asscreedkinkmeme (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
Entry tags:
Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5
Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
Fill Only
Fill Only
Join or Die
✩ Comment anonymously with a character/pairing and a kink/prompt.
✩ Comment is filled by another anonymous with fanfiction/art/or any other appropriate medium.
✩ One request per post, but fill the request as much as you want.
✩ The fill/request doesn't necessarily need to be smut.
✩ Don't flame, if you have nothing good to say, don't say anything.
✩ Have a question? Feel free to PM me.
✩ Last, but not least: HAVE FUN!
List of Kinks
Kink Meme Masterlist
New Kink Meme Masterlist
(Livejorunal) Archive
(Delicious.com) Archive
#2 (Livejournal) Archive
#2 (Delicious.com) Archive
(Dreamwidth) Archive <- Currently active
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Fills Only
Discussion
Grief's Madness 13/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-12 10:26 pm (UTC)(link)Something moved at his feet, and from the snow popped a very familiar face. Spado. Haytham tucked the dog under his arm, drawing his coat over the immaculately groomed pet. He glimpsed a flash of brown, a splash of blue, a trickle of red. There was no sound but the crunch of his boots - the wolves had ceased.
A tugging sensation spiralled from his chest, a thread coaxing him forward. Spado growled and wriggled, leaping from Haytham's arms, taking hold of the hem on his cape, and tried to pull him back. Unfastening the chain that held it, the fabric dropped over Spado's head and he frantically spun around, trapped. Yet when Haytham lifted it, feeling guilty, the dog had vanished. He scrabbled in the snow for a few minutes but to no avail. Spado was gone.
He decided to follow the thread.
The cloak was a black speck behind him when the ground suddenly sloped upwards. So he climbed it, losing his hat on a clawed branch, but he ignored the loss and kept climbing. Somewhere, someone cried outraged, and it echoed thrice then fell victim to the silence. The slope was steep but consistent, and when Haytham reached the top, he came face-to-face with Spado again.
Haytham scolded the dog for wandering off, and ignored Spado's sharp barking as he walked past.
There was a house. A manor. A manor with a door. An axe - a tomahawk - the handle yellowed by the sun, cracks in the wood from a lack of oil (how long had it been since this war started? How long had he been away? How long would it be before he could remove it, wipe away the dust, and place it on his bedroom wall as memory of a friend who had died at his hands?) was embedded in a white pillar. Haytham didn't touch it, and pushed the door open.
He peered to the left - a study or parlour - and then to the right - a dining room, and before him a set of stairs. The thread led up to a bedroom. When Haytham padded in and looked around the room, the sliver of blue and red and brown belonged to someone.
Two someones.
A child. His child. A man. His child still but grown.
They extended their hands in invitation while their eyes burned with fury.
Then Spado bit his ankle and Haytham yelped, turned away, and chased the dog with idle threats. He clattered down the stairs, out the door, slid down the hill, and chased, chased, chased, until he found his cloak, and feeling cold, put it on.
He grasped at the hands pulling a blanket over his shoulders, petting them. A huff of laughter made him crack open an eye. Haytham was in bed - he'd kicked the blankets off. It was too early to be getting up, the nip of spring mornings still curled around the complex.
"Where are you going?" he mumbled sleepily.
Charles pressed a kiss to Haytham's forehead.
"To business in New York. I will not be gone long."
"Do not leave me with nothing to do," groaned Haytham.
Chuckling, Charles patted a parcel of papers.
"I thought you might like to check my paperwork," he replied. "Then check on the new families. I am sure you will find something else that requires attention."
Fingers stretched from under the blanket and stroked Charles' cheek tenderly.
"Of course. Stay safe," said Haytham.
He didn't quite catch Charles' reply, but he did see the longing gaze that Charles gave him before Haytham fell asleep again.
***
It was Stephane's turn to cook. It was nearly always Stephane's turn to cook, and for that the Assassins were grateful. They ate in relative cheer, passing a few bottles of wine around. Tomorrow Duncan and a few recruits would ride for the Homestead to prepare the people there.
For some, this was the last time they would see Duncan, their glass eyes only staring at huts and clear skies, stars, smoke, and fire. An orange glow. Their blood spilt in the name of freeing a man they had never known. Their loyalty repaid by death. They knew the risks of their new lives and afterwards someone would swear and damn the ground, damn the skies, and damn the bastards that convinced them to take so few into so terrible a battlefield.
But this is the future. This is not now, with Aveline at the head of the table and Stephane at the other, good food between them, and hungry mouths of their comrades, one or two whispering grace while others looked on with mixed amusement, bemusement and annoyance at being restrained from eating.
"A toast!" cheered Aveline, taking her glass and raising it. "To the success of our mission!"
Glasses were raised, the sentiment repeated, and they drank the spiced wine.
After the meal, the table was cleared away and pushed to the side, and more than a dozen bedrolls were set up. Hammocks were slung above these, as the den was a small house squashed with no dignity between two other similar houses, and Connor had sealed off the upper floors, including several bedrooms. If one hadn't known exactly where he'd plastered and wallpapered the staircase, a person would never find it. It was easy to assume that the upper floors were occupied by another family.
The first watch set themselves up for their three hour duty. As the Assassins nestled into their beds, the chatter decreased into a comfortable silence as they fell asleep. Sleep was a precious commodity the recruits had learnt after the first night.
Again, they assumed the pattern of Aveline at one end and Stephane at the other, a mix of their people in between them. The novices were clustered towards the middle, the more advanced assassins near the outer edges. Quite a number of them had rolled together in their slumber, heads nestled in the crooks of necks and arms thrown across chests and shoulders.
The second watch saw Duncan and his group leave so they might slip out of the town without being noticed.
The third watch sounded an alarm.
"Templars, heading straight for us! Lee is with them."
In less than five minutes, the bedding had been packed, as well as food, and they were escaping into the underground passages. The option of fighting was impossible - they did not need to display their power, or lack thereof, before it was necessary.
"How?" snarled Dobby. "How did he know?"
Aveline shook her head, "Perhaps my arrival was more conspicuous than I first realised."
They split into five smaller travelling teams, and ran for their lives while Templars riffled through the pots and pans they had left behind.
"Do we always flee?" asked a recruit.
"No," replied Stephane. "But sometimes it is better to."
Through grates and cellar doors, they heard the piercing cries of, "Fire, fire!" that disturbed New York. Her citizens awoke in terror, and the newspaper described the destruction in minute detail, claiming no bodies had been found in this heinous and random act of arson, the ink still wet as it was waved by newsboys before the embers of the former den had cooled.
Yet the sealed rooms remained so, and the house was untouched by scavengers.
Burn the rats from their nest. Burn them before they breed and wring the necks of their helpless young, pink and hairless and disgusting. Watch them jump overboard as the ship burnt merrily, the fire singing in a twanging tune of creaks and groans, snapping flint and buckling copper, to accompany their three day trek to find land before they too drown like the sailors that were thrown from their Crow's Nests.
Lee inspected the remains. The rats may flee but they would die soon enough.
Re: Grief's Madness 13/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-13 10:17 am (UTC)(link)"haytham"'s trippy dream... i want to know more. i love that there are lots of hints and symbolism but i'm sure i'm missing half the important clues and foreshadowing in that sequence. ugh i love it please tell me we'll be making more trips into "haytham"'s head?
and charles is so sweet to "haytham", it's adorable considering how fucked up everything is. but i have no idea what to think about their relationship any more. (platonic? romantic? familial? and what's with those gazes from charles? i'm too sleepy to speculate this stuff properly >_<)
aaaah, aveline and the others are such BAMFs and ugh i love this fill and you, dear anon, so so much. thank you once more for an amazing continuation! <3 <3 <3
Re: Grief's Madness 13/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-19 09:40 am (UTC)(link)Good job on picking up the clues! I try not to let my artistic purple-prose get too heavy (I read a lot of this sort of modernist texts for uni, so it tends to spill into my writing), but it's good to know that you don't mind!
To put it plainly, Charles would like to fuck Haytham into the mattress, but only when Haytham makes the first move. The brainwashing isn't through secual assualt, but by other techniques, as you've seen.
Grief's Madness 14/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-13 03:36 pm (UTC)(link)Aveline brought them back. They were shamefaced and humbled. Someone screamed something about loyalty, another pointed out that they had not been given sufficient information when they joined the Brotherhood. Clipper coldly cut through the chaos and snarled that they were not playing a game. This was a war, bigger than themselves, part of turmoil that had raged and scathed thousands of years of history. This wasn’t just England versus America. To fail in this mission would be to allow the future to crumble in front of their eyes.
They deserters were silenced by this abrupt change in character.
They did not try to run again.
***
Soot. Covered in soot. Both of them. Haytham picked the ash from Charles’ hair, laughed as it smudged and turned it grey.
“You look old,” he commented.
“I feel old,” replied Charles. “Especially next to you.”
“Well that’s because you put me in my son’s body,” murmured Haytham.
Charles paused for a moment, inspecting Haytham with a strange and alien look. It was uncomfortable, and made Haytham want to shift and squirm, and he gasped as Charles grasped his chin firmly. Blue eyes - blind beggar-eyes - flicked over his face.
“Yes. Yes I did,” he admitted. “But you will outlive me now. I feared that I would spend my last days waiting for death to take me, so that I might see you again.”
He released Haytham, rubbing the marks that his fingers had left on the darker skin, his ghost limbs moving of their own accord.
“I understand why,” said Connor. “But it does not make it right.”
The splash of white and blue danced around them, reflected in his mind’s eye. Lee had been lonely. Haytham had provided stability. Haytham had been his idol, his mentor, his master, and his companion. His lover, perhaps. The kisses suggested lover, but then again, Lee was aware that he was not entirely Haytham, not entirely the same, and therefore would treat him slightly differently.
Connor understood. And he retreated because he had come to care somewhat.
“Oh Charles, I was only joking,” said Haytham. “You do not look old at all.”
It was times like these that completely threw Charles off-balance. Not even a moment of that brief conversation to Connor seemed apparent in Haytham’s mind. He had skipped over it, like an orchestra missing a page of music, and continued on as if nothing had happened to begin with. Haytham touched Charles’ brow, smoothing the frown that had appeared.
“Of course,” said Charles, trying to laugh.
Haytham brushed some more of the soot from his cloak. It had been dumped over the dark navy wool when Charles had embraced him upon their return. He had been unsure of Charles’ business, and why he had to leave so suddenly. An unease had crept into his heart after Charles had left, as if the sleepy farewell would be the last time he ever saw Charles.
He had fretted and worried, his nightmares returning without Charles to chase them away. In the fire, he had burned, his flesh peeling from his skin. In the snow, he was torn to pieces by wolves - sometimes he became the wolf, and he would chase the threads of blue, brown, and red; the figures that ran from him, their hands clasped. The little one would hide in the trees, the large one liked to stalk Haytham from behind.
The screams would scare his guards, and they would burst in only to have whatever was close to Haytham’s hand hurtling towards them. Still they did their duty, and loyally checked on him up to four times a night.
“You are pale,” said Charles.
“I have not been sleeping well,” Haytham admitted.
Even the guards shifted their weight, surreptitiously exchanging a twist in their mouths and a tighter grip on their rifles.
Charles sighed, and patted Haytham on the shoulder, promising, “It will be better tonight.”
Boston. Then the Homestead. Smoke out the rats. Burn them to their root. Destroy the Brotherhood, and claim Haytham for good. This was his Haytham. They would not be allowed to tear him away again.
“Would you like to take a cup of tea in the cabin?” asked Haytham. “The Lawrences were kind enough to gift me with the most delectable strawberries as thanks for helping them settle.”
“Of course,” said Charles.
He had noticed the guards skittishness. Something had disturbed their reasonably peaceful camp. The question was strange - Haytham wasn’t talking about strawberries.
As soon as the door to the cabin closed, and Haytham had put the kettle on to boil, the reason for the interrogation became clear. He motioned for Charles to sit. A temper growled under the surface of Haytham’s skin.
“Why were you in New York?” demanded Haytham. “Were you behind the arson?”
“Arson? I do not know what you are talking about,” said Charles, quite startled by this outburst.
Haytham slammed his fist on the table, barking “Damn it, man! I told you the location of their den so we could keep an eye on them, not make them angry. You are covered in soot. I am not a fool.”
“No, sir, I-”
“Do not ‘no, sir’ me, Charles!”
“I am sorry. It was a mistake. I had hoped to kill them off.”
Reaching for something in his pocket, Charles laid out a package, with a cord and amulet wrapped around the outside of it. He pushed it towards Haytham.
“And did you?” snapped Haytham.
“No,” said Charles, lifting his head defiantly. “It was for the good of the Order. They know we can find them and we know that they’re building an army. Trying to, at least. The sealed rooms contained multiple artefacts that could be of use to us. They had extensive weaponry, art, and quite a few First Civ trinkets.”
Plucking the package up, Haytham undid the cord, flipping the amulet between his fingers. “This is the key that I gave you to safeguard.”
A curious gaze returned to the package, unfolding the brown paper. Dried leaves sat inside it, raw tea, and from the scent that rose to his nose Haytham judged it to an Indian Chai, with a rich brown tone, long unbroken leaves and tiny jasmine flowers. He put the package down.
“This is an apology?”
“No, it was a gift. And a suggestion,” said Charles, speaking carefully.
The kettle whistled. Haytham stood, grasped the handle with a wrapped up cloth, and poured the hot water into a porcelain teapot. He put the kettle back, the burning sensation of the metal already seeping through the cloth. Charles didn’t touch the teapot - Haytham always took charge of making the tea. He slowly pushed his chair back while Haytham’s back was turned, snagging the amulet.
“The cave requires another key,” continued Charles. “And I believe you know where that is, Ratonhaké:ton.”
Before Haytham could duck away, Charles dashed forward and tossed the amulet around Haytham’s neck. As much as he hated having to do this, the boy knew where the real key was. Haytham shrieked, arching his back. The amulet hadn’t had this effect before. But then again, there hadn’t been two personalities in the one body before.
Charles clapped a hand over Haytham’s mouth, pulling him flush against his front, wrestling him to the ground. He wished he’d done this earlier - the Haytham personality had forceful dominance. But Ratohnhaké:ton was strong.
“Tell me, and the pain will stop.”
The child screamed and howled behind Charles’ hand, even bit it, but Charles didn’t let go. They kept it up for three hours, until they collapsed, exhausted.
“Charles, why are we on the floor?”
“You had a dizzy spell, sir,” said Charles, stroking Haytham’s hair.
“I remember the tea, and the amulet, but...” the other man trailed off.
“The heat from the fire and the steam of the kettle made you faint. Perhaps you are ill.”
“Yes,” Haytham paused. “Yes, that must be it.”
******
Author Note: Thank you everyone for the lovely feedback. I will get around to replying to you all tomorrow, but for now I must sleep. :) This is also a notice to say that there will likely only be two or three more parts to this, and then it's all wrapped up. OP, this is close to your last chance to influence the ending! Bittersweet or sad? (I am fully able to go either way).
Re: Grief's Madness 14/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-13 05:00 pm (UTC)(link)Also oh my fucking god holy shit I can't even
Deserters? But not! And "Haytham" sort of knows he's not really him? And oh god I want to hug little Raton, and I'm glad Connor's not totally gone. Perhaps, if the assassins are sucessful or at least if he gets away from lee's influence he can recover somewhat from his fractured personality...?
Re: Grief's Madness 14/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-19 09:48 am (UTC)(link)They are deserters. I wouldn't be counting on them in the final battle. They're just lucky that the assassins agreed that they hadn't been given proper information. Unfortunately, they can't be let go now - they know too much.
I have many feelings over little Ratonhnhaké:ton. We shall not discuss them here, otherwise I might start crying over how cruel life has been to him (and how cruel I am being to him).
Re: Grief's Madness 14/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-13 08:26 pm (UTC)(link)But oh wow, this is great. The last little bit was just... yikes. Can't wait to see what happens next ;u;
Re: Grief's Madness 14/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-19 09:49 am (UTC)(link)Re: Grief's Madness 14/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-14 09:15 am (UTC)(link)For the ending, I do agree with the other two reviewers but I'm personally leaning towards bittersweet because I know the sad one would make me cry :(
But I know either one would be amazing so I think it should be totally up to you on where you want to take it :)
Re: Grief's Madness 14/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-19 09:53 am (UTC)(link)Grief's Madness 15/16 (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-19 09:19 am (UTC)(link)It was difficult to tell between friend and foe while they were cloaked in blood.
Higher on the hill, the complex burned with crackles and sparks of embers that looked like shooting stars against the night sky. The group split, some slipping into the dancing shadows, using the moving light as camouflage to join the team that had set fire to the main Lodge. Connor was around here somewhere; he had to be, there was no option otherwise.
There couldn't be another option.
***
He was ill. He was very ill. Charles said so and Charles wouldn't lie to him. Charles doesn't lie to him. He felt hot and feverish; his eyes itched, weeping tears of stress and sleep. At times, when his strength was restored a little from rest, he would sip at the honeyed tea Charles offered him.
At one point, he was gripped with an overwhelming sense of fury, and he grabbed Charles by the collar, dragging him down and clawing his face with neatly clipped fingernails. Red welts appeared on Charles’ face. Anger rose in those cold beggar-eyes, and Haytham was horrified by his actions. He kissed the wounds, but Charles pushed him away and Haytham made a noise of distress.
Why, why, why? Was he not good enough? Was he not perfect enough? It was his eyes, his eyes didn’t match, his eyes disgusted Charles. His skin was too dark. He was of native blood – but he had English parents. Why did he have native blood when he had English parents?
This was not his voice. His voice was softer. His voice rolled over this second language and touched it with all the hesitancy a kitten might do with a puddle. Silk. Silk in vibrant green and blue, like a bejewelled bird of the forest. It evoked autumn leaves and the smell of roasting meat over open flames, and the feeling of sudden warmth after being frozen by ice and snow. It had the ability to meld with the waves of humanity, or strike out over the booming, echoing noise of cannons. It could be indignant, sad, calm, and it could burn with passion and conviction of a man that would not stop until the mission was done.
This was his voice and it would not be quelled.
Haytham’s body shuddered with tears, and he clutched at the hem of Charles’ coat, begging for forgiveness, demanding he be restrained and collared. Charles did restrain him, but only to stop the mad caterwauling and drug Haytham so he might sleep and recover. The blissful drugs made Haytham sigh and stroke Charles’ face, sleeping peacefully for the first time in weeks.
The fever broke.
Charles wondered at the ability of the Piece of Eden, studied it carefully. Although it did not have the same raw strength of an Apple, as written about in the past, the round talisman certainly had more ability than anything he had seen before. And Haytham’s blood had reacted with such passion. He ignored that it hadn’t done so the first time around, that the blood was different, the aims were different, the situation was different.
***
Slipping the vambraces on had never felt so good. It felt right. The hidden blade had been well cared for in his absence, and it slid in and out at his will. Charles helped with his cravat, making sure it sat perfectly. They exchanged a kiss, a brief press, and tongues slipping between teeth and lips. The taste was fresh – Charles had taken to chewing on mint leaves as of late, something Haytham mimicked with much relish.
His robes were as pristine as the day he’d first laid his eyes on the heavy cream bolt of fabric, the lighter-weighted silk rolled onto a wooden spindle next to it. In a sudden change of mind, Charles had brought the ceremony forward, forgoing the luxury of having all the guests present. They had simply pushed the tables to the side in the mess hall, and assembled the full forces there.
“Due to recent events, I have decided that our more ceremonial induction shall have to wait,” announced Charles. “As you all know, I have been loyally looking after our Grand Master Kenway during his recovery and reincarnation. This has proven to be successful in all aspects.”
He gestured for Haytham to step out. The candlelight reflected upon his features well, Charles decided, unwrapping a ring he had kept in his pocket since the fateful day of Haytham’s “death”.
“Are any opposed?” asked Charles, looking to his attentive audience.
Not one even blinked.
“Very well, then. The time has come to renew your vows. Do you swear to uphold the principles of our order and all that for which we stand?”
“I do,” replied Haytham.
“And never to share our secrets nor divulge the true nature of our work?”
“I do.”
“And to do so from now until death – whatever the cost?”
“I have died once and I will do so again for the cause.”
“Then we welcome you into our fold, brother. Together we will claim the New World that which the Assassins have tried to soil. One defined by purpose and order. Your hand, if you would.”
Haytham extended it, and watched as the elegant ring slipped over his finger. The Templar cross, emblazoned on the silver, shone back at him, the ruby gems glittering like the fire of the earth. Charles bent to kiss it, and straightened his back, again addressing the soldiers.
“You are a Templar, and the Grand Master of our Order. May the Father of Understanding guide us.”
“May the Father of Understanding guide us,” echoed Haytham.
***
Throwing Charles against the wall, Haytham pulled at his clothes, pressing demanding kisses against his lips, and biting the throat once exposed. Charles smiled against them, clasping Haytham’s face in his hands, staring at the eyes that must have enchanted Haytham into lying with the native woman all those years ago. They tumbled their way to the bed, not caring that their robes would be creased as they were thrown to the ground.
The teasing and gasping, the moans and declarations of pleasure, came together in a burst of lust, grinding together until they collapsed in a mass of sweaty limbs and exhilaration at the final divine consummation. They had bound themselves their destinies, and together they would rule the New World, in the economic force, where people were more obliging to overlook. Presidency was a nice option, and Charles had craved it for so long, but now he had come to his senses. Ruling like that would not aid the Order.
No, it was far better to lurk in the shadows – a page straight from the Assassin’s book. They had some use, at least. Providing wonderful Templars, for a start.
The Assassins would come, and they were ready.
Re: Grief's Madness 15/16 (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-19 03:06 pm (UTC)(link)i wonder how connors gonna react if he ever finds out what he did as haytham )8 even if he doesnt hate charles as much as he had once (or maybe that was just haytham talking)
and oh man im excited for this, i can already smell a good climax
Grief's Madness Art Interlude
(Anonymous) 2013-05-21 05:59 am (UTC)(link)http://sostrangechild.tumblr.com/post/50971105102/griefs-madness-snow-sequence-assassins-creed
Re: Grief's Madness 15/16 (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-26 05:58 am (UTC)(link)Re: Grief's Madness 15/16 (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-26 06:10 am (UTC)(link)"It can't be that hard to write the last chapter."
Sometimes the ending is the hardest thing for an author to write. If author!anon wants to leave this story finished, that's their decision. Don't act so entitled to a chapter when this person doesn't get any reward for writing it.
Re: Grief's Madness 15/16 (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-26 07:02 am (UTC)(link)By the way, love the art, writer!anon!
Re: Grief's Madness 15/16 (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-26 07:50 am (UTC)(link)And it hasn't been that long, for crying out loud - 7 days, from last fic post, and only 5 days from the art post. Writeanon even states that they're working on assignments! (Real life stuff, what!? How dare writeanon do anything not relating to fanfic!? The nerve of that selfish writer!)
Sometimes you get hit with massive writers' block, and trying to force it just makes it worse. Sometimes you come up with stuff that, while pertaining to the story, may not be related in that particular timeline (pre-fic, or post-fic), or come out in different formats (art!bunny, instead of fic!bunny.) And others, real life takes precedence over anything else. We don't know what's going on in writeanon's life, and a week of silence isn't grounds for freaking out and demanding a chapter.
Nobody is entitled to a chapter, or even a fic - not even the OP (though OP does have more right to ask about a fill's status than the rest of us. Since, y'know, it's their prompt and all.) That is the beauty, and the frustration, of anon memes. We do not have any right to demand/harass the writeanon who is filling any prompt, no matter how much you'd like to see something completed. Politely inquiring about a fill is fine, but how you worded your comment was downright rude.
(Hell, if I was writeanon, a comment like that would not only piss me off, but make me not want to finish it.)
A fill gets finished when it gets finished.
Re: Grief's Madness 15/16 (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-26 09:25 am (UTC)(link)Re: Grief's Madness 15/16 (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-26 09:18 am (UTC)(link)I do not appreciate you demanding me to write the next chapter. I am not paid to write, I am paid to do retail work, and I pay to go to a good university where I want to be an excellent student. I cannot do this if I allow all of my time to be chewed up by this fic. Already I have dedicated far too much time to it - those fast updates you enjoyed early on came at the cost of a period of disengagement with my education. I write very late at night (on my phone, thank you very much, do you realise how slow that can be?) and sometimes I get a few sentences out while commuting to and from university. That is if I'm not trying to get through 300-500 pages of readings per week with critical reflections on all of them, while working part time.
So sit down, be quiet, and you'll get the next chapter when I am damn well good and ready to write it.
Grief's Madness 16/16 (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-06-16 11:31 pm (UTC)(link)One spotted them and levelled his pistol at the two women, but a recruit dropped from the trees, knocking him down, grinning happily at his mentors before dashing into the fight again. The officer cursed and reached for his gun again, but Dobby put her foot over his outstretched hand and pressed. Shrieking he tried to pull away, but only succeeded in having his hand crushed further.
"Take us to our Mentor," hissed Dobby.
"I do not know what you speak of!" wailed the officer.
“Liar,” snapped Aveline. “Now, where is Connor Davenport?”
The officer squealed. He sounded like a pig, thought Dobby, her eyes focused on him and him alone, blankly observing the fear that trembled in his shoulders. Aveline scoffed.
"No, you would not, now would you, Captain Peterson?" rumbled a voice that made Dobby freeze, her very soul plucked and skewered by a spindle of disbelief.
A pistol was shoved against her neck, another pointed at Aveline.
"Miss Carter, Madamoiselle de Grandpré, a pleasure to meet you both," said Connor, his eyes bright with the adrenaline of the fight.
"Connor, what are - " began Aveline.
"My name is Haytham. You would do well to remember that, it might come in handy when you grovel on the floor of the Lodge, begging for mercy," sneered Connor-not-Connor.
The wolves growled at him and he kept his eye on them. His child was nearby, he could tell; the little one hid in the folds of his cape, the one in snow and midnight flashed past his vision. His grip tightened on his pistols, edging out of reach of the fire wolves. Their eyes caught the glimmer of his ring, widened.
"There will not be a Lodge," said the Irish wolf, her chin raised. "Not at the rate of this fire."
"Did I say Lodge? I meant prison. Arson and murder - you could hang. In fact, I think you will hang, especially as we will press charges," said Haytham.
The other wolf snarled, "You are bluffing. Connor, stop this farce, it is safe now."
Haytham lowered his pistols. For a moment, he appeared quite innocent, his stance relaxed and leaning towards the two women. It vanished like smoke in a wind.
"Correct on both accounts."
They yelped as they were knocked to the ground, pricked with tranquilising needles that made them progressively more sluggish as they fought, bit, and struggled against the soldiers that surrounded them.
"I was bluffing - we do not need to bring the authorities into this," Haytham continued. "And I am safe now. Safe from you."
His child darted from his cape and wailed something at him in Kanien'kehá:ka, plucking at the fabric of the orange and red scarf Madamoiselle de Grandpré was wearing. Haytham silenced him with a stern look, the child running back immediately, but twisting his head over his shoulder to look back at the unconscious assassins as Haytham strode into the fray.
With equal, if not greater skill than the assassins, Haytham picked out the gold and red, spiraling into brutality. His men watched with admiration, when they could, and the pathetic number of attackers was dramatically reduced until he had the last of them enclosed in a circle, his men guarding them with muskets. Charles appeared at Haytham's side, their bodies brushing together as he counted them.
"Novices," Charles murmured. "They are even more desperate than I initially thought."
Haytham took note of the fallen, then re-counted the assassins in front of him. Someone was missing. In fact, many someones were missing. Their forces had been bigger than this.
"You five, go scout the tre-"
Smoke bombs rained down on them, the assassins already pushing through the now disorientated soldiers, their hands pulling scarves over their mouths. Haytham engaged his second vision, shoving his men out of the way as he went after the fleeing red and gold targets. Beside him, his child ran, scampered up a tree, and his grown son followed suit.
"Ratonhnhaké:ton!" he bellowed. "This is not the time for games."
Someone slammed into his back, knocking him down, and Haytham snarled, tried to flip his attacker over but felt a cold line of metal against his throat. He stilled, thinking perhaps it was only Ratonhnhaké:ton that had jumped him, that the cold was an exposed root in damp earth, not a knife. Ratonhnhaké:ton wasn't real, he told himself, he'd tripped. It was the sickness. His son was dead.
"Don't move," warned his captor.
"Clips was in the tree," said Ratonhnhaké:ton dancing in the snow in front of him. "Clips is kin."
"Shut your mouth," ordered Haytham.
"Who are you talking to, Connor?" asked his captor known as Clips.
Haytham supposed his real name was Clipper Wilkinson, one of his son's recruits. Clever boy, perched in the tree, won't you open that pretty mouth and a sing a song for me?
"My name is Haytham Kenway."
When would they learn? His son rotted in the earth, mincemeat for the scavengers of the cemetery. He saw his son and his child, but he knew they were not real (yet he spoke to them anyway). Why they persisted in this foolish crusade was beyond Haytham. A piercing cry made him flinch as Wilkinson summoned his comrades, and more feet approached, quietly padding from the shadows.
"No, you are Connor. Ratonhnhaké:ton - " and here Wilkinson stumbled over the letters of Connor's native name " - you are our Mentor."
"Then you won't slit my throat," said Haytham. "Charles!"
The other Assassins leapt forward to stop Haytham from shouting. Wilkinson panicked, jerking the knife away as Haytham arched against him, and it was almost thrown to one side in his haste. They tussled, and the telltale sound of extending hidden blades made the others even more frantic to subdue Haytham. Wilkinson yelped, a cut on his brow obscuring his vision with blood.
Finally, Haytham was grabbed and contained, thrashing viciously in an intense fight that ended with wrapping rope around Haytham's body to stop him while several of them sat on him.
"I retrieved the ladies," said Jamie. "It was easy in the confusion."
He looked quite proud of himself for accomplishing this. Haytham opened his mouth to shout again, but Wilkinson took advantage of this to shove a piece of cloth into Haytham's mouth. The fighting still raged on behind them - the noise was too great for Charles to hear him anyway.
Haytham howled against the gag despite this, jerking his body around as they wrestled a blindfold over his eyes and tied him to a post in a covered cart. Others pressed around him, progressively filling the cart even as it rolled away from the Lodge. Someone was stroking his hair, making soothing noises. He thought it might have been Connor or Ratonhnhaké:ton for a moment, but he realised that it was a real hand.
"What did they do to you?" asked a voice miserably.
"Charles loved me," replied Haytham, not sure how he came to the answer but knowing it was right even if it were muffled by cloth.
He sighed, and this time he felt the small form of Ratonhnhaké:ton lean against him, and his grown son embrace him, before they melted away, coaxing him to rest his weary body and play with them in the snow.
***
Charles had screamed and beat his fists wildly. Charles had wept. Examined the evidence, then wept again. Tears of sadness, bitterness, madness, tears of a man pushed too far. He had sworn not to lose Haytham again, but he had. He was not worthy.
In the dawn of the fight, the Lodge still smouldering, the men still collecting the bodies of the fallen to be identified and sent to their families, Charles Lee looked around at the sanctuary he had tried to build. It had been a fool's task. The gods must have been laughing at this entire business, this petty and dramatic theatre of human emotion that had played before them. He wished for forgiveness, for them to look benevolently upon him and allow him one wish.
Spado trotted up to him, an experienced war dog, loyal to his master, and licked Charles' hand. When his master crumpled to the ground, gunshot still ringing, he curled beside him and waited as his master bled to death on an earthen floor covered with ashes and blood of the fight of the previous night. When his master's hand stilled, fingers clutching the fluffy fur of his beloved dog, Spado snuffled closer, licked his master's face and slept next to him to wait for one of the other men to find them. Charles smiled and closed his eyes.
His wish for death had been granted.
END
***
A/N: Now's probably a good time to mention that I am probably writing an epilogue. I had a lot of difficulty in this part, so it's been left pretty open-ended as to what actually happened. The epilogue won't be written for a while, and it may even come in the form of a few chapters rather than just one part, but for now, this is the end. Thank you to everyone that has read, commented, shared, and squealed, I appreciate each an every one of you. Thank you for taking this journey with me. :) I hope to see you all again in the future!
Re: Grief's Madness 16/16 (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-06-16 11:53 pm (UTC)(link)i mean
so 'haytham' has been captured alive (but i guess wounded and has pretty much given up) and so connor has a chance to heal and piece together his fragmented mind. charles, i guess, committed suicide. spado was such an adorable detail, i had a bit of moisture in my eyes and i am not the type cry at fic.
asdfghjjkl
this was well worth the wait, and if the future epilogue has anything to do with connor's recovery i shall await it even more eagerly than i am already :3
Re: Grief's Madness 16/16 (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-06-17 08:19 am (UTC)(link)Yes, "Haytham" has been captured. It'll take a lot longer for Connor to recover than for him to be turned into Haytham, poor thing. Charles did indeed commit suicide, and I felt Spado needed to be there with him when it happened. Dogs can have an uncanny ability to predict death and to cuddle into your arms when you need it. (But this is not the last we'll see of Spado, I believe - you have no idea how upset I was when I discovered the real Spado went missing not long after Charles Lee's arrest for treason, so I am not letting him be at the mercy of non-animal loving humans!) Besides, Charles loves his pup so it only made sense.
Ahhhh, I'm glad it was worth the wait! The future epilogue will deal with Connor's damage, providing a bit of sweetness to this somewhat downer of an ending.
Thank you for reading! :D
Re: Grief's Madness 16/16 (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-06-18 02:39 pm (UTC)(link)but this turned out amazing!! it's a great ending and handled well even with its open-endedness
and oh wow the last scene with charles... ouch my heart unu and im excited for the epilogue, whenever it is done!!
Re: Grief's Madness 16/16 (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-07-07 02:11 pm (UTC)(link)I'm sorry I broke your heart. Charles is completely loopy and a dick but he's an interesting character to play with. By this point he knows he won't get Haytham back - the illusion has been broken so to speak.
Thank you again! :)