Silence. Checkmate. They'd been arguing over this for hours, and had finally come to a more civil volume.
"It'll be a waste of time. Don't get upset if it doesn't prove fruitful."
A warning that wouldn't be taken lightly.
"I won't. I'll see you soon, old man!"
A promise and the sound of hooves dashing the ground. Achilles could only hope that Connor wouldn't return to them in worse condition than last time.
***
Water was dripping down his collar again. Connor supposed it was because he had the first few buttons of his waistcoat and shirt undone, allowing a small glimpse of his chest, his necklace sitting like a possessive claw above it. Despite Ellen's best efforts, they hadn't managed to fasten them, even after she'd let out the seams. He resisted the urge to squirm as the cool droplets slid over his stomach and soaked the waistband of his trousers. It was only a mild discomfort. He could stand it.
His wings were tightly tucked against his body, a heavy cape pinned to his shoulders disguising them as a hump in his back and keeping them dry. Connor yanked on it to cover his chest, the textured black fabric helping him melt into the shadows as a crippled beggar, damaged by the war and begging for alms. Putting on a false limp, Connor ignored the jeers and insults as he passed by the door of a tavern, and circled the building to arrive at the temporary encampment on the other side. A certain figure caught his eyes, tucked away to the side.
He snarled. Haytham. Father. Why was he at such an insignificant camp? The tall, enigmatic figure of his father was partially hidden by shadow, sheltering under the ledge of a nearby building as he spoke to whom Connor assumed was the captain. A glimpse of matching rings told Connor all he needed to know. The Templars were attempting to seize control of the district once more. Connor had to warn his brethren to deal with it before it got out of hand. Dobby would be up for it - she always had enjoyed knocking a few heads together, especially idiotic men.
He ducked his own head to shake some of the water from his hood and was about to leave when the ledge shadow moved. Connor froze, staring, realising that if he was currently sitting in the gloom then the weak sun couldn't possibly be casting shade over Haytham as well. The angle was completely wrong.
He stared longer, thinking it could have been his imagination, and suddenly it moved again, twitching in a very familiar manner. The outline of the shape became clearer as it folded into an arch, disturbing the thick wool of Haytham's coat, and the light caught the edge of one of the shapes and the black exploded into jewel-like colours, reflecting the sun into emeralds and sapphires with flecks of amber. It wasn't a pure black - more grey, now that he looked at it closely, maybe natural, maybe from age - and the undersides were mottled with cream and brown stripes. Connor reluctantly admitted to himself that it was rather beautiful.
It was also obvious. Connor had to find out how Haytham was hiding it - there was a small chance that the captain was aware of the extra limbs extending from Haytham's body, however that chance evaporated as soon as one considered the few citizens that had braved the seasonal downpour went past without a second glance. (Well, there were second glances, but it wasn't for the wings. Connor couldn't deny that his father was a handsome man.) Neither they nor the captain seemed to notice.
Shifting his wings under his cape, Connor could only watch on in envy as Haytham stretched and flexed his wings, letting them fluff and move and generally be comfortable. Connor had learned the hard way that his wings had come with an ingrained instinct to express his emotions, sometimes spreading to their full span if he was invested in the topic at hand. They also ached if he had to keep them perfectly still for long periods of time.
Haytham turned to leave the captain with one wing carelessly brushing his subordinate's face. The man shivered.
"Are you cold?" asked Haytham, his deep tone clear as the wind changed direction.
"No, sir. Someone walked over my grave, sir."
'Interesting,' thought Connor, 'I wonder if all of the "grave-shivers" are caused by wings?'
Haytham slipped down the alleyway opposite, and Connor took to the rooves. He would find out how Haytham deflected the attention. When Connor had seen Haytham before, Connor certainly hadn't spotted any wings. Maybe it was different now that he had his own? The trick that Haytham used might not be effective on other winged beings. Whatever it was, it was good, and Connor desperately needed to know so he could continue his work.
***
As expected, it would be quite unlike Haytham to give up the secret so easily. Connor dropped from the rooftop, slamming his hand into the vulnerable flesh at the base of the wing in hopes that he might daze Haytham for a moment, if not dislocate the socket entirely (and hadn't that been a delightful education in pain when Achilles had discovered the weak spot, exploited it, then popped Connor's wing back in.) However the muscled cords that wove around the base were thick and strong with age, and the wing wasn't shifting quite as easily, despite a promising pop. Given a few more moments and Connor was sure he would have had it from it's socket.
But he didn't have that long with Haytham and Connor found himself thrown into the wall, then delivered to the ground with a sweeping kick under his feet. He cursed inwardly - his balance was off, but he didn't want to reveal his secret to Haytham yet. He felt too heavy at the back. Connor rolled and narrowly dodged the knife that embedded itself into the mud where his head had been. He lunged, knocking the second knife from Haytham's hand, and landed a square punch before being tossed to the ground again.
"This had better not be about Charles. My dear boy, you are in very poor fighting condition - were you sick? Or have you simply lost your nerve? I can't say that I've seen worse balance than on the greenest soldiers."
Haytham tilted his head in an avian manner. His eyes swept over Connor's body, taking in the cloak, the slightly hollow face, and the awkward back arch Connor was trying to keep.
"It is not about Charles," spat Connor. "It's about an inheritance."
"I deal in many, keeping them safe, so unless you're a little more specific -" replied Haytham, trailing off.
He planted his foot on Connor's chest and pushed down. With that sort of force, it was impossible for Connor to keep his wings tucked up as they were, instead splaying enough so he was lying flat. Connor gasped, feeling them shift, and tried to pull them back but with his father's foot still firmly on him there was no room to do so. A smirk appeared on Haytham's lips.
"Of course. Your inheritance. Your only inheritance, mind you, the rest belongs to the Templars or a distant cousin. Not entirely my choosing, but then again you don't exist on paper."
Flipping the cloak's hem from Connor's body, the wings were revealed, and the pleasure at this development was clear upon Haytham's face.
"You are so much like your mother, yet these," he gestured to the wings, "These are the mark of a true Kenway child."
Kenway. He was nothing but Kenway. Connor was doubtful that Haytham even remembered Kaniehtí:io's face after this many years. The attempt Haytham was making to soothe Connor was disgusting, implying that he could barely be physically recognised as kin, insulting the memory of a dead woman. A diversionary tactic.
Connor snarled, trying to get up, but Haytham kept firm, his patterned wings flapping to maintain the pressure and stay balanced. Mud was soaking into his feathers, through his clothes, and not only was it cold, but it reeked of human and animal waste. Carefully, avoiding the wild fists Connor was throwing at him, Haytham pulled at a wing, stretching it as far sideways as he could. Those dark hazel eyes never left Connor's body, judging every thought and expression, calculating and extrapolating upon the variables his mind presented. He followed the sharp snapping motion Connor's wing made as his son finally found the strength to pull away.
"They're not much more than two months old," Haytham murmured, "Core strength is still building, span is broad but short feathers, reminiscent of a migratory raptor, capable of above average speed, although your strength lies in the endurance of flight. Curious."
As Haytham removed his foot, Connor lurched up to face his father standing, raising a hand to block an incoming blow. Now that he wasn't concerned about keeping them hidden, his wings spread, lifting the cloak up. Clutching at the fastening with his other hand, Connor tore the fabric off to let it fall in the mud.
"And what exactly are you?" he snarled.
"Falcon. Peregrine," replied Haytham. "I thought it would have been clear from the markings."
Ah, another white man's name for some poor bird.
"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
Haytham took a step back, bending his knees as if ready to pounce, immediately putting Connor on the defence.
"It means that if I were inclined to leave you behind - " His wings stroked the air with power Connor hadn't quite expected, launching Haytham into the air, " - you would not be able to catch up."
His cloak was whipped this way and that by the wind his wings generated, and Connor swore as Haytham caught an updraft and glided over several streets before dropping of of sight entirely. The man had the advantage in crowded landscapes, not to mention a superb vertical take-off, years of experience, and probably proper guidance from other Kenways. Connor slammed his fist against the lumber of a solid cottage squeezed in between two brick buildings. Begrudgingly he collected his cape, made even more unpleasant by the mud soaked into the heavy fabric.
Achilles had been right - this trip had been a waste of time and he was still no closer to getting back into the field. There wasn't even the slightest chance that Connor would be able to find his father now. On alert, the man didn't allow people to follow him. Those who did tended to end up at the bottom of a river or bled out in a dark corner behind a fence. Haytham's mind screamed "Templar", but his body ignored it, revealing his Assassin origin. Connor didn't place too much on Haytham returning. The older man did have a knack for running away from confrontation - he was never there when you needed him and always there when you didn't. Stupid man.
Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 6/?
"I'm going!"
"No!"
"I need to know how to to use them."
Silence. Checkmate. They'd been arguing over this for hours, and had finally come to a more civil volume.
"It'll be a waste of time. Don't get upset if it doesn't prove fruitful."
A warning that wouldn't be taken lightly.
"I won't. I'll see you soon, old man!"
A promise and the sound of hooves dashing the ground. Achilles could only hope that Connor wouldn't return to them in worse condition than last time.
***
Water was dripping down his collar again. Connor supposed it was because he had the first few buttons of his waistcoat and shirt undone, allowing a small glimpse of his chest, his necklace sitting like a possessive claw above it. Despite Ellen's best efforts, they hadn't managed to fasten them, even after she'd let out the seams. He resisted the urge to squirm as the cool droplets slid over his stomach and soaked the waistband of his trousers. It was only a mild discomfort. He could stand it.
His wings were tightly tucked against his body, a heavy cape pinned to his shoulders disguising them as a hump in his back and keeping them dry. Connor yanked on it to cover his chest, the textured black fabric helping him melt into the shadows as a crippled beggar, damaged by the war and begging for alms. Putting on a false limp, Connor ignored the jeers and insults as he passed by the door of a tavern, and circled the building to arrive at the temporary encampment on the other side. A certain figure caught his eyes, tucked away to the side.
He snarled. Haytham. Father. Why was he at such an insignificant camp? The tall, enigmatic figure of his father was partially hidden by shadow, sheltering under the ledge of a nearby building as he spoke to whom Connor assumed was the captain. A glimpse of matching rings told Connor all he needed to know. The Templars were attempting to seize control of the district once more. Connor had to warn his brethren to deal with it before it got out of hand. Dobby would be up for it - she always had enjoyed knocking a few heads together, especially idiotic men.
He ducked his own head to shake some of the water from his hood and was about to leave when the ledge shadow moved. Connor froze, staring, realising that if he was currently sitting in the gloom then the weak sun couldn't possibly be casting shade over Haytham as well. The angle was completely wrong.
He stared longer, thinking it could have been his imagination, and suddenly it moved again, twitching in a very familiar manner. The outline of the shape became clearer as it folded into an arch, disturbing the thick wool of Haytham's coat, and the light caught the edge of one of the shapes and the black exploded into jewel-like colours, reflecting the sun into emeralds and sapphires with flecks of amber. It wasn't a pure black - more grey, now that he looked at it closely, maybe natural, maybe from age - and the undersides were mottled with cream and brown stripes. Connor reluctantly admitted to himself that it was rather beautiful.
It was also obvious. Connor had to find out how Haytham was hiding it - there was a small chance that the captain was aware of the extra limbs extending from Haytham's body, however that chance evaporated as soon as one considered the few citizens that had braved the seasonal downpour went past without a second glance. (Well, there were second glances, but it wasn't for the wings. Connor couldn't deny that his father was a handsome man.) Neither they nor the captain seemed to notice.
Shifting his wings under his cape, Connor could only watch on in envy as Haytham stretched and flexed his wings, letting them fluff and move and generally be comfortable. Connor had learned the hard way that his wings had come with an ingrained instinct to express his emotions, sometimes spreading to their full span if he was invested in the topic at hand. They also ached if he had to keep them perfectly still for long periods of time.
Haytham turned to leave the captain with one wing carelessly brushing his subordinate's face. The man shivered.
"Are you cold?" asked Haytham, his deep tone clear as the wind changed direction.
"No, sir. Someone walked over my grave, sir."
'Interesting,' thought Connor, 'I wonder if all of the "grave-shivers" are caused by wings?'
Haytham slipped down the alleyway opposite, and Connor took to the rooves. He would find out how Haytham deflected the attention. When Connor had seen Haytham before, Connor certainly hadn't spotted any wings. Maybe it was different now that he had his own? The trick that Haytham used might not be effective on other winged beings. Whatever it was, it was good, and Connor desperately needed to know so he could continue his work.
***
As expected, it would be quite unlike Haytham to give up the secret so easily. Connor dropped from the rooftop, slamming his hand into the vulnerable flesh at the base of the wing in hopes that he might daze Haytham for a moment, if not dislocate the socket entirely (and hadn't that been a delightful education in pain when Achilles had discovered the weak spot, exploited it, then popped Connor's wing back in.) However the muscled cords that wove around the base were thick and strong with age, and the wing wasn't shifting quite as easily, despite a promising pop. Given a few more moments and Connor was sure he would have had it from it's socket.
But he didn't have that long with Haytham and Connor found himself thrown into the wall, then delivered to the ground with a sweeping kick under his feet. He cursed inwardly - his balance was off, but he didn't want to reveal his secret to Haytham yet. He felt too heavy at the back. Connor rolled and narrowly dodged the knife that embedded itself into the mud where his head had been. He lunged, knocking the second knife from Haytham's hand, and landed a square punch before being tossed to the ground again.
"This had better not be about Charles. My dear boy, you are in very poor fighting condition - were you sick? Or have you simply lost your nerve? I can't say that I've seen worse balance than on the greenest soldiers."
Haytham tilted his head in an avian manner. His eyes swept over Connor's body, taking in the cloak, the slightly hollow face, and the awkward back arch Connor was trying to keep.
"It is not about Charles," spat Connor. "It's about an inheritance."
"I deal in many, keeping them safe, so unless you're a little more specific -" replied Haytham, trailing off.
He planted his foot on Connor's chest and pushed down. With that sort of force, it was impossible for Connor to keep his wings tucked up as they were, instead splaying enough so he was lying flat. Connor gasped, feeling them shift, and tried to pull them back but with his father's foot still firmly on him there was no room to do so. A smirk appeared on Haytham's lips.
"Of course. Your inheritance. Your only inheritance, mind you, the rest belongs to the Templars or a distant cousin. Not entirely my choosing, but then again you don't exist on paper."
Flipping the cloak's hem from Connor's body, the wings were revealed, and the pleasure at this development was clear upon Haytham's face.
"You are so much like your mother, yet these," he gestured to the wings, "These are the mark of a true Kenway child."
Kenway. He was nothing but Kenway. Connor was doubtful that Haytham even remembered Kaniehtí:io's face after this many years. The attempt Haytham was making to soothe Connor was disgusting, implying that he could barely be physically recognised as kin, insulting the memory of a dead woman. A diversionary tactic.
Connor snarled, trying to get up, but Haytham kept firm, his patterned wings flapping to maintain the pressure and stay balanced. Mud was soaking into his feathers, through his clothes, and not only was it cold, but it reeked of human and animal waste. Carefully, avoiding the wild fists Connor was throwing at him, Haytham pulled at a wing, stretching it as far sideways as he could. Those dark hazel eyes never left Connor's body, judging every thought and expression, calculating and extrapolating upon the variables his mind presented. He followed the sharp snapping motion Connor's wing made as his son finally found the strength to pull away.
"They're not much more than two months old," Haytham murmured, "Core strength is still building, span is broad but short feathers, reminiscent of a migratory raptor, capable of above average speed, although your strength lies in the endurance of flight. Curious."
As Haytham removed his foot, Connor lurched up to face his father standing, raising a hand to block an incoming blow. Now that he wasn't concerned about keeping them hidden, his wings spread, lifting the cloak up. Clutching at the fastening with his other hand, Connor tore the fabric off to let it fall in the mud.
"And what exactly are you?" he snarled.
"Falcon. Peregrine," replied Haytham. "I thought it would have been clear from the markings."
Ah, another white man's name for some poor bird.
"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
Haytham took a step back, bending his knees as if ready to pounce, immediately putting Connor on the defence.
"It means that if I were inclined to leave you behind - " His wings stroked the air with power Connor hadn't quite expected, launching Haytham into the air, " - you would not be able to catch up."
His cloak was whipped this way and that by the wind his wings generated, and Connor swore as Haytham caught an updraft and glided over several streets before dropping of of sight entirely. The man had the advantage in crowded landscapes, not to mention a superb vertical take-off, years of experience, and probably proper guidance from other Kenways. Connor slammed his fist against the lumber of a solid cottage squeezed in between two brick buildings. Begrudgingly he collected his cape, made even more unpleasant by the mud soaked into the heavy fabric.
Achilles had been right - this trip had been a waste of time and he was still no closer to getting back into the field. There wasn't even the slightest chance that Connor would be able to find his father now. On alert, the man didn't allow people to follow him. Those who did tended to end up at the bottom of a river or bled out in a dark corner behind a fence. Haytham's mind screamed "Templar", but his body ignored it, revealing his Assassin origin. Connor didn't place too much on Haytham returning. The older man did have a knack for running away from confrontation - he was never there when you needed him and always there when you didn't. Stupid man.