Author note: This was much faster than I thought it would be. So, here, have some intense prologue, because I am apparently incapable of writing PWP 8| Much smut will forrow once I sate my need to write EVERYTHING.
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Appreciation
Prologue
Hares eating in the bushes would sit up on their haunches and then irritably hop away from the approaching soft thump of hooves on the trail. Their movement barely caused a rustle in the undergrowth, yet still each and every one of the little creatures were spotted. A stroke of luck in the ruthless wilderness perhaps – the usually attentive dark eyes watching them were glazed over and unfocused.
Connor didn't feel well. He was so exhausted his shoulders were slumping and his seat was anything but light and easy on the Indian pony that stubbornly carried him through anything asked. The spotty little horse was also a very wise animal and there was no doubt that it knew that the human was ill.
”Connor, are you really feeling well?” It wasn't the first time Stephane had spoken that very same question during their ride to the Homestead. Every time Connor had given him the same reply, and as the good recruit he was, Stephane had quieted down. Until he repeated the question again.
Connor looked over to the French man riding next to him, realizing the light frown and narrow eyes for the sign of worry they were. He was right to question Connor, but the worry was not needed. The pain and fatigue would pass, just like every other time.
”I am fine.” His reply was short and clipped, and Connor tried to hurry his mount on so that he didn't need to see the looks that his recruit was giving him. He had no luck, truly the old man had been right when he had called the pony a 'stubborn mule' and right then and there had named the little stallion Terco.
Now ridden and trained, Terco was showing signs of what was the cause of his name. He refused to even acknowledge the careful squeeze of legs around his flank, much like he had done earlier when he suddenly had dropped from the rocking canter to a slow trot and refused to lope again.
Connor sighed and gave up. Any further movement sent pain shooting from his side down his stiff leg and sore abdomen. And then he was experiencing another kind of pain as well – the kind that would cause tenseness and nausea the very moment he remembered that his mentor was gone and that no one would harp at him about muddy boots once he arrived at the mansion.
”Well, I am not intending to offend, but you look a little pale.” Stephane had no problems with keeping up with them – the buckskin mare he rode was eagerly trotting along as usual.
”Perhaps I am turning white.” There was no humour in his tone even though it was an attempt at a joke. Connor had never really been good at entertaining others with jokes, nor did he pick up on them himself. It showed. The slumped riding and labored breathing definitely didn't help. Still - out of politeness or just thanks to his own detail rich imagination – Stephane grinned widely.
”I do not think that is possible.”
Connor hoped the conversation would end there. He was attempting to fight the waves of nausea that came over him as he rocked in the saddle. Excellent balance was important for an assassin. Connor rode without stirrups because he needed none and they were troublesome. Now he found himself wishing for something to keep him from slipping from side to side. It made him uneasy, surely staying in the saddle had never been this difficult. It was as if everything around him was shifting along with the slow gait they moved in. The greenery had turned into a messy colorful blur and the skilled hunter would only manage to catch glimpses of fleeing wildlife.
A mess, that is what he was, and what their mission had been. Stephane had showed up in Lexington no questions asked when Connor sent for him. He would have gone alone, but the condition of his leg and his side had made him rethink the decision. The wound from the shattered wood splinter had closed up, but the scarring remained irritably red and warm to touch. Doctor White had told him to spend weeks resting, that he must take care of his health. There was no time for rest, not while there was still work to be done. The war came to an end, but the troubled remains of struggle still existed. The band of redcoats camping near the small spring on the Great Piece hills was proof of that. They had turned raiders, killing locals around the hunting shack and attacking carts on the road just outside of Lexington.
There had been no other choice but to end their raiding then and there. Connor had tracked them to their camp easily, then sent for reinforcements in form of his first recruit. Stephane had been cheerful and happy to see him, it seemed. Together they defeated the group of military-turned-bandits. Connor had found himself slow and in pain, the battle went on around him in a flurry of colors. The magical ring from the treasure had protected him from the volley of bullets that nearly took him down. He had made mistakes in battle before, but none like this. Moving felt like swimming against the river stream, and the constant ache spreading from his side made him stiff and slow.
He let Stephane take the lead as they rode up on the narrow path that ran beside a steep edge. Soon they would be back on Homestead land. Then Connor could finally go down to the river and get his painful scar cooled down. The chilly running water numbed the pain slightly, and then he could continue with the chores before he would need to sit down. Perhaps he would have to stay in the water for a longer swim than usual this time – his outfit had became uncomfortably hot on one side and he could feel how sweat made the fabric cling to his skin and causing a horrible feeling of chafing.
”Ey Connor, do you think we could spend the evening at the inn? I hear they serve good spirits here!”
Stephane's voice had a strange muffled quality to it. It did not make much sense to Connor, but he started to recognize the surroundings again through the blur. There was Dave's smithy and stable building. They would soon pass the inn. As hard as he tried to remember Connor had no memory of even entering the valley. They were much further along than he had thought. And everything was wrong and crooked.
Terco came to a gentle halt. Annoyed Connor reached out to gently bring the reins against the pony and realized he was sitting halfway out of the saddle, leaning heavily to the left. He was going to fall and there was nothing that could help him-
”Connor?”
He grabbed hold of the pommel at the last moment and heaved himself back into the saddle with the little strength he had left. The movement sent such intense pain exploding from his side that Connor had to bite his lip to not yelp out loud. He couldn't make Stephane any more suspicious. The former cook was already turning the buckskin mare back around to figure out what was keeping his mentor.
”Terco...” Connor's breath escaped like a hiss between his teeth. A turned dark ear was all the attention he received from the pony.
”Terco? Is that the name of your horse?” Stephane had returned to them now, curiously looking at the colorful pony that was all too wise for its own good. Connor took the moment to steady himself and breathe deeply for a little while.
”Yes. Achillies named him. He said it means 'stubborn animal'.”
Stephane grinned at him again, this time chuckling a little even as he patted the mare he was riding.
”It is fitting. Did the old man name the other horses too?”
Connor felt a stab of sadness in his abdomen added in with the dull ache from his side. Yes, Achillies had named his horse. The chestnut roan Duchess he would always tend to every morning as if a sacred rite. She had been one of the few things the old man held precious still. He would talk to the horses, grumble and swat at them with his walking stick when they got too affectionate, and then sigh softly and run his old, crooked fingers through their silken manes.
”He named his horse, yes. The mare you are riding was purchased solely to be a carriage horse. Her name is Little Miss Fortuna.”
”Really? Merde, whoever named you my lady, had poor taste.”
Just then Terco finally relented and took a few steps. Walk was the only pace the little stallion would give. Connor did not have the energy to fight him; he knew he was powerless. Stephane did not seem to mind the change to a slower gait as he busied his hands in the dark mane of his mount and muttered something to her in French. As usual she listened well, her ears curiously flickering back and forth.
Connor did not let go of the saddle pommel. He feared he would slip again. Falling off the pony would certainly rouse the worry of his companion, so he held on as well as he could. The sticky moisture was getting worse under his coat, and now he was feeling sweat bead on his brow as well, even though he wasn't very warm anywhere but his side. In fact he was feeling slightly chilly.
They followed the path down through the settlement, passing the inn and the carpenter workshop. Someone greeted them loudly from the little bowls game square, and Connor heard Stephane reply through the haze. The sounds from the settlement were hollow and muffled. The only sound Connor could really focus on was the soft, heavy thumps coming from under him as Terco walked, and even the sound of hooves against ground would echo oddly. The sound of the river and the sawmill blended together much like the colors around them. Connor tried to catch the scent of fresh woodwork, but it was as if his chest was weighed down and all he managed to do was taking small shallow breaths that made him feel dizzy.
And then the enormous bell atop of the church started ringing. The sound struck Connor like the heavy boarding axe of a scot and he tried to wince away from the intense pain it caused. All movement stopped and Connor watched as his faithful pony turned its head towards him and clamped its teeth around his pant leg to slow his fall. He was sitting badly again, leaning to one side. The warm, wet feeling had bloomed all over his side, exactly where his coat had turned bright red. That bloodstain had not been there after the battle.
The last thing he saw was the blue sky as he slowly started to slip despite Terco attempting to keep him in the saddle. Connor fell. The bell kept ringing above him, and now the terrified voice of Stephane had joined in.
"Appreciation" - Prologue
have some intense prologue, because I am apparently incapable of writing
PWP 8| Much smut will forrow once I sate my need to write EVERYTHING.
--------------------
Appreciation
Prologue
Hares eating in the bushes would sit up on their haunches and then irritably hop away from the approaching soft thump of hooves on the trail. Their movement barely caused a rustle in the undergrowth, yet still each and every one of the little creatures were spotted. A stroke of luck in the ruthless wilderness perhaps – the usually attentive dark eyes watching them were glazed over and unfocused.
Connor didn't feel well. He was so exhausted his shoulders were slumping and his seat was anything but light and easy on the Indian pony that stubbornly carried him through anything asked. The spotty little horse was also a very wise animal and there was no doubt that it knew that the human was ill.
”Connor, are you really feeling well?” It wasn't the first time Stephane had spoken that very same question during their ride to the Homestead. Every time Connor had given him the same reply, and as the good recruit he was, Stephane had quieted down. Until he repeated the question again.
Connor looked over to the French man riding next to him, realizing the light frown and narrow eyes for the sign of worry they were. He was right to question Connor, but the worry was not needed. The pain and fatigue would pass, just like every other time.
”I am fine.” His reply was short and clipped, and Connor tried to hurry his mount on so that he didn't need to see the looks that his recruit was giving him. He had no luck, truly the old man had been right when he had called the pony a 'stubborn mule' and right then and there had named the little stallion Terco.
Now ridden and trained, Terco was showing signs of what was the cause of his name. He refused to even acknowledge the careful squeeze of legs around his flank, much like he had done earlier when he suddenly had dropped from the rocking canter to a slow trot and refused to lope again.
Connor sighed and gave up. Any further movement sent pain shooting from his side down his stiff leg and sore abdomen. And then he was experiencing another kind of pain as well – the kind that would cause tenseness and nausea the very moment he remembered that his mentor was gone and that no one would harp at him about muddy boots once he arrived at the mansion.
”Well, I am not intending to offend, but you look a little pale.” Stephane had no problems with keeping up with them – the buckskin mare he rode was eagerly trotting along as usual.
”Perhaps I am turning white.” There was no humour in his tone even though it was an attempt at a joke. Connor had never really been good at entertaining others with jokes, nor did he pick up on them himself. It showed. The slumped riding and labored breathing definitely didn't help. Still - out of politeness or just thanks to his own detail rich imagination – Stephane grinned widely.
”I do not think that is possible.”
Connor hoped the conversation would end there. He was attempting to fight the waves of nausea that came over him as he rocked in the saddle. Excellent balance was important for an assassin. Connor rode without stirrups because he needed none and they were troublesome. Now he found himself wishing for something to keep him from slipping from side to side. It made him uneasy, surely staying in the saddle had never been this difficult. It was as if everything around him was shifting along with the slow gait they moved in. The greenery had turned into a messy colorful blur and the skilled hunter would only manage to catch glimpses of fleeing wildlife.
A mess, that is what he was, and what their mission had been. Stephane had showed up in Lexington no questions asked when Connor sent for him. He would have gone alone, but the condition of his leg and his side had made him rethink the decision. The wound from the shattered wood splinter had closed up, but the scarring remained irritably red and warm to touch. Doctor White had told him to spend weeks resting, that he must take care of his health. There was no time for rest, not while there was still work to be done. The war came to an end, but the troubled remains of struggle still existed. The band of redcoats camping near the small spring on the Great Piece hills was proof of that. They had turned raiders, killing locals around the hunting shack and attacking carts on the road just outside of Lexington.
There had been no other choice but to end their raiding then and there. Connor had tracked them to their camp easily, then sent for reinforcements in form of his first recruit. Stephane had been cheerful and happy to see him, it seemed. Together they defeated the group of military-turned-bandits. Connor had found himself slow and in pain, the battle went on around him in a flurry of colors. The magical ring from the treasure had protected him from the volley of bullets that nearly took him down. He had made mistakes in battle before, but none like this. Moving felt like swimming against the river stream, and the constant ache spreading from his side made him stiff and slow.
He let Stephane take the lead as they rode up on the narrow path that ran beside a steep edge. Soon they would be back on Homestead land. Then Connor could finally go down to the river and get his painful scar cooled down. The chilly running water numbed the pain slightly, and then he could continue with the chores before he would need to sit down. Perhaps he would have to stay in the water for a longer swim than usual this time – his outfit had became uncomfortably hot on one side and he could feel how sweat made the fabric cling to his skin and causing a horrible feeling of chafing.
”Ey Connor, do you think we could spend the evening at the inn? I hear they serve good spirits here!”
Stephane's voice had a strange muffled quality to it. It did not make much sense to Connor, but he started to recognize the surroundings again through the blur. There was Dave's smithy and stable building. They would soon pass the inn. As hard as he tried to remember Connor had no memory of even entering the valley. They were much further along than he had thought. And everything was wrong and crooked.
Terco came to a gentle halt. Annoyed Connor reached out to gently bring the reins against the pony and realized he was sitting halfway out of the saddle, leaning heavily to the left. He was going to fall and there was nothing that could help him-
”Connor?”
He grabbed hold of the pommel at the last moment and heaved himself back into the saddle with the little strength he had left. The movement sent such intense pain exploding from his side that Connor had to bite his lip to not yelp out loud. He couldn't make Stephane any more suspicious. The former cook was already turning the buckskin mare back around to figure out what was keeping his mentor.
”Terco...” Connor's breath escaped like a hiss between his teeth. A turned dark ear was all the attention he received from the pony.
”Terco? Is that the name of your horse?” Stephane had returned to them now, curiously looking at the colorful pony that was all too wise for its own good. Connor took the moment to steady himself and breathe deeply for a little while.
”Yes. Achillies named him. He said it means 'stubborn animal'.”
Stephane grinned at him again, this time chuckling a little even as he patted the mare he was riding.
”It is fitting. Did the old man name the other horses too?”
Connor felt a stab of sadness in his abdomen added in with the dull ache from his side. Yes, Achillies had named his horse. The chestnut roan Duchess he would always tend to every morning as if a sacred rite. She had been one of the few things the old man held precious still. He would talk to the horses, grumble and swat at them with his walking stick when they got too affectionate, and then sigh softly and run his old, crooked fingers through their silken manes.
”He named his horse, yes. The mare you are riding was purchased solely to be a carriage horse. Her name is Little Miss Fortuna.”
”Really? Merde, whoever named you my lady, had poor taste.”
Just then Terco finally relented and took a few steps. Walk was the only pace the little stallion would give. Connor did not have the energy to fight him; he knew he was powerless. Stephane did not seem to mind the change to a slower gait as he busied his hands in the dark mane of his mount and muttered something to her in French. As usual she listened well, her ears curiously flickering back and forth.
Connor did not let go of the saddle pommel. He feared he would slip again. Falling off the pony would certainly rouse the worry of his companion, so he held on as well as he could. The sticky moisture was getting worse under his coat, and now he was feeling sweat bead on his brow as well, even though he wasn't very warm anywhere but his side. In fact he was feeling slightly chilly.
They followed the path down through the settlement, passing the inn and the carpenter workshop. Someone greeted them loudly from the little bowls game square, and Connor heard Stephane reply through the haze. The sounds from the settlement were hollow and muffled. The only sound Connor could really focus on was the soft, heavy thumps coming from under him as Terco walked, and even the sound of hooves against ground would echo oddly. The sound of the river and the sawmill blended together much like the colors around them. Connor tried to catch the scent of fresh woodwork, but it was as if his chest was weighed down and all he managed to do was taking small shallow breaths that made him feel dizzy.
And then the enormous bell atop of the church started ringing. The sound struck Connor like the heavy boarding axe of a scot and he tried to wince away from the intense pain it caused. All movement stopped and Connor watched as his faithful pony turned its head towards him and clamped its teeth around his pant leg to slow his fall. He was sitting badly again, leaning to one side. The warm, wet feeling had bloomed all over his side, exactly where his coat had turned bright red. That bloodstain had not been there after the battle.
The last thing he saw was the blue sky as he slowly started to slip despite Terco attempting to keep him in the saddle. Connor fell. The bell kept ringing above him, and now the terrified voice of Stephane had joined in.
”Connor!”