OP!anon, I was originally going to try and write the entire fill and post it all at once, but I quickly came to discover that this thing was going to be a lot longer than I had originally anticipated, since I apparently want to write out all the build-up and... stuff. (Plus my work schedule meant you... probably would've been waiting a while for me to finish everything ahaha. orz ) ANYWAY, I hope this is okay! Enjoy. :)
***
Day Zero The boy had no sense--none whatsoever. Ordering ships to fire upon the very fort he was going to be infiltrating? Haytham had, in his time, done some rather reckless and downright dangerous things, but even he drew the line somewhere. Connor, apparently, did not know when to draw it or couldn’t be bothered.
Breathing heavy and arm aching, he stared down at the boy who had caused him so much trouble over the years and ruined so many of his best-laid plans. Oh, there was some strange sense of admiration there, some pride, but Haytham could not suppress the overwhelming feelings of anger--anger that this individual, his own flesh and blood, could not see the sense and logic of the Templar way.
The sheer stubbornness of the Assassin was beyond frustrating. If he only had another chance, he would have sought to break it--with force, as words had done little to convey the importance of his lessons thus far--and that was the last thought Haytham Kenway had as the world went black.
Day Five Haytham awakened with a throbbing headache, and the light--the blasted light--was in his eyes and far too bright. He instinctively rolled away from whatever the source was, shielding his face with his hand, groaning quietly as the pain in his skull spiked.
“At last, you return to us,” a voice said, coming vaguely from the direction he had just turned away from. Footsteps were quick to follow, and to Haytham’s great relief, a shadow came to hover over him, shielding him from the infernal daylight. Maybe he should have worried for his safety, but at this moment in time, Haytham simply couldn’t rally the energy or care to do so. The man’s tone then took a sharper edge to it, bordering on anger. “You should have come with me.”
“Hah.” So it was Charles. Given his state of being, Haytham doubted that he could put up a fight even if forced, but it seemed that he was safe, at least for the time being. “You are a fool for returning for me.”
“You are still the Grand Master of these colonies. I could not have--”
“Charles,” he said, cutting the man off with a weak wave of the hand. “Consider yourself blessed that you did not run into any trouble en route. You retain the amulet, do you not?”
There was a brief pause, as if Charles was not entirely happy to be reprimanded, but the moment passed. A quiet sigh filled the space between them. “Would you like me to return it to you?”
Again, Haytham gestured with his hand. “No. Keep it.” The trinket held nothing but bad memories for him now.
“Shall I let you rest then? You took quite a shock from the shelling.”
Resting some more (preferably with the light out of his eyes) sounded like an excellent idea, but there was something Haytham needed to know before he slept once more: “The boy. Is he dead?”
There was a slight sniff, like some displeasurable scent had filled the air, and Haytham already knew the answer; his lips quirked in a grim smile. Of course, how could he even think of this as a legitimate question? His son wouldn’t die from something as harmless as cannon fire.
“He rests in the room down the hall,” came to the curt reply. “I had thought to finish him for you, but...”
But Haytham was still the Grand Master, and ultimately, it was his call. “You have done well, Charles,” he murmured, sleep already seeping back into his voice. “I shall resolve the matter myself when I am well again.”
“If you insist, Haytham.”
“I do.” His lips quirked. “Watch the boy for me until then.”
He didn’t have to see Charles’ face to imagine the look there. Babysitting duty for the general--no task could be more suiting for the man. None whatsoever.
Day Twelve The wooden floor was cool and comfortable beneath his feet as he stood beside the window, gazing down at the street below. Men and women continued to mill about, busying themselves with whatever droll activities they had set out to complete; the war, it felt like, had not touched his little corner of the world--peace and order still reigned. This quiet (and the resultant rest) had aided in his healing, and while he still bore the bandages and pains of a man injured in battle, Haytham had found his feet once again.
The house was near silent, save for the distant sound of lunch being made in the kitchens, but after spending several days doing nothing but conversing with Lee regarding their next plan of action, the peace and quiet was quite welcome. That said, though, when it came to a certain room at his residence, Haytham could not help but wonder if the lack of noise was welcome or not: down the hall where Connor was currently staying.
The maid insisted that the boy was well-behaved and docile, but Haytham could not bring himself to believe that--could not believe him to be doing anything but biding his time, despite reports from Charles that spoke of the same behavior. Theirs was an estranged relationship, but he knew his son well enough: he would not be tamed so easily.
Now that he could walk without feeling winded, Haytham believed it high time to see with his own eyes what state that child was in.
“The years have not treated you kindly, old man. You do not bear your wounds well,” was the greeting he received as he stepped inside. The room was dark, the curtains drawn. Connor was seated on the bed, elbows on his knees, and while he seemed to be quite at ease with himself, there was a certain danger to the angles his body made--a coiled power just waiting to be sprung. Unarmed he might be, but Haytham knew all too well that the boy didn’t need anything but his fists to kill a man.
Like father, like son, hm?
“I trust that my servants have treated you fairly?” he asked, ignoring his son’s comment. Connor would be fortunate to be as fit as he (or alive, for that matter) at his age, given the trouble the boy seemed to get into. His son didn’t seem to understand his own mortality and its implications. Didn’t he understanding that his ideals and goals would die with him? That his precious Brotherhood was still being rebuilt and could be so easily crushed without its leader? One only needed to look at Achilles and his downfall to see and understand this, but then again, Connor never seemed to reflect well on lessons of the past--not with his father at least.
“Why do you not kill me? Is your curiosity still not sated?”
Haytham sighed; he hadn’t expected the boy to answer his query in any case. The question his son asked mirrored one Charles had posed not two days ago. The original plan involved wringing the last shreds of information from Connor and then getting rid of him (for good, this time), but Haytham found himself unwilling, especially since he now had an opportunity to mold him to his purposes.
Charles had argued that bringing the boy to their side would be impossible, citing their previous efforts as evidence of this. Haytham, however, was not convinced. Before, there had been too many outside influences: Connor had had too much freedom. Besides, their interactions had been touch-and-go at best; father and son had no time alone, no time to... bond.
“I’ve yet to cure you of your ignorance. It is my... duty, as your father. A man cannot let his child roam the streets empty-headed and delusional.”
“Do you think I will linger to listen to your lies? You cannot confine me here.”
Connor stood then and crossed the room to stand before him, teeth bared in a snarl. His steps, Haytham noted, were like his; the grace and agility he remembered were decidedly absent, the footfalls heavy. For all his talk about his age showing, it seemed like he wasn’t the only one still suffering from his wounds. Haytham lifted his chin and stared the boy down.
“And if I threaten you?”
“I do not fear you, nor what you can do to me.”
“But do you fear what I can do to others?” He let that sink in for a moment, waited to see that brief flicker of worry in Connor’s eyes, before pressing onwards. “I still live. Charles still lives.”
Disgraced and cast out, his power and influence were not what they once were, but they both knew that there was a good reason why Connor wanted him dead: with the right connections and the application of good will, Charles could still return to his former glory and complete his good work.
“The Brotherhood--”
“--Does not know where you are,” Haytham interjected. He pressed a hand to Connor’s chest and pushed, lips pressing into a thin smile when the boy conceded a backward step. “You are alone. Do not think lightly of me and my threats, Connor.
“You have weakened us, yes, but are you so naive to think the Templar influence gone?” Indeed, all he had to do was wait--wait for the chance to promote a pawn and reclaim his pieces. He would have new rooks, knights, and bishops at his beck and call. Indeed, it was too early to call this match done. “I told you before: we do not need a creed to exist. Humanity’s natural inclination is toward order.”
Day Twenty-Four The lessons in philosophy and history, in language and culture, had started, even if the Assassin proved to be an unruly and unwilling student, but still, they were necessary for the boy to become a proper Templar. Hour after hour, they would work, and whenever Connor looked ready to protest, Haytham would remind him of the Homestead, of his recruits, of the dispersed remains of his village. How was Prudence’s boy? His name was Hunter, was it not? And that woman Assassin in his ranks? Was she well? What of the clan mother? Surely she was an old woman now--fragile. Ah, but that was foolish of him to ask; Connor wouldn’t--couldn’t--know...
These were scare tactics, but for now, all he had to do was bluff. The Templar network would slowly recover, and one day, Haytham would have the power to exert influence on the lives of these individuals. For now, though, all he could do was obtain just enough information to frighten the boy, make him worry and fret.
Having to use such crude methods of getting the boy to listen became something that occurred prior to every lesson, and after a while, Haytham grew tired of it. The re-education of Connor, he decided, had to start from the outside; his previous approach had been all wrong. The opportunity to directly influence what went on in the boy’s head was long gone, so instead, he would work his way from the outside in--starting with his appearance.
“Off. Take it off.”
“No,” Connor all but growled, low and not unlike an animal. Haytham sighed and rolled his eyes; trust the child to be troublesome regardless of what he asked of him. “You have already taken away my weapons. What does it matter what I wear?”
“You are a guest in my home. You will do as I say,” he snapped. Haytham strode toward his son, eyes sliding from the top of his head and down to his toes. It wasn’t that the boy’s outfit was all that offensive; after all, he’d fit in... relatively well with the colonists up until this point. No, this was more a matter of controlling Connor and shaping him; that Assassin robe had to go--the symbolism behind it far too harmful now. Besides, the thing was fast going to become tatty if Connor insisted on wearing that and nothing else.
And the hair? Well, it certainly wasn’t the style a gentleman would wear, especially since the parts shaved clean had started to grow back. The thing was downright awkward, and in Haytham’s opinion, it was a matter that needed rectifying--the coat had to go first though.
“Allow me to leave, and I will no longer intrude upon your hospitality.”
“Not an option, Connor,” Haytham said as he grabbed at the lapels of the coat and roughly shoved at them, forcing the fabric over his son’s shoulders. For a moment, it looked as if Connor was going to lash out, but as luck would have it, his arms caught in his sleeves; Haytham smiled, vicious. Such a fix would not hold him for long, but it was just enough time for him to start picking at the buttons of his white waistcoat.
“You will dress as I ask.”
The boy cursed him in his native tongue, and Haytham arched an eyebrow.
“And you will speak to me as I see fit.” He tugged, and the remainder of the buttons popped off, rolling across the floor. Haytham shoved the waistcoat open, and as Connor was now actively struggling to get his coat off, he picked up his pace, hooking his index finger into the top of his son’s shirt and pressing down. More buttons hit the ground, and it was with some satisfaction that Haytham noted that even if he couldn’t keep the boy in the outfits he’d picked out, his current wear would likely be unusable at this point.
What happened next, though, was... most curious.
Haytham pressed his hands against Connor’s bare chest to push the shirt off his shoulders, and the boy made a very interesting sound--a strangled sigh is what he would call it. It gave him pause and made his eyebrows lift. His son seemed to realize what had just happened, and he snarled, eyes flashing like a cornered beast. “Remove your hands, father.”
Oh, but how could he? Haytham found this to be an excellent discovery, and to torment Connor all the more, he dragged his nails lightly against his skin, teased a nipple. While this had not been his original intention, Haytham was not unlearned in methods of breaking a man through... less conventional means. If he had an advantage, he was certainly going to use it to its fullest extent. “Have you genuinely never used your body like this before?”
“That--” Ah. The boy’s breath hitched. “--is none of your concern.”
“But isn’t it? I am your father, for better or for worse.”
This sort of sensitivity could surely only be achieved by one who’d never been touched before. Filing away that little tidbit of information, Haytham removed his hands and folded them behind his back; the smug smile he wore didn’t move an inch though. “I will ask you once more: get rid of this horrible outfit.
“The maid has prepared a number of other ones for you in the wardrobe.”
Connor seemed to regain some of his senses when he did not have warm hands pressed against his skin, and he huffed, face twisting into an angry expression. At last, he worked the sleeves of his coat off his arms; the robe fell to the ground with a soft thump. “And if I do not?”
“If you do not?” Haytham seemed to consider this for a moment, taking an idle step away from his son, before rounding quite suddenly on him, stepping right into his space. His hand swung low and grabbed at his groin--squeezed; Connor whined, teeth grit. He leaned in close, his breath hot against the boy’s ear. “Are you so sure you wish to find out?
“Don’t make me repeat myself any more than you have. Get dressed,” he muttered before stepping back and away from the boy. Haytham gave his son one last disapproving look before exiting the room, a warm shiver running down his spine.
Fill: The Re-Education of Connor (Kenway) [ 1 / ? ]
***
Day Zero
The boy had no sense--none whatsoever. Ordering ships to fire upon the very fort he was going to be infiltrating? Haytham had, in his time, done some rather reckless and downright dangerous things, but even he drew the line somewhere. Connor, apparently, did not know when to draw it or couldn’t be bothered.
Breathing heavy and arm aching, he stared down at the boy who had caused him so much trouble over the years and ruined so many of his best-laid plans. Oh, there was some strange sense of admiration there, some pride, but Haytham could not suppress the overwhelming feelings of anger--anger that this individual, his own flesh and blood, could not see the sense and logic of the Templar way.
The sheer stubbornness of the Assassin was beyond frustrating. If he only had another chance, he would have sought to break it--with force, as words had done little to convey the importance of his lessons thus far--and that was the last thought Haytham Kenway had as the world went black.
Day Five
Haytham awakened with a throbbing headache, and the light--the blasted light--was in his eyes and far too bright. He instinctively rolled away from whatever the source was, shielding his face with his hand, groaning quietly as the pain in his skull spiked.
“At last, you return to us,” a voice said, coming vaguely from the direction he had just turned away from. Footsteps were quick to follow, and to Haytham’s great relief, a shadow came to hover over him, shielding him from the infernal daylight. Maybe he should have worried for his safety, but at this moment in time, Haytham simply couldn’t rally the energy or care to do so. The man’s tone then took a sharper edge to it, bordering on anger. “You should have come with me.”
“Hah.” So it was Charles. Given his state of being, Haytham doubted that he could put up a fight even if forced, but it seemed that he was safe, at least for the time being. “You are a fool for returning for me.”
“You are still the Grand Master of these colonies. I could not have--”
“Charles,” he said, cutting the man off with a weak wave of the hand. “Consider yourself blessed that you did not run into any trouble en route. You retain the amulet, do you not?”
There was a brief pause, as if Charles was not entirely happy to be reprimanded, but the moment passed. A quiet sigh filled the space between them. “Would you like me to return it to you?”
Again, Haytham gestured with his hand. “No. Keep it.” The trinket held nothing but bad memories for him now.
“Shall I let you rest then? You took quite a shock from the shelling.”
Resting some more (preferably with the light out of his eyes) sounded like an excellent idea, but there was something Haytham needed to know before he slept once more: “The boy. Is he dead?”
There was a slight sniff, like some displeasurable scent had filled the air, and Haytham already knew the answer; his lips quirked in a grim smile. Of course, how could he even think of this as a legitimate question? His son wouldn’t die from something as harmless as cannon fire.
“He rests in the room down the hall,” came to the curt reply. “I had thought to finish him for you, but...”
But Haytham was still the Grand Master, and ultimately, it was his call. “You have done well, Charles,” he murmured, sleep already seeping back into his voice. “I shall resolve the matter myself when I am well again.”
“If you insist, Haytham.”
“I do.” His lips quirked. “Watch the boy for me until then.”
He didn’t have to see Charles’ face to imagine the look there. Babysitting duty for the general--no task could be more suiting for the man. None whatsoever.
Day Twelve
The wooden floor was cool and comfortable beneath his feet as he stood beside the window, gazing down at the street below. Men and women continued to mill about, busying themselves with whatever droll activities they had set out to complete; the war, it felt like, had not touched his little corner of the world--peace and order still reigned. This quiet (and the resultant rest) had aided in his healing, and while he still bore the bandages and pains of a man injured in battle, Haytham had found his feet once again.
The house was near silent, save for the distant sound of lunch being made in the kitchens, but after spending several days doing nothing but conversing with Lee regarding their next plan of action, the peace and quiet was quite welcome. That said, though, when it came to a certain room at his residence, Haytham could not help but wonder if the lack of noise was welcome or not: down the hall where Connor was currently staying.
The maid insisted that the boy was well-behaved and docile, but Haytham could not bring himself to believe that--could not believe him to be doing anything but biding his time, despite reports from Charles that spoke of the same behavior. Theirs was an estranged relationship, but he knew his son well enough: he would not be tamed so easily.
Now that he could walk without feeling winded, Haytham believed it high time to see with his own eyes what state that child was in.
“The years have not treated you kindly, old man. You do not bear your wounds well,” was the greeting he received as he stepped inside. The room was dark, the curtains drawn. Connor was seated on the bed, elbows on his knees, and while he seemed to be quite at ease with himself, there was a certain danger to the angles his body made--a coiled power just waiting to be sprung. Unarmed he might be, but Haytham knew all too well that the boy didn’t need anything but his fists to kill a man.
Like father, like son, hm?
“I trust that my servants have treated you fairly?” he asked, ignoring his son’s comment. Connor would be fortunate to be as fit as he (or alive, for that matter) at his age, given the trouble the boy seemed to get into. His son didn’t seem to understand his own mortality and its implications. Didn’t he understanding that his ideals and goals would die with him? That his precious Brotherhood was still being rebuilt and could be so easily crushed without its leader? One only needed to look at Achilles and his downfall to see and understand this, but then again, Connor never seemed to reflect well on lessons of the past--not with his father at least.
“Why do you not kill me? Is your curiosity still not sated?”
Haytham sighed; he hadn’t expected the boy to answer his query in any case. The question his son asked mirrored one Charles had posed not two days ago. The original plan involved wringing the last shreds of information from Connor and then getting rid of him (for good, this time), but Haytham found himself unwilling, especially since he now had an opportunity to mold him to his purposes.
Charles had argued that bringing the boy to their side would be impossible, citing their previous efforts as evidence of this. Haytham, however, was not convinced. Before, there had been too many outside influences: Connor had had too much freedom. Besides, their interactions had been touch-and-go at best; father and son had no time alone, no time to... bond.
“I’ve yet to cure you of your ignorance. It is my... duty, as your father. A man cannot let his child roam the streets empty-headed and delusional.”
“Do you think I will linger to listen to your lies? You cannot confine me here.”
Connor stood then and crossed the room to stand before him, teeth bared in a snarl. His steps, Haytham noted, were like his; the grace and agility he remembered were decidedly absent, the footfalls heavy. For all his talk about his age showing, it seemed like he wasn’t the only one still suffering from his wounds. Haytham lifted his chin and stared the boy down.
“And if I threaten you?”
“I do not fear you, nor what you can do to me.”
“But do you fear what I can do to others?” He let that sink in for a moment, waited to see that brief flicker of worry in Connor’s eyes, before pressing onwards. “I still live. Charles still lives.”
Disgraced and cast out, his power and influence were not what they once were, but they both knew that there was a good reason why Connor wanted him dead: with the right connections and the application of good will, Charles could still return to his former glory and complete his good work.
“The Brotherhood--”
“--Does not know where you are,” Haytham interjected. He pressed a hand to Connor’s chest and pushed, lips pressing into a thin smile when the boy conceded a backward step. “You are alone. Do not think lightly of me and my threats, Connor.
“You have weakened us, yes, but are you so naive to think the Templar influence gone?” Indeed, all he had to do was wait--wait for the chance to promote a pawn and reclaim his pieces. He would have new rooks, knights, and bishops at his beck and call. Indeed, it was too early to call this match done. “I told you before: we do not need a creed to exist. Humanity’s natural inclination is toward order.”
Day Twenty-Four
The lessons in philosophy and history, in language and culture, had started, even if the Assassin proved to be an unruly and unwilling student, but still, they were necessary for the boy to become a proper Templar. Hour after hour, they would work, and whenever Connor looked ready to protest, Haytham would remind him of the Homestead, of his recruits, of the dispersed remains of his village. How was Prudence’s boy? His name was Hunter, was it not? And that woman Assassin in his ranks? Was she well? What of the clan mother? Surely she was an old woman now--fragile. Ah, but that was foolish of him to ask; Connor wouldn’t--couldn’t--know...
These were scare tactics, but for now, all he had to do was bluff. The Templar network would slowly recover, and one day, Haytham would have the power to exert influence on the lives of these individuals. For now, though, all he could do was obtain just enough information to frighten the boy, make him worry and fret.
Having to use such crude methods of getting the boy to listen became something that occurred prior to every lesson, and after a while, Haytham grew tired of it. The re-education of Connor, he decided, had to start from the outside; his previous approach had been all wrong. The opportunity to directly influence what went on in the boy’s head was long gone, so instead, he would work his way from the outside in--starting with his appearance.
“Off. Take it off.”
“No,” Connor all but growled, low and not unlike an animal. Haytham sighed and rolled his eyes; trust the child to be troublesome regardless of what he asked of him. “You have already taken away my weapons. What does it matter what I wear?”
“You are a guest in my home. You will do as I say,” he snapped. Haytham strode toward his son, eyes sliding from the top of his head and down to his toes. It wasn’t that the boy’s outfit was all that offensive; after all, he’d fit in... relatively well with the colonists up until this point. No, this was more a matter of controlling Connor and shaping him; that Assassin robe had to go--the symbolism behind it far too harmful now. Besides, the thing was fast going to become tatty if Connor insisted on wearing that and nothing else.
And the hair? Well, it certainly wasn’t the style a gentleman would wear, especially since the parts shaved clean had started to grow back. The thing was downright awkward, and in Haytham’s opinion, it was a matter that needed rectifying--the coat had to go first though.
“Allow me to leave, and I will no longer intrude upon your hospitality.”
“Not an option, Connor,” Haytham said as he grabbed at the lapels of the coat and roughly shoved at them, forcing the fabric over his son’s shoulders. For a moment, it looked as if Connor was going to lash out, but as luck would have it, his arms caught in his sleeves; Haytham smiled, vicious. Such a fix would not hold him for long, but it was just enough time for him to start picking at the buttons of his white waistcoat.
“You will dress as I ask.”
The boy cursed him in his native tongue, and Haytham arched an eyebrow.
“And you will speak to me as I see fit.” He tugged, and the remainder of the buttons popped off, rolling across the floor. Haytham shoved the waistcoat open, and as Connor was now actively struggling to get his coat off, he picked up his pace, hooking his index finger into the top of his son’s shirt and pressing down. More buttons hit the ground, and it was with some satisfaction that Haytham noted that even if he couldn’t keep the boy in the outfits he’d picked out, his current wear would likely be unusable at this point.
What happened next, though, was... most curious.
Haytham pressed his hands against Connor’s bare chest to push the shirt off his shoulders, and the boy made a very interesting sound--a strangled sigh is what he would call it. It gave him pause and made his eyebrows lift. His son seemed to realize what had just happened, and he snarled, eyes flashing like a cornered beast. “Remove your hands, father.”
Oh, but how could he? Haytham found this to be an excellent discovery, and to torment Connor all the more, he dragged his nails lightly against his skin, teased a nipple. While this had not been his original intention, Haytham was not unlearned in methods of breaking a man through... less conventional means. If he had an advantage, he was certainly going to use it to its fullest extent. “Have you genuinely never used your body like this before?”
“That--” Ah. The boy’s breath hitched. “--is none of your concern.”
“But isn’t it? I am your father, for better or for worse.”
This sort of sensitivity could surely only be achieved by one who’d never been touched before. Filing away that little tidbit of information, Haytham removed his hands and folded them behind his back; the smug smile he wore didn’t move an inch though. “I will ask you once more: get rid of this horrible outfit.
“The maid has prepared a number of other ones for you in the wardrobe.”
Connor seemed to regain some of his senses when he did not have warm hands pressed against his skin, and he huffed, face twisting into an angry expression. At last, he worked the sleeves of his coat off his arms; the robe fell to the ground with a soft thump. “And if I do not?”
“If you do not?” Haytham seemed to consider this for a moment, taking an idle step away from his son, before rounding quite suddenly on him, stepping right into his space. His hand swung low and grabbed at his groin--squeezed; Connor whined, teeth grit. He leaned in close, his breath hot against the boy’s ear. “Are you so sure you wish to find out?
“Don’t make me repeat myself any more than you have. Get dressed,” he muttered before stepping back and away from the boy. Haytham gave his son one last disapproving look before exiting the room, a warm shiver running down his spine.