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asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5
Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
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Discussion
Grief's Madness 7/? (TW: as above) previous part should've been 6
(Anonymous) 2013-04-30 11:44 pm (UTC)(link)The atmosphere was cheerful, morale was high, and when Haytham used his second sight it revealed a comforting sea of blue foot soldiers. High above him the ceilings stretched in dark, curved timbers, resembling an upside down boat. It was of a similar structure to the native longhouses that dotted the frontier in clustered communities. Heavy, study slabs of local timber had been converted into work ready tables, and they were used for all manner of activities. Scanning the hall, Haytham spotted weapons being cleaned, papers being reviewed, boardgames being considered, and of course, meals being eaten. There were eleven of these tables, ten of them set up to run parallel with the hall's length, while the eleventh had been arranged at a right angle. This one was smaller than the others, sitting ten people along one side only compared to the twenty for the larger tables. At present it was occupied by several captains and other higher-ranking soldiers.
The space was lit by iron chandeliers and black candelabras that squatted in the middle of the tables, glass domes scattering the candlelight. These men were on the dog's watch - their meal was breakfast rather than supper. Once they had finished, they would relieve their comrades, whom would hurry in, eager to eat and trot off to bed. In total, there were over two hundred men in each shift, and there were three shifts, pushing the current populous of the complex at over six hundred and thirty men.
Construction on the Lodge had been halted, delayed by a rising need for a fence. Initially Lee had hoped that they would be able to disguise the complex as a town, but it hadn't worked out as well as he had expected. Hence the new fence plans. Charles had fumed about it - the Initiation had to be pushed back by a month and a half.
"At least this will give the tailor more time to perfect the ceremonial uniform," Haytham had said and Charles had seemed to calm.
It had been a month and a half since he'd been taken. His hair was growing back with remarkable speed. Yet it would be a while before it was long enough to pull back into a ribbon. But Haytham didn't remember being captured. Not at the present.
As the men left for their watch, the few that passed Haytham tilted their hats respectfully, the others not at all perturbed by the Grand Master in the corner. Charles emerged from somewhere, going against the stream of men trickling out, but finding no difficulty in parting the ocean before him. They naturally separated, clearing a path for their superior.
"Charles," Haytham warmly greeted him. "Have you finished your errands?"
He stood and hooked his arm through Charles'. A flush of pleasure appeared on his companion's face. Haytham chuckled; for such a simple and innocent action, Charles always seemed surprised by it, as if each time was the first that Haytham had decided to display their friendship.
"Yes. They are quite done. However, I wish to show you something before we retire," said Charles.
Such a pup, thought Haytham. So eager to please. Afraid to offend but loyalty and truth comes before preservation of social niceties.
They trotted into the brisk air, heading towards the cabin. Charles turned them away before it was in sight and headed towards the prison-cells. Haytham could hear a steady stream of (remarkably religious) insults wafting through the air, and the voice sounded familiar but he couldn't place it.
Charles pulled back the peephole on one of the cells and gestured for Haytham to look inside. Confused, Haytham did, and spotted a man in an old priest's uniform. He slammed the peephole shut again.
"We do not capture priests," hissed Haytham.
Inside the cell the threats and snarls stopped. Perhaps the priest thought he might soon be free. It was easier to think without damnations being shouted at him from close range.
"He is not a priest, sir. Duncan Little of the Assassins," replied Charles.
"They have sunk to new lows, then," mused Haytham.
"Indeed. What should we do with him?"
Drawing the peephole back again, Haytham leaned in to observe Little pacing the room in agitation. The man snapped his head up at the sound. For a moment, their eyes locked.
"Keep him fed and clean. We can use him as leverage," decided Haytham.
"Very good, Haytham."
The assassin leapt forward and grabbed the iron bars that protected the peephole. Haytham instinctive moved back to avoid any rudimentary weapons the prisoner may have fashioned. They still maintained eye contact.
"You are not Haytham," whispered Little.
He pressed his face closer to the grill, trying to see Haytham in the shadows.
"Connor?" exclaimed Little, but Charles slammed the peephole shut.
Haytham ignored the desperate shouting and pleading that Little made, the sound fading as he and Charles walked away, arm in arm, from the prison cells. Connor was his son. His dead son.
Haytham hoped the fence would be completed soon.
Re: Grief's Madness 7/? (TW: as above) previous part should've been 6
(Anonymous) 2013-05-01 01:08 am (UTC)(link)i-- i can't
oh my god connor isn't connor any more (please tell me he's not entirely "haytham" yet please please please i need a little glimmer of hope) and duncan is there and he knows something really bad is going down and do i smell an assassin/templar confrontation on the horizon??
and asdfghjkl i loved charles and haytham's friendship (OR IS IT MORE?!1) dynamic in-game, and to see it written here, tied in so well with the dirtybadwrongness of the situation... well, it's almost too much for my poor little heart to take.
tl;dr ilu anon, lots and lots and lots <3 <3 <3
Re: Grief's Madness 7/? (TW: as above) previous part should've been 6
(Anonymous) 2013-05-01 02:33 pm (UTC)(link)I can't tell you that, because spoilers for the next part, but your keen nose certainly has picked up on a confrontation of some sort. But the Assassins are going to have to get their act together - 630+ men against 5-6 assssins is going to be a tough one. I suspect someone needs to put the recruitment posters up.
To me, Charles and Haytham have a sort of Watson and Holmes relationship. Charles clearly adored Haytham, while Haytham was slightly more reserved in his affection. The early sequences are really interesting, because Charles has a very puppyish demeanour when he's trying to impress Haytham. Yet, I do think they're both on the same intellectual level. There isn't a massive gap like Holmes and Watson, although Charles seems to downplay himself a little. And the thing is, in this time period, men had really good male friends. They would take a bullet for each other. They would link arms in public. They would set up business together. (And jump redcoats together). They were close, and would keep that friendship strong until they died.
Uhm, yeah. That's my two cents on it.
Re: Grief's Madness 7/? (TW: as above) previous part should've been 6
(Anonymous) 2013-05-01 11:09 am (UTC)(link)And oh shit- Duncan's going to have a hard time dealing with this. Im still holding out hope that there is some of Connor left... just enough for him to be somewhat back to normal with time
poor, poor connor ):
Re: Grief's Madness 7/? (TW: as above) previous part should've been 6
(Anonymous) 2013-05-01 02:38 pm (UTC)(link)Duncan will probably have the worst of it. After all, Haytham killed Duncan's uncle. That's a horribly traumatic event for anyone.
Thanks for reading!
Grief's Madness 8/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-01 02:14 pm (UTC)(link)He had little to give, except for the rumours that the war would soon be at an end. Already the French were pulling out, their naval force collecting troops. It might not be for another few years that peace was officially made, but he was assured that the Templars would be able to flourish in peace. Their fort might not have to be as military-geared in the future. They wouldn’t be disturbed, at any rate. Grand Master Lee had made political amends - they fought for the Patriots now.
Well, that’s what they wanted the Patriots to believe. They fought for themselves.
But Captain Morgan was more interested in the news that they had for him. Was it really true that they had caught another Assassin? The other captains smugly told him that they’d allowed the man to stay at the west outpost thinking he was a missionary, but caught him snooping around the Cabin. Morgan scolded them for being misled by the obvious disguise.
Morgan’s run-in with the Assassin in the Cabin had been the height of humiliation. He’d learned his lesson from the incident - never trust an Assassin. Furthermore, never trust an Assassin strung out on hallucinogenic herbs, and certainly don’t approach them in the depths of a vision. Yet Grand Master Lee had been kind to him. After he had recovered from the concussion, Morgan had been allowed a pass of leave.
So he had left, done the task (however reluctantly, the fear of all that he held precious destroyed being the only motivator to keep Morgan going), and seen his fiancée, collected trinkets and mail, and returned, his social grace within the fort somewhat restored. Later, he would find the prisoner (he couldn’t think of him as Grand Master Haytham, nor did he dare think of the man as Captain Davenport. He was a wraith that haunted Morgan’s dreams) and be freed from his contract. He’d done the task. He’d betrayed his brothers-in-arms. And for what?
His darling Charlotte.
Morgan closed his eyes, brushed off some of the younger men, and joined the officers for a late meal. Such a betrayal. Justified only by love.
***
Stephane currently had a squirmy tailor, pleading for mercy, at his feet and willing to tell him anything.
“Please, don’t do it!” wailed the man.
“And why should I not? I think they would look better without arms.”
“No,” shrieked the tailor. “I said I would tell you anything. I need this commission, you cannot ruin so much work!”
“Tell me who these are for,” demanded Stephane.
The tailor babbled something incomprehensible, tears and frantic sobs distorting his speech. It was pathetic. Stephane had never taken much stock of fashion, and it disgusted him to see such extravagant amounts of money wasted on impractical clothing.
“A man in a cabin. I don’t know where, maybe four hours from here? They come for me at night and keep me blinded until I am left with a few men in a cabin.”
This made Stephane pause, give a forceful tug at the right sleeve. It popped a few stitches, and the horrified gasp was enough to make Stephane stop.
“There is another fitting in three days time. You can follow them quite easily - they put me in a carriage with my equipment,” sniffled the tailor. “I would not lie, please sir. They forced me.”
Settling the garment back on the counter. Ruining a commission wasn’t in Stephane’s interests - he wasn’t about to destroy this man’s livelihood.
“What does this man look like?” asked Stephane. “The one you’re making these robes for.”
Blowing his nose into a handkerchief, the tailor flapped his hand at a mannequin standing in the corner of his tidy, colourful workroom. Calico cushions had been tacked to it, increasing the shoulders to a breadth that Stephane was quite familiar with.
“He’s big. But he has such awkward proportions - his waist is delicate compared to his shoulders. As you can see, I had to rustle up some padding to get my mannequin right.”
There was a drawing tacked above the mannequin, a coat of pale cream and bronze detailing had been artfully conceived, taking in elements of coats Stephane had seen on many military officers. This one had something that made the assassin think of the ocean.
“Yes, and have you ever heard a name?” he pressed.
“Henry. Han. Haymitch, I do not know! I do not try to listen. I did not ask to be involved in this. They threatened to besmirch my business and my family. I have three little ones. They are only paying me out of courtesy.”
Stephane slammed his fist into the counter, upsetting the pin-box, making the tailor jump in unison. Haymitch was close. But he needed the tailor to come to his own conclusion. There needed to be a genuine recollection, not a frantic attempt to get Stephane out of the shop with words that the tailor thought he wanted to hear.
“Merde, man, think,” snapped Stephane.
“It was very close to Haymitch,” mumbled the tailor.
He picked up the pin-box, collecting the strays and dropping them back in. Stephane was about to snap at him that this really wasn’t the time when the man’s eyes widened and he exclaimed, “Haytham! That was definitely it.”
Stephane closed his mouth, nodded, and apologised for the disturbance before running to the closest courier.
•••
“Captain Morgan,” called a voice. “I wish to speak with you.”
A large hand clamped on Morgan’s shoulder, pulling him back. When Morgan spun on his heel, a reprimand on his lips, he jolted in shock. The prisoner was out. The prisoner was out and nobody seemed concerned.
The brown eyes were not the same as when Morgan had last seen them. They did not hold the fire or lust for escape. This was not the same Assassin. Grand Master Lee had been successful then. They’d converted the Assassin.
Morgan swallowed. Converted or not, this was still a dangerous man to be playing games with. To tread carefully would not be enough - crawling across the ice would be more apt than walking.
“Yes, sir,” said Morgan faintly.
He wondered if this was the end. The prisoner ushered him over to the entrance of the mess hall.
“A thousand apologies for knocking you about earlier. When I came to my senses, you had already been taken away. Charles saw fit to keep me bedridden. The doctors say it was a fever,” said the prisoner.
“And you are all better now, sir?” Morgan asked.
“Of course. It was only a fever. Do you forgive me?”
“Yes, as you said, it was only a fever. No lasting damage, sir.”
The prisoner patted him on the back.
“Good man. Now,” and the man leaned against the wall, blocking Morgan from escaping, reminding him of a panther examining it’s prey. “Now, I would like you to tell me about New York.”
“Sir?”
“New York,” repeated the prisoner.
“It went well.”
“No trails?”
“None that lead to me. Your comrades will find you.”
“Very well, you have earned your freedom,” sighed the prisoner, and he leaned back, releasing Morgan.
When the prisoner left, Morgan was filled with an immense sense of relief, like a bullet had whizzed past him, his heat beating madly. Morgan had the feeling that he’d just avoided being sent to the slaughterhouse.
***
Ratonhnhaké:ton thrashed in his bed, screaming. Charles stroked short hair with his palm, a hush slipping from his lips as he kissed the man on his temple. Catching one wildly flailing hand, Charles carded his fingers between Ratonhnhaké:ton's, rubbing his thumb over the back of Ratonhnhaké:ton's hand.
"Ah, sir, it is fine. You are fine," he breathed.
He pulled the blankets up and tucked Ratonhnhaké:ton under his chin. Ratonhnhaké:ton curled tighter and nuzzled against Lee's shoulder.
"The fire is gone. I will protect you," he said.
***
Duncan lay awake, haunted by red curtains and gold trim, an uncle slaughtered, an opera halted.
He sang the notes to himself.
Connor wasn't Connor, and his eyes may not match Haytham's in colour, but the soul-piercing gaze had been inherited.
Haytham was alive. Alive and well in the blood that coursed Connor's veins, transforming him with dark hunger. The rumours had been true. Haytham Kenway may have died, but he wasn't truly dead. The other trail, the more obvious one, the one that said Captain Connor Davenport is being held in a new camp, had also been true.
Both were alive yet dead and yet not.
The tune of the opera stuttered to a halt.
Duncan wept for the fallen.
Re: Grief's Madness 8/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-01 06:49 pm (UTC)(link)Wow, that was awesome and so creepy. Dang, Charles works really fast. I feel so bad for Connor! It's so weird reading his thoughts as Haytham now. And poor Duncan, this must be driving him crazy. I love this fic so much,I can't wait for the next bit ^_^
Re: Grief's Madness 8/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-03 09:51 pm (UTC)(link)Thank you, OP. I hope you'll love the rest as much as you loved the first parts. :) we are entering the last bits of the second act and about to hit the third.
Re: Grief's Madness 8/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-02 12:03 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Grief's Madness 8/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-03 09:57 pm (UTC)(link)Thank you for reading! I hope I continue to give you ALL THE FEELS! :)
Re: Grief's Madness 8/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-02 10:34 pm (UTC)(link)I have hope for him ;w; And oh man Charles is still so creepy ahhhhhh
Also!! Woah can we just focus on the part about Duncan? The last part? Because holy shit that part just blew me away; it's amazing.
Keep up the great work, writeranon!
Re: Grief's Madness 8/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-03 10:01 pm (UTC)(link)Wow? Really?! Gosh, I'm blushing now. I didn't want to go too overboard on the more purple prose, so I'm very happy that you enjoyed the Duncan interlude.
I shall do my best! *salutes* thank you for reading!
Grief's Madness 9/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-03 09:47 pm (UTC)(link)There was rustling and murmuring, and once or twice a corner of white fabric flicking from behind the curtains. Charles leaned forward in anticipation, careful not to crease his own blood-red robes. He picked at his gloves, trying to distract himself. A clatter caught Charles' attention and his breath hitched as the curtain was pushed aside.
Haytham stepped forward, smoothing non-existent wrinkles from his coat, adjusting the ceremonial sword at his side. The pale cream shimmered in the sunlight that poured through the windows, the delicate embroidery and trims accentuating Haytham's body. It fell to just below his knee, allowing the red silk lining to flash and ripple as he walked, shouting a warning to his lethality. The shape of the coat was similar, with a split up the back to his tailbone. Lines of a darker gold-bronze decorated the seams, drawing attention to the undisturbed planes of his chest and back. The tailor fastened a heavy cape to Haytham's shoulders in a Roman fashion, draping the fabric to dip in a sweeping curve between his shoulders. It was also lined in the same blood red as his coat. White breeches, stockings and knee-high polished black boots with a snowy shirt, cravat and red waistcoat completed the look.
There had been quite a bit of lace at one point, but Charles and Haytham had agreed that it was unflattering to the crisply cut design, and had removed all of it save for the tiniest peep on Haytham's shirt sleeves. Charles couldn't keep himself from staring. Now if they just brushed out his hair, they might be able to disguise the shorter pieces with the longer.
"Like a true knight," said the tailor, lifting Haytham's arms to check the stitches.
"Would you like me to turn for you, Charles?" asked Haytham, a amusement honeying his voice.
Without receiving an answer, for Charles seemed to have been struck dumb, Haytham slowly turned on his heel. The cape barely brushed the ground, a perfect measurement.
"You have exceeded our expectations, Mr Babbington," said Charles. "Congratulations, sir, your commission is at an end."
Babbington bowed, and checked Haytham over one last time before asking both men to remove the clothing so it would be properly stored for the time being.
"I hope you gentlemen have a nice gathering, although this seems a bit extravagant for a simple ball," said the tailor, putting his scissors and threads into his toolbox.
"I do believe we shall," said Charles.
He held Haytham's waistcoat as the man tried to get his shirt tucked in properly. For some reason it didn't want to sit right.
"Damn this," he muttered.
Charles batted away his hands, and slung the waistcoat over his shoulder, pushing Haytham's shirttails back into his trousers. He was about to protest when one of their guards threw the curtain back, eyes wide.
"What do you think you're doing?" snapped Charles, tweaking the shirt on Haytham's shoulders.
"The Assassin has escaped!" he gasped. "His comrade freed him!"
Snatching his waistcoat from Charles, Haytham threw it and his coat on, not bothering with the buttons or his cravat. The soldier ducked to the side to avoid being trampled by the two much larger men as they left the nook that had been their temporary dressing room. Babbington was startled, but he didn't seem as startled as he should have been. He was packing up with far too much eagerness rather than cowering at the intrusion.
Taking the soldier's musket, Haytham made motions to leave, then turned at the last minute.
"Your widow will be compensated," he said.
The musket was brought up, the blade slicing through the vulnerable underside of Babbington's throat, penetrating his tongue and mouth. Haytham pulled the trigger.
***
Stephane spurred his horse, Duncan clinging to his back, hands entwined in his belt. They didn't have much time to escape before the alarm was raised. As it was, Duncan was in a state of shock and hadn't spoken a single word. If they were caught, Stephane feared that he would have to fight alone.
The branches whipped past them on either side of the rough track that led to the complex. A final watchtower lay ahead. Yellow light flickered in the distance - Stephane slowed his horse to turn down the hill to where he knew a sizeable stream lay. Water splashed noisily but there was nothing they could do except travel slower.
After around a mile, they left the river and headed for New York. Stephane patted Duncan's hand as they sped further and further away from the cursed place.
"I am sorry," said Duncan, although Stephane felt rather than heard the words against his back. "I ruined it."
"Yes. You did. But everything can be fixed."
The chef wasn't cross with Duncan. Well he was, because who would go into a Templar encampment by themselves like that? (Stephane ignored the voice that said "You would") But he wasn't angry at Duncan for getting caught.
Actually, no, he was furious at Duncan for getting caught.
If only for the fact that they could have killed him. Even though Stephane had given his assassin-in-distress a cursory check over for injuries in the cell, Duncan didn't seem to respond to the manhandling. No physical injuries discovered, yet Duncan was silent.
They took shelter in a tavern on the outskirts of New York. The Templars had been lost. Duncan collapsed onto one of the two beds provided and fell asleep. He didn't even take his boots off. Stephane paused to write a message, copied it several times, and took them to the Post Office, where they trickled away to his comrades. The Templars had been busy, their forces were huge; the others couldn't go in. Not yet. They needed to consolidate.
The entire time Stephane had been in the fort, he had not seen Haytham. But he hadn't seen Connor either - Duncan wasn't so foolish as to trot into the Templar lair without saying what he was doing. Stephane would have to wait for Duncan to éveiller for the full details of what had gone wrong.
He eased Duncan's boots off and threw a blanket over him. The man did not even stir. Stephane huffed - they were trained to sleep lightly, Duncan should have woken up. Taking off his own boots, Stephane flopped onto his own bed, his weapons within easy reaching distance, a chair wedged under the door handle. He glanced at the sleeping man beside him and wondered what had happened, thoughts racing through his head until he finally drifted off as well.
Re: Grief's Madness 9/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-03 10:46 pm (UTC)(link)I mean, I understand, but wow that was brutal and sudden, I kind of hope Connor doesn't come back after all and doesn't have to realise what he's done as 'Haytham'...
And aaaaaaah I'm so happy Duncan is back in Assassin hands, I worried about him for a while. I mean, I'm still worried about him, he's obviousy got a bunch of mental wounds BUT STILL he's safer than he was.
anxiously biting nails until next chapter, thank you for all the hard work so far! <3
Re: Grief's Madness 9/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-04 02:39 am (UTC)(link)Grief's Madness 9/? (TW: self harm)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-06 12:02 am (UTC)(link)Scratch.
A moan.
Charles opened his eyes, annoyed at the disturbance. He rolled over when he realised Haytham wasn't with him. The scratching continued. In the darkest, furthermost corner Charles spotted his master, crouched, a bucket in front of him. Haytham was rubbing something over his hands. A damp cloth, maybe. It was hard to tell.
Rising with only the slowest movements - Haytham was occasionally still jumpy - Charles slipped from the bed and padded across the room. Something wet his foot. Haytham's body jerked, twisted away. Continued to scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
"He was innocent," said Connor.
Lee realised that Connor's hands were glistening with blood and water, the scraping was a flat stone, wriggled loose from the cabin wall and rubbed over his hands and arms. The wetness under his foot was a smudge of blood.
"He betrayed us," said Lee.
"He betrayed you. He was innocent."
Connor scraped at his arms. Leaning forward, Lee snatched at the rock, growling when Connor yanked it away.
"Sir, give it to me."
"No."
There was a brief scuffle, Connor trying to sweep Lee's legs from underneath him, but missing, and Lee carefully grabbing his upper arms and dragging him out of the corner. Blood smeared across the floor, and hands covered in scratches and abrasions clutched at Lee's nightshirt, petals of red blossoming across it. He ducked the hand attempting to bring the stone down on his head.
"The tailor did not have to die!" screamed Connor.
"Neither did the Inner Circle," replied Charles.
"They were dishonest and disloyal men. They only thought of their own greed."
"William Johnson would have saved your village," said Lee quietly.
With a scream, Connor smashed one hand to the side of Lee's face. Lee recoiled, touching his face briefly, before finally forcing the stone from Connor's hand. Then he twisted Connor's arms to fold over his chest and shouted to the guards to fetch the doctor.
***
The smell of toasted bread and butter woke Duncan. Stephane was already up, crunching his way through a thick slice with cheese. A tray of food was on his bed, including apples, porridge and more toast. The domesticity of it all almost made Duncan forget the horrors of the week he had been through.
"I do not want you to talk," said Stephane. "But I will need you to talk. Eat, and tell me what happened."
Duncan poured himself some milk and took the porridge. He didn't want to talk, true. If he could, he would box it away forever, but there was more than his life on the line. For the greater good.
The porridge was gluggy and it stuck to the roof of his mouth, but Duncan supposed it was his churning stomach that made it difficult to eat. He didn't think he could swallow it but he did, eventually. The last of the porridge was washed away with a swig of milk. With a rattling sigh, Duncan put his mug down.
"Haytham Kenway is alive," he said slowly.
"What? But we saw his body, he is dead! This was -"
"Haytham is alive in Connor. I don't know how he managed it but Lee has manipulated Connor into believing that he is Haytham. I tried to find Connor - someone had spread the information that a Captain Davenport was being held in an encampment a few days ride from New York, so I followed the trail. They caught me as I managed to break the lock on the cabin he was supposed to be in."
Duncan took another mouthful of milk, feeling quite ill. Stephane watched him and reached to pat his comrade's knee. It jerked away. Duncan wasn't ready to be touched.
"And then they put me in a cell. Then he - he came with Connor. Lee came with Connor and he sounded exactly like Haytham but his eyes were wrong, they were Connor's eyes in Haytham's body. But it was Haytham that spoke to me, stared me down. And I was a child again, waiting for him to leave so I could scream for help."
He lowered his head.
"I begged like a child for Connor to take hold of his senses. They linked their arm with Lee and walked away. Connor is dead, Stephane."
"Nothing is written," said Stephane. "We can unpick the threads of deceit."
Numbly, Duncan nodded, and he tried to eat some more before they left the inn for another full day of riding. It tasted like sawdust.
***
Haytham inspected his bandaged arms with detached interest. He picked at a loose thread and sighed. Books were scattered around the room, half-read. The guards shifted as he stood, under strict instructions not to allow Connor to rise to the surface.
But he was bored. Especially so after his first kill in months. He hadn't liked doing it, but what sort of example would he be setting if he'd let the man go free? No, it was for the greater good of the Templar Order that he had executed Babbington. But he had enjoyed being in action, chasing down the Assassins. They had escaped this time, but Haytham doubted they would come back soon.
Grief's Madness 11/? (TW: as above) also author can't count
(Anonymous) 2013-05-06 01:52 pm (UTC)(link)A rig of pulleys and rope had been wrenched into place, teams of men heaving the gates upright, others using large mallets to bash the industrial nails into place, securing the marine hinges to the fence. Timber was not ideal, but it would do for now. Sandstone would be quarried locally, once he’d secured a trustworthy contractor (since the Babbington incident, Charles found himself even more hesitant to employ external help), and a proper wall would be built, like the castles of old.
It would still be a town, of course, but it would be a town with particularly thorough defences.
An almighty roar rose from the men as the gate creaked, and they strained to suspend it above the ground. The men with the mallets drove the nails home, fixing the gates. They cheered as it was finished, the men releasing the ropes. The gates moaned as they settled in their hinges.
Wood now. Sandstone and steel later.
***
When the Assassins finally convened, it was not in the darkness. They huddled in a marketplace, idly pretending to browse fruit, staying in motion to avoid eavesdroppers. Stephane did most of Duncan’s talking, the other man still quiet after his capture. Maybe it was shame, maybe it was fear, but he had eaten more than what he had at breakfast, so Stephane had to trust Duncan to speak up if something more sinister was at play.
Dobby leaned into a farmer’s stall and purchased some vegetables. She was toting a wicker basket with her, a slab of meat already in the bottom, wrapped in newspaper. Their den, small though it was, had a proper spit and they intended to have a good roast for dinner. She seemed unconcerned to the civilians around her, but the twitch in her right hand, wanting to go for her knife, was obvious to her fellow Assassins.
“I do not suppose that you managed to find out what Lee intends for Connor? Figurehead, trainer, slav-” she queried, for what had to be the seventh time since the conversation had started.
“No,” said Stephane, cutting her off.
They did not want to think of what Lee had forced Connor to do. The mere fact that Lee had slid so far into insanity to believe that transforming Connor into Haytham had been a rational idea was enough inspiration. Lee and Haytham’s relationship had been close, the Assassins knew that much. Turning to sodomy didn’t seem out of the question.
“There were more than five hundred men stationed there, and some families as well. They intend to stay.”
Grunting, Jacob passed some coin to the seller, discreetly hanging back a little from the main group. A military camp was one thing, but families were another. They did not kill the innocent. They were not Vikings that mindlessly pillaged and burned. They were not, and Jacob’s teeth bared at the thought, Templars.
“It is too many to go up against without knowing exactly how many civilians are in there,” sighed Clipper. “Their fortifications are increasing with every day that passes.”
He rubbed at his temples in exasperation. Taking on a fort was Connor’s forte, not his. Perhaps if there hadn’t been families, they would have been able to sneak in, but this was a whole new game.
Jamie spoke up, tugging at his hat, “We need to strike when they’re distracted. Make them laugh while we stab them in the gut. What is Lee preparing Connor for? Presumably a debut into society. Clearly Lee is allowing Connor control.”
“Haytham seemed to be in power when he visited me. He decided whether I lived or died,” said Duncan.
When the other turned their attention to Duncan, he glanced down, unable to bring forth a level of confidence that he had enjoyed previously.
“I cannot go with you,” he announced.
“But you know the-” began Stephane.
“Yes, I know, but I cannot go back. I am deeply sorry. I will help with your preparations,” said Duncan, lifting his head but staring at a point that was over Stephane’s shoulder. He gave them a wry smile, “Besides, someone has to look after the dens. I will need to check on the Homestead as well - Connor would not like it if his community had been abandoned for so long.”
Dobby huffed, but didn’t say anything. Duncan had a point - despite their desperate need for extra hands on the rescue mission, the Templars could and would easily retaliate by burning the Homestead to the ground. That wouldn’t help anyone, least of all Connor.
"It is better," agreed Jamie.
He gave Duncan a reassuring smile.
"Now," he continued. "About that distraction..."
***
A carriage rolled to a halt outside of a small shop. The driver hopped from his seat and removed his hat as he entered the shop. His assistant held the horses, and from the shop the first man emerged with four men in black and a grieving family, weeping for a man that met death too early.
Re: Grief's Madness 11/?
(Anonymous) 2013-05-06 02:00 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Grief's Madness 11/?
(Anonymous) 2013-05-06 02:08 pm (UTC)(link)Grief's Madness 12/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-08 04:49 am (UTC)(link)Skilfully, Clipper and Dobby had constructed a riot near the edge of New York. Those who fled were no good, those who fought (and fought well and honest), were pulled aside. This was third time the riot had been started. Out of it all, with Jacob, Duncan, and Stephane disguised as Bluecoats to disperse the riot before the real Bluecoats arrived, they had taken fifteen men and seven women. Of those, eleven men and three women agreed to a more vigorous training. Clipper was having the time of his life with the women - they had taken to shooting as if they had been practicing since they were in the cradle.
They didn't know what they were training for. Jacob had admitted to feeling guilty about using civilians, but they had to. Five Assassins against six hundred Templars and one Master Assassin was less likely to win than five Assassins and fourteen novices.
The current group were hopeless. Four men had some qualities of what it took, but only one of them really stood out. Jamie pointed to him, and Stephane swooped in to pluck the man from the main fight.
So that would make it fifteen novices, if he agreed.
A troop of Bluecoats caught his eye, as they marched closer to the Assassin-induced riot. Jamie gave three sharp whistles in warning, and immediately the people began to disperse, aided by threats of arrest and a solid few thumps of a musket stock. The disguised Assassins gathered, casually making themselves appear natural, saluting the troop as they passed, while Jamie scooted back from the roof's edge, and Dobby, Clipper, and their latest novice shared a haystack.
Jamie sighed - they were going to have a hard time training these people up to the level they needed to be in the time they had. It was risky and stupid, and Jamie hated it. They were sending these people to be slaughtered. If the Aquila hadn't gone into hiding, then they could have asked Faulkner and the crew to help. Jamie suspected the ship was somewhere south, south enough to fall off the edge of the world if that wasn't a ridiculous concept.
They needed trained Assassins.
Sighing, Jamie scanned their surroundings to check for more Bluecoats, then whistled the safety signal. The recruit looked quite dazed as Dobby and Clipper pulled him out of the haystack. Then he sneezed. And sneezed again and again until his nose was red and dripping, then he sneezed some more. Jamie groaned and buried his head in his hands.
The man was allergic to hay.
***
“I heard you needed help.”
Clipper raised his musket, finger off the trigger, but ready to fire if needed. He looked up - it was surprising how many people didn’t look up - and immediately found the source of the voice. A woman in black robes and a yellow and red scarf leaned over the roof ledge. She smiled, a scar on her lip twisting with it, and Clipper had the distinct impression she was laughing at him.
“Well done,” she said, lightly jumping onto a ladder, sliding down it, and gracefully landing next to him.
Now this was an Assassin. Clipper felt ashamed of himself, for standing next to such an artful member of their Brotherhood. Sisterhood. ‘Hood. At any rate, she clearly had more experience and more skill, and a natural capacity for the arts of the assassin that made Clipper nervous. He didn’t think he would ever be able to match up to her.
“You are Aveline,” he said.
She smiled.
“Very good, mon ami,” replied Aveline. “Now, is it true?”
Clipper didn’t have to ask what she was talking about. He nodded. Aveline’s shoulders slumped, albeit slightly. Only another Assassin would have noticed.
“Well then, Mister...” she trailed off.
“Clipper. Just Clipper.”
“Clipper. A sweet name. Suitable for your speciality. I would not mind having you come to New Orleans to tutor some of my apprentices on the true ways of the shooter.”
A red blush rose from Clipper’s collar. She laughed, petted his shoulder, and said, “Do not be bashful, your skills are superb according to the letters Connor sent me.”
“You would not say that if you met my family.” He shrugged, still quite red. “Will you require lodgings?”
“Ah, yes, about that,” said Aveline. “I have brought ten of my most experienced apprentices with me. They are close to being able to teach novices themselves. I do hope this does not intrude upon your plans.”
Soft thumps of feet landing against the dust and mud of the road behind them made Clipper turn. Aveline’s apprentices had arrived. They were dressed in a similar manner - they had a quasi-uniform, and the feeling of shame returned to Clipper. He knew that it was better that he wore civilian clothing, but their uniforms echoed a strong tradition throwing back to their European founders. They looked good. They looked strong.
They ducked their heads to him, and Clipper realised that they were deferring to his lead.
“Oh, oh, I don’t - I mean, I am not the leader,” he stammered out. “Connor is but...”
“Do not worry yourself,” said Aveline. “You mentioned lodgings?”
“Ah, yes, I believe that we will all fit. It might be a tad squashed, but I am sure it will not matter. We would be grateful for the help.”
Clipper looked away, uncomfortable with so many pairs of eyes on him. He could still feel them on his back as he snatched up a stick and drew a rough map on the road. Aveline peered at it, trying to make sense of the scribbly drawing. The tip of the stick pointed to a squiggle, and scratched at it as Clipper explained, making it more and more convoluted.
“It looks like a whale,” she said finally, confused.
Clipper realised the apprentices had huddled around them as well. He was reminded of a lacrosse huddle. They all seemed confused. Throwing his stick down, Clipper scuffed it out. It did not look like any sort of sea creature at all. (Secretly, he agreed that the map was rather messy, but he would never admit it.)
“Well, I was never very good at drawing. I was supposed to fetch medicine, but I am sure Jamie will understand if I bring you back instead,” he announced.
He smiled nervously at Aveline, and she smiled back, allowing him to lead them to their den.
***
One month.
They only had one month before the Lodge was complete. And when that happened…
…Charles smiled, and fingered the amulet around his neck. The Piece of Eden. No doubt that the Assassins would try to take their former leader back, but it was too late now. He had destroyed Connor’s hatred, tamed Ratonhaké:ton’s fears and truly brutal and savage personality, and imposed a much better, much fairer, much more elegant personality upon him. He doubted that Connor remembered anything of his previous life, his mind filling in the details with the vivid accounts of the journals that Haytham had left behind. Cruelly left behind.
He hoped Haytham would forgive him, if there was an afterlife. But Connor was a lovely substitute, if not entirely perfect. There were minor mannerisms that Charles hadn’t managed to entirely erase. Connor tended to tilt his head to one side when he inspected something, mulling what he saw over in his mind a thousand times with a thousand corrections before speaking. Haytham did not tilt.
It was minor. Charles had accepted it, and moved on. Haytham hadn’t been particularly fond of his Pomeranians (he liked larger dogs, ones that wouldn’t get underfoot, Great Danes, Pointers, and Rottweilers), and he was fearful that the new Haytham would be the same. However, when Spado followed Charles down to the cabin one day, and wriggled through the hands of the guard, Haytham had leaned down and petted the black dog with a gentle smile on his face.
This was also something Charles had accepted, quicker than the first oddity. If Haytham now liked all dogs, not just large dogs, then he was happy by that. He trusted him not to harm them. He trusted him.
One month.
One month, and Haytham would be Haytham in the eyes of the Order as well as the population of the Lodge complex.
Re: Grief's Madness 12/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-08 11:34 am (UTC)(link)The last bit made me feel really nervous. Its good to see that some of Connor is shining through :') I hope he does remember his old life in the end, for his sake, as unlike with haytham, theres no one who can really tell him about anything ehhhh, 14 and earlier? if we assume achilles is dead and his tribe has already gone west. Faulkner might be able to help though.
Im definitely excited for the next part and i love the pacing of this; a lot of other fics take fooooorever to get to each interesting event
Re: Grief's Madness 12/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-19 09:22 am (UTC)(link)Connor is pretty smashed up. Unfortunately, there will be pieces that will take a long time for him to remember.
Thank you for reading! I'm glad you like the pacing!
Re: Grief's Madness 12/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-08 06:46 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Grief's Madness 12/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) - 2013-05-19 09:23 (UTC) - ExpandLOVE THIS!
(Anonymous) 2013-05-08 09:44 pm (UTC)(link)i can't wait to continue reading!
Re: LOVE THIS!
(Anonymous) - 2013-05-19 09:34 (UTC) - Expand<<<< New part is being threaded off part 1
(Anonymous) 2013-05-12 10:24 pm (UTC)(link)