They reach New York before the first light of dawn.
Desmond is practically hanging out the side of the carriage, taking in the sights and smells of the city he knows and loves. No place has ever felt more like home to him than New York, and even though this version of New York is not the city he knows, it is still his city. He takes in the sights of the brownstones, four stories tall at the most and smiles.
“Home sweet home,” Desmond says, and Ezio cocks an eyebrow at him.
“You lived here?”
“Yeah, for a while. I tended bar at Bad Weather, just off of 48th. Course, I'm sure that nothing is there right now but a townhouse... still, this is my city. Just an early version of it. In my time, it is known as the Big Apple.”
Ezio gives him a strange look.
“Because of an artifact?”
“Actually, in a round about way, I think so. New York was – er, will be – famous for horse races at about the turn of the 20th century. The templars kinda ran the whole gambit, and the prize for a winning horse was a golden apple. Not a real Apple of Eden, of course, but the symbolism was definitely there.”
“Well, it is a beautiful city, my friend. Despite the unfortunate nick name,” Ezio responds.
Desmond offers him a half smile.
They ride in silence for a short while, watching as street vendors set up stalls along the side of the streets and shop owners sweep off their front steps. The print shops are amongst the first to open, and newspaper sellers start to line the streets. The sun is just starting to break the horizon when they arrive in the center of town, where a gallows is already set up and people are starting to gather. Achilles orders the coachman to pull the carriage to the side of the street, and motions to the two of them as they exit.
“Gonna be a lot of people here,” the old man says, indicating the ever-growing crowd. “I never understood why people want to watch this kind of thing. You'd think they'd have better things to do.”
Ezio frowns, folding his arms defensively in front of himself.
“I am in agreement, signore,” Ezio says, his voice tight. “The times may change, but people do not. It is as barbaric now as it was in my time.”
Desmond turns, catches Ezio's eye, and puts a hand on his shoulder.
“You gonna be okay, buddy? I mean, you're a better shot with a bow than I am, but if this is going to be hard, I can --”
“I will be fine, Desmond,” Ezio cuts him off abruptly in a tone that leaves no room for argument. Desmond gives the Italian a wary look. He knows how this has got to be affecting the other man, he has lived his life through the animus after all. But he recognizes the stubborn tilt to the Italian's chin, as well as the silent plea in the man's eyes.
'Don't speak of it, mio caro. I will do what I must.'
“Is there a problem, men?” Achilles asks, his eyes focusing on each of them in turn.
Ezio huffs and adjusts his bow and quiver so that they are laying flat against his back.
“None, signore. I will find a window, yes?”
And without waiting for an answer, Ezio turns and melts into the crowd. Before long, he is gone from sight, and Desmond feels his heart beat a little faster with anxiety and concern for the man.
“His family, you know... his brothers and his father... he watched them all hang,” Desmond tells Achilles, running his hand through his hair.
“He is a master assassin,” Achilles responds after a quiet moment. “One does not get that title without learning how to separate his heart from his head. Still... I will keep an eye on him, if I can. You need to get in position. If all goes well, I will see you both back on the homestead in a few days. If it doesn't... ”
Achilles trails off with a shrug.
Desmond nods grimly, acknowledging what Achilles says as well as what he doesn't.
'If it doesn't, I will kill you both.'
Haytham feels naked without his hat and his cloak, but it is best that he is not recognized in this crowd by either friend or foe. His heart races as he waits for them to arrive with the assassin – his son, he has a son – and he wonders what kind of man sends his own child to his death. He finds himself scanning the crowd, looking for Connor's recruits, hoping to find them. Surely, they won't let the boy die here today. Haytham expects to at least see the bald frenchman, but he is not to be found. In fact, the only one of Connor's ally's that he can see is Davenport, and he doubts that the old man is going to be much assistance to his son on his own.
There – a flash of white in a window – an archer. Not one of his, either. Good. Still...
Haytham wonders on the efficacy of an arrow against the tough rope of a noose, and his hand unconsciously tightens around the hilt of the dagger belted to his side.
It isn't long before the carriage containing his son appears, and Haytham watches as two red coats roughly pull Connor out of the back of it. Connor is filthy, barefoot and covered with bruises. Something in his chest tightens at the sight.
He blends in with the crowd, close enough to overhear, yet positioned carefully out of sight of his son and of his fellow templars.
“'Ello Connor,” Thomas Hickey says in his slow, cockney drawl. “Didn't think I'd miss your going away party, did ya? I hear Washington 'imself will be in attendance. Hope nothin' bad 'appens to him.”
“You said there'd be a trial!” Connor spits.
“Ah, no trial for traitors I'm afraid. Lee and Haytham saw to that. It's straight to the gallows for you!”
Haytham quietly swears to himself. And now Connor will know that it is he that condemned him. His own father would be turning in his grave, he was sure of it.
Still, he can't help but feel a bit of pride when Connor turns and meets Hickey's eyes with no fear and great conviction.
“I will not die today,” Connor promises. “The same cannot be said for you.”
Desmond easily and silently dispatches the few unlucky templar guards on the rooftops overlooking the gallows. No one appears to be paying any attention to him. He is sure that Connor can see him peripherally, but as the young assassin does not turn to look at him, Desmond feels secure in his anonymity. That feeling is tempered by the knowledge that he remembers being Connor, and being far too focused on the crowd and Charles Lee to take any notice of who, exactly, his backup was. Connor might have questions for Achilles later, but it is not Desmond's problem and he's not going to worry about it.
On the other side of the street, he can see Ezio with his bow, completely focused on Connor. Good. Another quick survey of the crowd shows Achilles inching quietly behind the gallows with Connor's tomahawk. Also good.
And then he searches the crowd itself, activating his second sight.
A man in gold is on the outskirts, clutching a dagger tightly in his right hand. Desmond shifts his focus once again, and sees Haytham, in plain clothes, without his hat and cloak.
Not good. Not fucking good at all.
Ezio's hands are sweating as he holds the bow in front of him, an arrow already set and ready to fire. He watches as they march Connor through the crowd of people, listens as they jeer and make racial slurs as he walks past. He's trying not to draw parallels in his mind with every step Connor takes towards the gallows in front of him, but it is hard to watch and not see. He feels the bile collecting in his throat, yet cannot turn his head away to spit it out, not even for a second.
Someone trips Connor and he falls to his knees. Ezio can see Achilles bend to whisper in his ear and help him up. He feels the hair raise on the back of his neck, as he has the sudden sensation of being watched –
Everyone in the crowd is focused on the gallows. Everyone except one person, and Ezio meets the eyes of the man that is watching him intensely from below.
Haytham. Merde.
Surely, the templar knows why he is positioned where he is, knows that he is there to prevent the execution of his son. For a moment, Ezio considers turning his bow on the templar. If Haytham gives him away, than Connor will die. Connor has to live, at all costs –
But the templar merely nods his head at Ezio, acknowledging his presence before turning towards where they are fitting Connor with the noose, one hand tightly wrapped around a dagger by his side.
Interesting.
If his own arrow fails to cut the rope than Haytham's dagger will succeed. Perhaps their mission isn't so hopeless after all, if the man is willing to protect his son. Ezio lets go of a breath that he didn't realize he was holding. Peripherally, he can see Desmond skate across the tops of the buildings, silently taking out the templar guards positioned on rooftops.
The templar by the gallows speaks, accuses Connor of being a traitor, of planning to murder George Washington, and Ezio tightens his hold on the bow, pulling the string back taught.
His heart races in his chest, and he tries to focus only on Connor, even as the sights and sounds of New York fade away, leaving the Palazzo della Signoria in its absence. All of a sudden it is his father and brothers up on the gallows, and he is not going to be fast enough, there is nothing he can do --
Ezio blinks away the illusion as Connor whistles, and allows the arrow to fly. It hits the rope just before Haytham's dagger, and Ezio takes a deep breath of relief as Connor falls and quickly reappears from beneath the gallows, armed with his tomahawk. There is pandemonium as Connor runs towards Thomas Hickey, yelling and screaming from the crowd as people run in every direction in confusion. He takes a deep breath and searches the crowd for Haytham, for Desmond –
– and finds them both together, Desmond pulling Haytham back away from the crowd by way of the hidden blade pressed against the older man's neck.
'Cazzo,' Ezio swears to himself. Desmond must have seen Haytham's dagger and come to the wrong conclusion. He throws himself out the window and climbs onto the roof, silently trailing where Desmond is dragging Haytham into a back alley, hoping he can get there in time to do damage control.
Fill: Every hour God sends part 14b
They reach New York before the first light of dawn.
Desmond is practically hanging out the side of the carriage, taking in the sights and smells of the city he knows and loves. No place has ever felt more like home to him than New York, and even though this version of New York is not the city he knows, it is still his city. He takes in the sights of the brownstones, four stories tall at the most and smiles.
“Home sweet home,” Desmond says, and Ezio cocks an eyebrow at him.
“You lived here?”
“Yeah, for a while. I tended bar at Bad Weather, just off of 48th. Course, I'm sure that nothing is there right now but a townhouse... still, this is my city. Just an early version of it. In my time, it is known as the Big Apple.”
Ezio gives him a strange look.
“Because of an artifact?”
“Actually, in a round about way, I think so. New York was – er, will be – famous for horse races at about the turn of the 20th century. The templars kinda ran the whole gambit, and the prize for a winning horse was a golden apple. Not a real Apple of Eden, of course, but the symbolism was definitely there.”
“Well, it is a beautiful city, my friend. Despite the unfortunate nick name,” Ezio responds.
Desmond offers him a half smile.
They ride in silence for a short while, watching as street vendors set up stalls along the side of the streets and shop owners sweep off their front steps. The print shops are amongst the first to open, and newspaper sellers start to line the streets. The sun is just starting to break the horizon when they arrive in the center of town, where a gallows is already set up and people are starting to gather. Achilles orders the coachman to pull the carriage to the side of the street, and motions to the two of them as they exit.
“Gonna be a lot of people here,” the old man says, indicating the ever-growing crowd. “I never understood why people want to watch this kind of thing. You'd think they'd have better things to do.”
Ezio frowns, folding his arms defensively in front of himself.
“I am in agreement, signore,” Ezio says, his voice tight. “The times may change, but people do not. It is as barbaric now as it was in my time.”
Desmond turns, catches Ezio's eye, and puts a hand on his shoulder.
“You gonna be okay, buddy? I mean, you're a better shot with a bow than I am, but if this is going to be hard, I can --”
“I will be fine, Desmond,” Ezio cuts him off abruptly in a tone that leaves no room for argument. Desmond gives the Italian a wary look. He knows how this has got to be affecting the other man, he has lived his life through the animus after all. But he recognizes the stubborn tilt to the Italian's chin, as well as the silent plea in the man's eyes.
'Don't speak of it, mio caro. I will do what I must.'
“Is there a problem, men?” Achilles asks, his eyes focusing on each of them in turn.
Ezio huffs and adjusts his bow and quiver so that they are laying flat against his back.
“None, signore. I will find a window, yes?”
And without waiting for an answer, Ezio turns and melts into the crowd. Before long, he is gone from sight, and Desmond feels his heart beat a little faster with anxiety and concern for the man.
“His family, you know... his brothers and his father... he watched them all hang,” Desmond tells Achilles, running his hand through his hair.
“He is a master assassin,” Achilles responds after a quiet moment. “One does not get that title without learning how to separate his heart from his head. Still... I will keep an eye on him, if I can. You need to get in position. If all goes well, I will see you both back on the homestead in a few days. If it doesn't... ”
Achilles trails off with a shrug.
Desmond nods grimly, acknowledging what Achilles says as well as what he doesn't.
'If it doesn't, I will kill you both.'
Haytham feels naked without his hat and his cloak, but it is best that he is not recognized in this crowd by either friend or foe. His heart races as he waits for them to arrive with the assassin – his son, he has a son – and he wonders what kind of man sends his own child to his death. He finds himself scanning the crowd, looking for Connor's recruits, hoping to find them. Surely, they won't let the boy die here today. Haytham expects to at least see the bald frenchman, but he is not to be found. In fact, the only one of Connor's ally's that he can see is Davenport, and he doubts that the old man is going to be much assistance to his son on his own.
There – a flash of white in a window – an archer. Not one of his, either. Good. Still...
Haytham wonders on the efficacy of an arrow against the tough rope of a noose, and his hand unconsciously tightens around the hilt of the dagger belted to his side.
It isn't long before the carriage containing his son appears, and Haytham watches as two red coats roughly pull Connor out of the back of it. Connor is filthy, barefoot and covered with bruises. Something in his chest tightens at the sight.
He blends in with the crowd, close enough to overhear, yet positioned carefully out of sight of his son and of his fellow templars.
“'Ello Connor,” Thomas Hickey says in his slow, cockney drawl. “Didn't think I'd miss your going away party, did ya? I hear Washington 'imself will be in attendance. Hope nothin' bad 'appens to him.”
“You said there'd be a trial!” Connor spits.
“Ah, no trial for traitors I'm afraid. Lee and Haytham saw to that. It's straight to the gallows for you!”
Haytham quietly swears to himself. And now Connor will know that it is he that condemned him. His own father would be turning in his grave, he was sure of it.
Still, he can't help but feel a bit of pride when Connor turns and meets Hickey's eyes with no fear and great conviction.
“I will not die today,” Connor promises. “The same cannot be said for you.”
Desmond easily and silently dispatches the few unlucky templar guards on the rooftops overlooking the gallows. No one appears to be paying any attention to him. He is sure that Connor can see him peripherally, but as the young assassin does not turn to look at him, Desmond feels secure in his anonymity. That feeling is tempered by the knowledge that he remembers being Connor, and being far too focused on the crowd and Charles Lee to take any notice of who, exactly, his backup was. Connor might have questions for Achilles later, but it is not Desmond's problem and he's not going to worry about it.
On the other side of the street, he can see Ezio with his bow, completely focused on Connor. Good. Another quick survey of the crowd shows Achilles inching quietly behind the gallows with Connor's tomahawk. Also good.
And then he searches the crowd itself, activating his second sight.
A man in gold is on the outskirts, clutching a dagger tightly in his right hand. Desmond shifts his focus once again, and sees Haytham, in plain clothes, without his hat and cloak.
Not good. Not fucking good at all.
Ezio's hands are sweating as he holds the bow in front of him, an arrow already set and ready to fire. He watches as they march Connor through the crowd of people, listens as they jeer and make racial slurs as he walks past. He's trying not to draw parallels in his mind with every step Connor takes towards the gallows in front of him, but it is hard to watch and not see. He feels the bile collecting in his throat, yet cannot turn his head away to spit it out, not even for a second.
Someone trips Connor and he falls to his knees. Ezio can see Achilles bend to whisper in his ear and help him up. He feels the hair raise on the back of his neck, as he has the sudden sensation of being watched –
Everyone in the crowd is focused on the gallows. Everyone except one person, and Ezio meets the eyes of the man that is watching him intensely from below.
Haytham. Merde.
Surely, the templar knows why he is positioned where he is, knows that he is there to prevent the execution of his son. For a moment, Ezio considers turning his bow on the templar. If Haytham gives him away, than Connor will die. Connor has to live, at all costs –
But the templar merely nods his head at Ezio, acknowledging his presence before turning towards where they are fitting Connor with the noose, one hand tightly wrapped around a dagger by his side.
Interesting.
If his own arrow fails to cut the rope than Haytham's dagger will succeed. Perhaps their mission isn't so hopeless after all, if the man is willing to protect his son. Ezio lets go of a breath that he didn't realize he was holding. Peripherally, he can see Desmond skate across the tops of the buildings, silently taking out the templar guards positioned on rooftops.
The templar by the gallows speaks, accuses Connor of being a traitor, of planning to murder George Washington, and Ezio tightens his hold on the bow, pulling the string back taught.
His heart races in his chest, and he tries to focus only on Connor, even as the sights and sounds of New York fade away, leaving the Palazzo della Signoria in its absence. All of a sudden it is his father and brothers up on the gallows, and he is not going to be fast enough, there is nothing he can do --
Ezio blinks away the illusion as Connor whistles, and allows the arrow to fly. It hits the rope just before Haytham's dagger, and Ezio takes a deep breath of relief as Connor falls and quickly reappears from beneath the gallows, armed with his tomahawk. There is pandemonium as Connor runs towards Thomas Hickey, yelling and screaming from the crowd as people run in every direction in confusion. He takes a deep breath and searches the crowd for Haytham, for Desmond –
– and finds them both together, Desmond pulling Haytham back away from the crowd by way of the hidden blade pressed against the older man's neck.
'Cazzo,' Ezio swears to himself. Desmond must have seen Haytham's dagger and come to the wrong conclusion. He throws himself out the window and climbs onto the roof, silently trailing where Desmond is dragging Haytham into a back alley, hoping he can get there in time to do damage control.