Your writer!anon is a terrible person (you'll... see why), but thank you so very, very, very much for your continued support! :D It has been an absolute joy to write this story. Also! To the anon!reader who asked why Haytham hadn't just checked Connor out with his Eagle Vision before leaving... Well, haha, I address it a bit here. |Db;; Anyway, enjoy! Thanks again for reading and reviewing. You all are lovely people. ♥
***
Day Eighty-Four Nothing happened.
Nothing happened on the trip back to the safe house, and nothing happened as they escorted their prisoner inside. Once, Haytham thought that he had seen a flicker of red out of the corner of his eye, but when he went over to investigate, he found nothing--no footprints, no disturbances to the snow. It was not necessarily a bad thing to be hypervigilant, but he’d be paying for it further down the line.
Since Zenger’s arrival at the Templar headquarters, Haytham had taken to the rooftops at night, keeping a wary eye out for that red pinprick to reappear. When asked, he simply told his subordinates that he saw better at night than any of the others, which was not a lie, but he kept mum about the nature of his unique seeing abilities.
Holding an Assassin with at least one other member of the Brotherhood out on the streets was dangerous, and they’d need the most advance warning they could get. Most men accepted his explanation without a second thought, for in their eyes, he was still their Grand Master. The only one who questioned him was Charles. Charles knew better, and he could not ignore the way the general looked at him with narrowed eyes and a frown.
They spoke in private a few days after Zenger’s move. Charles again brought up his apparent obsession with his son, and they’d argued--argued about what to do with the boy, what was best for the Order. It was easily the worst argument Haytham had gotten into with the man since their first meeting so many years ago, but he’d stood his ground; Charles had, at last, acquiesced, but only just. The general agreed to continue interrogating Zenger in his place and had, grudgingly, promised to avoid using physical force unless absolutely necessary.
It was some weight off his shoulders, but it provided little relief, what with all these other troubles that loomed over him.
Truth be told, it was his worry that drove him to take over the night watch. Haytham dreaded to think that Connor would betray him, but that fear had sunk its claws in deep. Night after night, he waited in the bitter cold, regardless of the sleet, snow, or ice that fell from the heavens; he waited to see the blazing red silhouette of his son storming across the rooftops, out for his blood.
In hindsight, this entire problem could have been resolved if he’d just looked at his son with Eagle Vision prior to his departure, but Haytham had come to a realization since arriving here in New York City: he was not sure he wanted to know the truth. If the boy was the cool blue of an ally, then he would have rejoiced, but what if he was not? What if he remained white or worse, red or gold?
Haytham had been a coward. It would be easier for him to accept the fact that Connor had fled in his absence than to swallow the giant lie that would have made up their curious relationship the past few months. Such softness in personality was unbecoming of him, and he turned his fear into an uncompromising devotion to watching over the safe house.
On more than a few occasions, his brothers had asked that he remain indoors, especially when the weather was unusually brutal, but time and time again, Haytham would refuse; he would keep his vigil no matter the circumstances. The only problem with this was that the morning would always find him chilled to the core, and despite spending the daylight hours sleeping in front of a roaring fire, Haytham could not shake the cold that sank deep into his bones.
And how his head ached!
Hour after hour, he would keep Eagle Vision activated, peering into the darkness in hopes of spotting a flash of red, but not once did he see anything. Never before in his life had he used the ability to such an extent, and it was starting to give him quite the headache. Then again, Haytham had to grudgingly admit that he’d also developed a bit of a cough along with a few other symptoms that pointed toward the development of a cold, but he refused to admit to being ill --not when there was such an important task at hand.
That said, tonight proved quite a challenge for Haytham: the aches in his body were worse, he felt cold no matter how much he wore, and his head pounded with a vengeance. To be resuming his watch in such a condition was reckless (too much like the boy, he thought sardonically), but all the same, Haytham still climbed onto the roof and began his rounds, despite his complete and utter lack of energy.
The first few hours passed without incident, as per the norm. The streets were quiet, and down below, the two men posted at the front door could be heard whispering and stamping their feet; on occasion, the yowl of a cat or the sound of a dog barking would break the silence. The skies were overcast, but, to Haytham’s relief, the night was still dry--he was shivering enough without any additional help from the environment.
He had pressed his fingertips to his temples and closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, Haytham saw it: a red spot bobbing up and down in the distance. However, one pinprick of red turned into two, three, four--five, and he cursed quietly. Haytham whistled low, and the mumbling of the guards immediately ceased; their silence was quickly followed by the urgent rap of knuckles against the door.
Pulling out his spyglass, he studied the on-coming figures: only one wore the white cowl of an Assassin, but while the frame of that individual was too small to be that of his son, the knowledge provided Haytham with little comfort. Desperation and a growing feeling of dread filled him as he stuffed his spyglass into a pocket and took off toward the Assassins. The cold air burned his lungs, and his muscles protested; his limbs felt leaden as he ran and leapt.
The five silhouettes split, each heading in a slightly different direction, but their breakneck speed didn’t not slow. Haytham wondered if they did not know if they had been spotted or if they did not care for stealth now; he hoped that his men would be ready by the time they hit the safe house. He could not think to chase them all--not when the world wavered in front of his eyes and his body protested every move that he made.
Pausing to hide behind a chimney, Haytham slumped against the bricks, pressing a hand to his forehead as he tried to catch his breath; his skin burned beneath his fingertips. With a low growl, he forced himself to focus--to forget the throbbing in his skull, the ache that made him feel weak, the tiredness that plagued him body and soul. This was a battlefield, one that he had voluntarily forced himself onto, and Haytham would not allow himself to fall here--not when Connor’s allegiances remained a mystery to him.
Peering around his hiding spot, he saw the angry glow of a man dressed in a priest’s robes fast approaching his location. As the footfalls drew ever closer, Haytham tensed, and just as the man passed to his left, he made a grab at the Assassin, hoping for a clean kill. His arm was deflected, though, and the man twisted away, Haytham’s fingers losing their grip on his clothes.
Well, so much for getting the job done the easy way.
“You--!” The Assassin never bothered to finish his sentence, instead drawing his blade. Haytham thought he heard a note of surprise and something else in that voice, but he would not have time to think about that now, not when the clash of steel was ringing in his ears. Deflecting the blow with his hidden blade, Haytham took a step back before drawing out his own sword, feeling its heavy weight in his hand.
He lunged, and when he saw his opponent move to block his blow, Haytham changed the angle of his strike, sweeping it to the side and shifting his target from the man’s chest to his arm. He was rewarded with a cry of pain, but his triumph was short lived, as the Assassin retaliated with several savage blows that had him stumbling backwards. Slipping and sliding over to the other side of the roof, he tried to put more distance between them as he panted; his blood pounded in his ears, and Haytham was sure that his heart was going to hammer its way right out of his chest.
Again, he tried to take the offensive, darting in with the aim to strike at the Assassin’s sides, but the man was ready for him this time, deflecting the blow and replying in turn. Cold steel bit into flesh, and Haytham whirled away with a poorly muffled shout, his free hand moving to press into his upper arm. His opponent circled him, the tip of his saber completely and utterly steady.
Haytham wondered whether or not conviction alone would be enough to get him through this.
The Assassin made a lunge at him, but he blocked the blow, albeit barely. Coupling his illness with his fresh wound, he did not have the strength to withstand the ferocity of the strike, and his blade was knocked out of his hands, vanishing somewhere over the edge of the roof and clattering to the ground below. Haytham frowned at this development, but perhaps it was for the best. He’d be quicker with the hidden blade, and the weight of it would be easier for him to manage with the remaining strength that he had. The only problem, of course, was now the Assassin had a rather significant distance advantage, and the only way to resolve that was to move in close.
Springing forward, Haytham feinted to the right before slipping over to the left. He was quick, yes, but not quick enough as he felt his opponent’s sword graze the flesh of his side through the thick layers of clothing that he wore, but he was rewarded with a groan as he rotated and slammed his fist into the man’s stomach, the blade digging into flesh. It was the Assassin’s turn to stumble; Haytham followed up his attack with a swift kick that sent the man sprawling.
His aim with the blade was off, though, and he cursed himself; he’d struck too far to the left, missing the liver as he’d originally intended. The Assassin pushed himself back onto his feet, and this time, his grip on his sword wavered. Even so, he still seemed to be faring better than Haytham, who was breathing hard, feeling too cold and too hot at the same time, and battling the lightheadedness that only grew worse as his wounds continued to bleed.
Haytham shook his head lightly as if to clear his thoughts, but his vision only became worse, dimming around the edges. In the distance, he could hear the shouts of men, gunshots, and the clang of metal striking metal; the feeble flicker of candlelight was beginning to reappear in windows across the city as the commotion continued, but hopefully, no one would be foolish enough to come out to investigate.
Though, an interruption would likely be a good reprieve for him at this point.
With a roar, the Assassin ran at him, a fearsome sight to behold--covered in blood and sweat, eyes burning with a fire he recognized as the unbanked desire for revenge. Haytham caught the edge of the blade with his own, but step by step, he was forced backwards until the heel of one foot stood on nothing but air. They were too far up for him to survive this fall, and there were no opportunities for a soft landing in sight; Haytham fought back with the desperation of a man on the verge of death, but he couldn’t push the Assassin away, couldn’t stir up the strength necessary despite the adrenaline rushing through his veins.
If he thought about it, this was a rather suiting way for him to die: in the defense of his ideals, on the battlefield, and at the hands of an Assassin. He would have preferred to have put up a better fight, but there was still the chance to take his opponent with him; it would only take a well-timed grab, and they’d both be tumbling over the edge. His life was not the best, filled with bloodshed and grief as it was, but there was nothing he was ashamed of, nothing he regretted--well, almost.
There was still the matter of his son. It was always his son.
Haytham grunted, muscles screaming in agony, and he leaned as much of his weight toward his aggressor as he could before closing a fist around the man’s collar. His right arm buckled without the support of the left, but Haytham held on, breaths coming in harsh pants. A grim smile curled his lips, and he dared the Assassin to do his worst, testing the man. How badly did he want him dead? “Go on then,” he hissed. “Push.”
There was a moment of hesitation, and that’s all Haytham needed. He twisted and retracted his hidden blade, yelling in pain as the Assassin’s sword finally connected with flesh, cutting deep into his shoulder. His nerves were on fire, his body on the verge of collapse, but he shoved the man with his good shoulder, putting all of his weight and what remained of his strength behind the movement. Surprised by this course of action, the Assassin stumbled back, and Haytham engaged his other hidden blade, the dagger sliding out into his palm. He lashed out blindly, his vision obscuring from pain and blood loss, but when his blade met nothing but air, Haytham crumpled, body giving out at last.
As his vision faded, the final thing he saw was a blue blur engaging the Assassin. Haytham did not wonder who that individual was, though, did not give him a second thought. No, his mind was focused on something else entirely, something far from the battlefield: on the boy, the brat, the thorn in his side.
--On his son.
SORRY. I'll stop with the cliffhanger endings soon, I promise. orz /terrible person oh yes
Fill: The Re-Education of Connor (Kenway) [ 8 / ? ]
***
Day Eighty-Four
Nothing happened.
Nothing happened on the trip back to the safe house, and nothing happened as they escorted their prisoner inside. Once, Haytham thought that he had seen a flicker of red out of the corner of his eye, but when he went over to investigate, he found nothing--no footprints, no disturbances to the snow. It was not necessarily a bad thing to be hypervigilant, but he’d be paying for it further down the line.
Since Zenger’s arrival at the Templar headquarters, Haytham had taken to the rooftops at night, keeping a wary eye out for that red pinprick to reappear. When asked, he simply told his subordinates that he saw better at night than any of the others, which was not a lie, but he kept mum about the nature of his unique seeing abilities.
Holding an Assassin with at least one other member of the Brotherhood out on the streets was dangerous, and they’d need the most advance warning they could get. Most men accepted his explanation without a second thought, for in their eyes, he was still their Grand Master. The only one who questioned him was Charles. Charles knew better, and he could not ignore the way the general looked at him with narrowed eyes and a frown.
They spoke in private a few days after Zenger’s move. Charles again brought up his apparent obsession with his son, and they’d argued--argued about what to do with the boy, what was best for the Order. It was easily the worst argument Haytham had gotten into with the man since their first meeting so many years ago, but he’d stood his ground; Charles had, at last, acquiesced, but only just. The general agreed to continue interrogating Zenger in his place and had, grudgingly, promised to avoid using physical force unless absolutely necessary.
It was some weight off his shoulders, but it provided little relief, what with all these other troubles that loomed over him.
Truth be told, it was his worry that drove him to take over the night watch. Haytham dreaded to think that Connor would betray him, but that fear had sunk its claws in deep. Night after night, he waited in the bitter cold, regardless of the sleet, snow, or ice that fell from the heavens; he waited to see the blazing red silhouette of his son storming across the rooftops, out for his blood.
In hindsight, this entire problem could have been resolved if he’d just looked at his son with Eagle Vision prior to his departure, but Haytham had come to a realization since arriving here in New York City: he was not sure he wanted to know the truth. If the boy was the cool blue of an ally, then he would have rejoiced, but what if he was not? What if he remained white or worse, red or gold?
Haytham had been a coward. It would be easier for him to accept the fact that Connor had fled in his absence than to swallow the giant lie that would have made up their curious relationship the past few months. Such softness in personality was unbecoming of him, and he turned his fear into an uncompromising devotion to watching over the safe house.
On more than a few occasions, his brothers had asked that he remain indoors, especially when the weather was unusually brutal, but time and time again, Haytham would refuse; he would keep his vigil no matter the circumstances. The only problem with this was that the morning would always find him chilled to the core, and despite spending the daylight hours sleeping in front of a roaring fire, Haytham could not shake the cold that sank deep into his bones.
And how his head ached!
Hour after hour, he would keep Eagle Vision activated, peering into the darkness in hopes of spotting a flash of red, but not once did he see anything. Never before in his life had he used the ability to such an extent, and it was starting to give him quite the headache. Then again, Haytham had to grudgingly admit that he’d also developed a bit of a cough along with a few other symptoms that pointed toward the development of a cold, but he refused to admit to being ill --not when there was such an important task at hand.
That said, tonight proved quite a challenge for Haytham: the aches in his body were worse, he felt cold no matter how much he wore, and his head pounded with a vengeance. To be resuming his watch in such a condition was reckless (too much like the boy, he thought sardonically), but all the same, Haytham still climbed onto the roof and began his rounds, despite his complete and utter lack of energy.
The first few hours passed without incident, as per the norm. The streets were quiet, and down below, the two men posted at the front door could be heard whispering and stamping their feet; on occasion, the yowl of a cat or the sound of a dog barking would break the silence. The skies were overcast, but, to Haytham’s relief, the night was still dry--he was shivering enough without any additional help from the environment.
He had pressed his fingertips to his temples and closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, Haytham saw it: a red spot bobbing up and down in the distance. However, one pinprick of red turned into two, three, four--five, and he cursed quietly. Haytham whistled low, and the mumbling of the guards immediately ceased; their silence was quickly followed by the urgent rap of knuckles against the door.
Pulling out his spyglass, he studied the on-coming figures: only one wore the white cowl of an Assassin, but while the frame of that individual was too small to be that of his son, the knowledge provided Haytham with little comfort. Desperation and a growing feeling of dread filled him as he stuffed his spyglass into a pocket and took off toward the Assassins. The cold air burned his lungs, and his muscles protested; his limbs felt leaden as he ran and leapt.
The five silhouettes split, each heading in a slightly different direction, but their breakneck speed didn’t not slow. Haytham wondered if they did not know if they had been spotted or if they did not care for stealth now; he hoped that his men would be ready by the time they hit the safe house. He could not think to chase them all--not when the world wavered in front of his eyes and his body protested every move that he made.
Pausing to hide behind a chimney, Haytham slumped against the bricks, pressing a hand to his forehead as he tried to catch his breath; his skin burned beneath his fingertips. With a low growl, he forced himself to focus--to forget the throbbing in his skull, the ache that made him feel weak, the tiredness that plagued him body and soul. This was a battlefield, one that he had voluntarily forced himself onto, and Haytham would not allow himself to fall here--not when Connor’s allegiances remained a mystery to him.
Peering around his hiding spot, he saw the angry glow of a man dressed in a priest’s robes fast approaching his location. As the footfalls drew ever closer, Haytham tensed, and just as the man passed to his left, he made a grab at the Assassin, hoping for a clean kill. His arm was deflected, though, and the man twisted away, Haytham’s fingers losing their grip on his clothes.
Well, so much for getting the job done the easy way.
“You--!” The Assassin never bothered to finish his sentence, instead drawing his blade. Haytham thought he heard a note of surprise and something else in that voice, but he would not have time to think about that now, not when the clash of steel was ringing in his ears. Deflecting the blow with his hidden blade, Haytham took a step back before drawing out his own sword, feeling its heavy weight in his hand.
He lunged, and when he saw his opponent move to block his blow, Haytham changed the angle of his strike, sweeping it to the side and shifting his target from the man’s chest to his arm. He was rewarded with a cry of pain, but his triumph was short lived, as the Assassin retaliated with several savage blows that had him stumbling backwards. Slipping and sliding over to the other side of the roof, he tried to put more distance between them as he panted; his blood pounded in his ears, and Haytham was sure that his heart was going to hammer its way right out of his chest.
Again, he tried to take the offensive, darting in with the aim to strike at the Assassin’s sides, but the man was ready for him this time, deflecting the blow and replying in turn. Cold steel bit into flesh, and Haytham whirled away with a poorly muffled shout, his free hand moving to press into his upper arm. His opponent circled him, the tip of his saber completely and utterly steady.
Haytham wondered whether or not conviction alone would be enough to get him through this.
The Assassin made a lunge at him, but he blocked the blow, albeit barely. Coupling his illness with his fresh wound, he did not have the strength to withstand the ferocity of the strike, and his blade was knocked out of his hands, vanishing somewhere over the edge of the roof and clattering to the ground below. Haytham frowned at this development, but perhaps it was for the best. He’d be quicker with the hidden blade, and the weight of it would be easier for him to manage with the remaining strength that he had. The only problem, of course, was now the Assassin had a rather significant distance advantage, and the only way to resolve that was to move in close.
Springing forward, Haytham feinted to the right before slipping over to the left. He was quick, yes, but not quick enough as he felt his opponent’s sword graze the flesh of his side through the thick layers of clothing that he wore, but he was rewarded with a groan as he rotated and slammed his fist into the man’s stomach, the blade digging into flesh. It was the Assassin’s turn to stumble; Haytham followed up his attack with a swift kick that sent the man sprawling.
His aim with the blade was off, though, and he cursed himself; he’d struck too far to the left, missing the liver as he’d originally intended. The Assassin pushed himself back onto his feet, and this time, his grip on his sword wavered. Even so, he still seemed to be faring better than Haytham, who was breathing hard, feeling too cold and too hot at the same time, and battling the lightheadedness that only grew worse as his wounds continued to bleed.
Haytham shook his head lightly as if to clear his thoughts, but his vision only became worse, dimming around the edges. In the distance, he could hear the shouts of men, gunshots, and the clang of metal striking metal; the feeble flicker of candlelight was beginning to reappear in windows across the city as the commotion continued, but hopefully, no one would be foolish enough to come out to investigate.
Though, an interruption would likely be a good reprieve for him at this point.
With a roar, the Assassin ran at him, a fearsome sight to behold--covered in blood and sweat, eyes burning with a fire he recognized as the unbanked desire for revenge. Haytham caught the edge of the blade with his own, but step by step, he was forced backwards until the heel of one foot stood on nothing but air. They were too far up for him to survive this fall, and there were no opportunities for a soft landing in sight; Haytham fought back with the desperation of a man on the verge of death, but he couldn’t push the Assassin away, couldn’t stir up the strength necessary despite the adrenaline rushing through his veins.
If he thought about it, this was a rather suiting way for him to die: in the defense of his ideals, on the battlefield, and at the hands of an Assassin. He would have preferred to have put up a better fight, but there was still the chance to take his opponent with him; it would only take a well-timed grab, and they’d both be tumbling over the edge. His life was not the best, filled with bloodshed and grief as it was, but there was nothing he was ashamed of, nothing he regretted--well, almost.
There was still the matter of his son. It was always his son.
Haytham grunted, muscles screaming in agony, and he leaned as much of his weight toward his aggressor as he could before closing a fist around the man’s collar. His right arm buckled without the support of the left, but Haytham held on, breaths coming in harsh pants. A grim smile curled his lips, and he dared the Assassin to do his worst, testing the man. How badly did he want him dead? “Go on then,” he hissed. “Push.”
There was a moment of hesitation, and that’s all Haytham needed. He twisted and retracted his hidden blade, yelling in pain as the Assassin’s sword finally connected with flesh, cutting deep into his shoulder. His nerves were on fire, his body on the verge of collapse, but he shoved the man with his good shoulder, putting all of his weight and what remained of his strength behind the movement. Surprised by this course of action, the Assassin stumbled back, and Haytham engaged his other hidden blade, the dagger sliding out into his palm. He lashed out blindly, his vision obscuring from pain and blood loss, but when his blade met nothing but air, Haytham crumpled, body giving out at last.
As his vision faded, the final thing he saw was a blue blur engaging the Assassin. Haytham did not wonder who that individual was, though, did not give him a second thought. No, his mind was focused on something else entirely, something far from the battlefield: on the boy, the brat, the thorn in his side.
--On his son.
SORRY. I'll stop with the cliffhanger endings soon, I promise. orz /terrible person oh yes