation, but the pause is so brief as to be easily missed. “There’s a world of difference between the two things. I wouldn’t wish that upon my greatest enemy.”
“And what am I?” There’s a challenge in there, but also no small hint of curiosity.
Haytham doesn’t answer, but instead sniffs and tenses slightly as a bitter wind blows past. “A damn fool who runs off without a thought for his wellbeing is what. Come along, my horse is waiting. I already gave the innkeeper extra to make up for your earlier behaviour.”
“Your horse?”
Haytham gives him a derisive look, but Connor finds himself pleased to see no pity in it – but perhaps a little understanding. “Yes. You’ll find it’s how people tend to travel when they have no desire to freeze to death.”
FILL [8/?]
Now, they sit at a table in the far corner, eating a stew that is… well, if not enjoyable at least hearty. Connor’s hair is still damp, and he takes great delight in leaning over at just the right moment to drip over Haytham.
Haytham, to his credit, has not yet complained.
The barmaid comes over, asks if they need anything else. It’s the third time that evening she’s done so, and every time she smiles at Connor. This time she brushes against him as she turns back towards the bar.
Haytham clears his throat. “Nice girl,” he says mildly, and there is something in his tone Connor can’t quite work out.
“She seems pleasant enough.”
Haytham gives him a sideways look, and then clears his throat again. “And do you… have anyone back home?”
This may be the most awkward conversation Connor has ever had, and he suddenly finds himself fascinated with a lump of meat in his stew. (He still hasn’t worked out what animal it is from, and in his life he has eaten most of what the forest has to offer. He’s trying hard not to think about what that means.)
“I do not have the time,” he says, because people are far more willing to accept that answer than ‘I’m not interested in such things.’
“Only the occasional dalliance, then?” Haytham asks.
Connor stares at him. “What do you mean?”
“That… fellow back in the jail. Oh, don’t worry,” Haytham continues, clearly reading Connor’s look of shock for something else, “Ziio told me that your people do things a bit differently. A little discretion, and no harm done.”
The stew, already unpleasant enough on the way down, is threatening to come up once more. Connor’s fingers find themselves gripping the table tightly, his mouth twisted in disgust. “You… you thought I wanted…”
Haytham is very good at keeping his emotions under control, Connor has noticed. It’s something he himself needs to work on, or so he’s been told. Achilles has scolded him before for being so open, for wearing his heart on his sleeve, and it’s taken him a long time to realise that the old man means it for his own protection rather than that of the Order.
To a casual observer, whatever emotion passes through Haytham’s features could be easily missed. Connor is looking closely, however, and sees the tiny flickers, one after the other. It doesn’t mean he can read them though, and Haytham’s expression is quickly impassive once more.
“I see,” Haytham says, quite calmly, though there is steel in his voice that was not there earlier. “Our lines of work often lead us to do things we may find… distasteful.”
“Distasteful?!” Connor gets to his feet, slams his hands against the table. He isn’t even aware of how loud his voice was until he notices the silence that has spread across the inn, all eyes on him. Even the barmaid is eyeing him warily, whispering something to the innkeeper. He averts his eyes, makes sure his next words are low enough so that only Haytham can hear him. “This was a mistake.”
He steps lightly out of the inn – ignoring Haytham calling his name – and lets the door fall closed behind him before breaking into a sprint. His heart is already racing, and it’s easier to blame it on the exertion than anything else. His muscles protest and his lungs quickly start aching from the cold, but he runs until there is at least a couple of miles between himself and the inn.
It’s a deeply foolish thing to do, and so – like so many other things he’s done – it’s something he needed to do. His run slows to a walk, and finally a stop. He slumps against a nearby tree, breathing in deep gulps that bite at his chest with each inhale.
He stares at nothing, and thinks of everything he’s carefully placed deep to the back of his mind.
He’s not sure how long he sits there, but is not surprised by the crunch of footsteps through snow, nor who they belong to.
Connor meets his father’s gaze. It’s gratifying to see Haytham look away first.
“I hope,” Haytham says, a little stiffly, “that you don’t expect me to take you in my arms and tell you that everything is going to be alright.”
Connor narrows his eyes. “I am not a child. And I wouldn’t look for comfort from you even if I were.”
Haytham’s own eyes soften a little. “No. I can see that. But for what little it is worth, I am sorry.”
“But not for ordering my execution.”
Connor catches Haytham’s hesitation, but the pause is so brief as to be easily missed. “There’s a world of difference between the two things. I wouldn’t wish that upon my greatest enemy.”
“And what am I?” There’s a challenge in there, but also no small hint of curiosity.
Haytham doesn’t answer, but instead sniffs and tenses slightly as a bitter wind blows past. “A damn fool who runs off without a thought for his wellbeing is what. Come along, my horse is waiting. I already gave the innkeeper extra to make up for your earlier behaviour.”
“Your horse?”
Haytham gives him a derisive look, but Connor finds himself pleased to see no pity in it – but perhaps a little understanding. “Yes. You’ll find it’s how people tend to travel when they have no desire to freeze to death.”
Connor thinks he surprises them both by laughing.