Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

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Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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✩ 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!

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Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
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Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [13.5/?]

[(Anonymous)]

Almost entirely by coincidence their destination is on the far side of town from the Green Dragon, in a slightly more run-down area that adjoins the shipyards. All of the activity going in and out of the house is a lot less conspicuous in such a place. Situated at the far end of a row, the house is in a carefully maintained state of desolation and dilapidation, just enough to make it at once both unremarkable yet forbidding. At a passing glance it could just as easily be taken for the family home of a dockworker as it could be for a den of scum and villainy. Tall and narrow, it has a definite slant to its frame and one first-floor window is smashed, with dark wooden boards nailed up behind the pane to seal the breach. None of the other buildings on the street are in a much better state of repair however. Heavy curtains are pulled across its every window, allowing no light to leak out and indicate the usage of any of the rooms or the presence of any of the occupants within. In spite of having been here before, knowing full well what is inside, Connor still feels a twinge of familiar anxiety as they approach the place. This is the sort of dank, dark, cramped place that he can never get used to.

Entirely unaffected, immune from both years of living here and in some of the older cities of Europe, Tom saunters up to the deceptively-thick front door, sparing a quick glance each way before swinging it open. He doesn't have to beckon to get the teenager inside fast, for in spite of his reservations about the place there is no telling if they are being watched or not. They may not be the only ones with spies on the streets anymore, and this hideout must remain as unconnected with the Assassins as he. As soon as he is safely over the threshold the older Assassin quickly but quietly closes the door, sealing it tight behind them and plunging the narrow hallway into near blackness. In spite of a momentary blindness he remains keenly aware of the constricting smallness of the space, the lack of air. It feels uncomfortably like a cage. Eyes soon adjusting, picking up the blue glow of the man behind him, he detects a faint hint of candlelight falling on the stairs from above. A particular policy of Yvette's is to never hold any meetings or discussions of importance on the ground floor, if she can possibly help it.

With some trouble manoeuvring in the small space Connor lets his elder get by him in order to continue properly leading the way, trailing a few steps behind and trying not to feel the walls closing in on him. The staircase is of a particularly tight and narrow construction, forcing anyone who would brave it into single file, a subtle but intentional bottlenecking measure. Not only that, each board creaks loudly at the least weight. Traversing them silently is a near-impossible art, one that no intruder could possibly hope to grasp on their own. It's almost as if the building had been specifically designed to withstand and resist intrusion. Rather than showing off now Tom loudly announces their arrival at every other step. Short of trying to climb up via the walls the teenager has no choice but to do the same. Surprisingly when they reach the first landing, after making about twenty-odd excruciating creaks each, none of the doors leading off it are open. A line of yellowish-orange light can be clearly made out beneath one however.

Tom's fist has barely raised to knock on said door when a shout from inside preempts him, arresting the motion; 'Arête!'

Sighing the Assassin glances back and rolls his eyes, one foot lightly tapping against the floorboards with an impatient beat. Though he is perfectly capable of sitting still for hours at a go should target practice or a mission demand it, the man has remarkably little patience most of the time. Usually this leads to some manner of destruction or annoyance should he be kept waiting and allowed to get bored enough. Very few seconds have passed when the door jerks wide open, the Frenchwoman knows her apprentice all too well.

Light pours from the room in sharp contrast to the dimness of the stairs. Once the spots clear from his vision and Connor can take a step inside the source of all this illumination becomes apparent. A veritable multitude of candles of many mismatched heights and shapes decorate the room. Some stand in holders, some are attached to fittings on the walls, while many others are strewn freely over any available surface, sealed in their places by large clumps of previously-melted wax. It's a fairly impressive display, revealing the true extent of the curtains' achievement in blocking any trace of this from reaching the outside world. Creeping uneasiness prompts him to draw as far away as possible from the army of little flames, instinctively shrinking from the perceived danger. Tom, noticing nothing and still utterly at ease, goes to settle himself between the pair of windows, one of which is completely boarded up. There is little in the way of actual furnishing to the chamber. The far wall, miraculously devoid of candles, is draped with a sheet of white cloth, which he doubts is purely for decorative purposes. Set dead centre is a large table, its surface spread with any number of maps and documents that vie for space with pens, inkwells, and yet more of those flaming sticks of wax. Yvette currently stands bent over it, hands clasped behind her back as she intently examines some note or feature of particular interest among the clutter.

The person responsible for letting the pair of them in remains by the door, waiting for a dismissal, no doubt used to leaving when the mistress of the house has other company. Wiry with dirty features and rather ragged clothes, including a woollen cap and fingerless gloves, the man reminds him a little of how Dobby had looked when she first came to the homestead. This alone would have immediately identified him as one of the local thieves. That he is here suggests he is experienced, probably used to fleeing over the rooftops, outrunning pursuit, and skilled at generally going unseen in a crowd. It's unlikely that this is the leader of Boston's thieves though, he doesn't look nearly old or scarred enough for that.

'Your displeasure was loud.' Although the woman doesn't look up, or move in the slightest, her reprimand is clearly directed at her apprentice. While each of those words is delicately enunciated, pronunciation clipped, she lapses back into a more natural, lightly accented speech when she continues; 'It would have been impossible to concentrate with you standing out there.'

In the midst of arranging himself more comfortably, Tom shrugs off the displeasure. 'Thought you'd want to talk to our new infiltrator as soon as possible.'

'I am sure you did, Ton,' she replies distractedly, as if indulging a child. For a few moments more the master Assassin peruses her papers, before abruptly straightening and turning to the man by the door. 'This will wait until morning.'

Nodding his acknowledgement the informant mutters a vague goodbye before promptly showing himself out, knowing better than to stick around when no longer wanted. His footsteps can easily be heard descending the stairs as they collectively wait in silence. Trying to resist the urge to shift his weight, and thus draw the full attention of the room, Connor wishes he were more at ease here. With a mixture of relief and trepidation he hears the distant click of the back door closing.

Satisfied now that they no longer have an audience, the woman finally advances to regard the novice properly. As she walks a circle, looking him up and down, her expression is set, inscrutable. 'You have quite recovered from your injuries, yes? Your journey did not exacerbate them?'

'The sprain is mostly healed, yes. I did not encounter any difficulties with it on the way here.' An inquiry after his health wasn't quite the opening he expected here. It throws him slightly, although not quite so much as the almost predatory circling. Self-conscious, he straightens his back.

'Good.' No particular clue as to her mood comes from her voice when she paces round behind him again. 'It would not do to send you in there in a bad condition. You need always to be prepared to run, in case things should go badly suddenly. This is a dangerous course you pursue.'

Word had always had it that briefings with Yvette have a tendency of getting very intense, very quickly. Certainly her approach is rather different to that of Achilles, which isn't surprising. Yet, while this feels like her trying to make him reevaluate things, this could just as easily be her way of being upfront with him. It also seems like another of those warnings.

'Are you quite sure about this?' Finally coming to a halt directly in front of him now, she proceeds to stare him down, keenly searching for the least trace of a waver in his resolution.

'Completely,' he lies, steadily holding the challenging eye contact nonetheless. Unsure though he may be at present it needs to be done, if only to quell the disquiet of his own confused mind.

Some moments of stillness pass, in which it is impossible to tell if she intends to call him out on the lie or not. Only when Tom impatiently clears his throat does she make her decision, breaking the stare. Her eyes briefly flick over the teenager once more. 'Very well...'

Yvette crosses the room to take up position beside the covered wall, a hand rising to grip the material. Prompted by a pointed look Connor reluctantly draws further into the room, managing to find himself another spot that is relatively isolated from the numerous little points of flame. With a sharp, well-placed tug the woman brings the whole sheet down in a single, fluid cascade of cloth to expose the wall behind. Or, at least, what little of it is actually visible beneath a vast collage of tacked-up papers that spreads from floor to ceiling. Set amidst this web of writings in pride of place are rather impressively accurate portraits depicting each of the major Templars of the new colonial rite. Wondering quite how she would have come to have them, he's unsure whether it's harder to imagine that she managed to have such pictures conveniently located and then promptly stolen or that she commissioned one of her spies to create them. One must always know your enemy, after all. Unwittingly he takes a step forward, then a few more, ostensibly with the intent of deciphering some of the various scrawls of handwriting that no doubt detail all of the information they have been able to dig up so far. The sheer volume of it temporarily worries him, until he reads one note detailing something about Pomeranians.

'You already have had the pleasure of meeting them, I believe.'

'I would not call it that. Haytham is the only one I have ever spoken to.' Slightly too late he realises that referring to the grandmaster by that name is a mistake, using a degree of familiarity that is entirely out of place in this manner of discussion.

If she notices the slip she does not show it. Instead she gestures to the wall with a broad sweep of one arm; 'Allow me then to better acquaint you with the enemy.'

Directing his attention to each of the images in turn, she proceeds to give him brief rundowns of the more essential basics of what her men have been able to learn so far. Thankfully the Frenchwoman chooses not to tell him every little detail, saving them from having to stand here all night. Knowing too much would only be harmful to his subterfuge, as the slightest slip, of drawing on things he shouldn't rightly have any idea of, could quite easily be a death sentence. After all, most of them have no real reason to trust him in the first place. The true gravity of the situation he is placing himself in begins to fall properly into perspective as she talks. It seemed almost easier when he knew nothing more than their faces and what few observations he had been able to make during the Southgate raid. And this is only going to get worse...

'William Johnson; the intellectual of the group. Our paths have come close to crossing before this due to his particular interest in and dealings with the Iroquois. He seems to have a keen grasp of the language, competent skills as a negotiator, and a considerable knowledge of the area. Given what we now know of their purpose here, it is a good bet that he was Kenway's first call regarding the artefact and the location of the temple.

'Thomas Hickey is the man's assistant, although god knows why. Drinking and womanising are the only real skills we have as yet observed him possessing. One can only assume that he is a decent fighter, and extra pair of hands, if nothing else.

'A doctor, in name more than nature, Benjamin Church was the one who had the most obvious grievance with the late Silas Thatcher. Apparently he places profit over the value of other's lives, refusing treatment to those who cannot afford his prices, so a natural choice for the Order. Out of all of them, he seems most like a weak link to be exploited.

'Jonathan Pitcairn had also come to our attention before Southgate, with his rather suspiciously abrupt transfer to Boston from another command. It caused quite a stir with Braddock, apparently furthering this divide between he and the Templars. Pitcairn is their main soldier and point of contact with the redcoats over here, with some years of service and experience behind him.

'Then there is Charles Lee. He is, as yet, uninitiated but I am told that it is not for lack of trying. An ambitious little climber if ever I saw one; he seems to stick to Kenway like glue half the time, and when he's not is busy running errands or doing whatever he can to better ingratiate himself with the group in general. Last I heard he had been called away south with Braddock, but rest assured that he will be back at the first opportunity. What with this dangerous enthusiasm of his he may pose the greatest single threat to you, should he feel you are beginning to get in his way that is.'

Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [13.7/?]

[(Anonymous)]

'Pff,' Tom interjects with a loud snort, disgust and contempt clear on his face. 'The man would murder his own grandmother if it'd improve his chances.'

'Men have done worse things than that to secure a place within the Templar hierarchy.' There is an unexpected sharpness to her reply, a fleeting darkness that passes over her features as her eyes seem to focus on some distant point. She opens her mouth as if to say something more but, on making a sideways glance at Connor, she reconsiders. With a shake of her head she indicates the final, central picture. 'I take it you know Kenway well enough to be going on with for now. But make no mistake, he believes in what he's doing more than any of them.'

Perhaps it is just him twisting things, but people seem to be taking every chance they get to drive that point at him; Haytham is the enemy. In his mind it remains a statement that is simultaneously true and false, no matter how much he thinks on it. Tomorrow will settle it though, he has to believe that.

Aware that he is being watched, he chooses his words carefully, still conflicted in spite of it all and now with a feeling that something is being held back from him. It's almost as much an attempt to convince himself as it is to convince the others, a repetition of a fact that he needs to remind himself of with shameful regularity. 'He is not a grandmaster for nothing.'

'Indeed he is not.' The faintest hint of a smile curls her lips. 'You do seem to have him pretty taken in however. I was becoming quite concerned by all the lack of activity here until Achilles informed me of your part in it.

'They have not done anything?' It's hard to believe his involvement could have had that great an effect.

'Nothing substantial.'

'It's been boring as hell.' Tom grumbles quietly, looking bored just thinking about it.

'They have still been meeting regularly, but whenever they talk they always head up to their little den on the first floor landing. It's quite impossible to listen to them there without being detected.' If the thin scowl is any indication the irony of falling foul of the same precautionary measure she practices isn't lost on her.

'Got quite a beating, the one that tried it.' Piping up again, the apprentice appears not nearly so put out by the hinderance, to the point of irreverent faux-cheeriness. 'Lucky he was drunk or they mightn't have left him alive.'

That earns a reproachful glare, one that sufficiently cows him so that his master can keep full control of the conversation, for a while at least. 'Eavesdropping is fortunately no longer such a concern for us, not now that we have you, Connor. Help plan this assassination attempt, earn their trust, keep them as occupied as you can, and report back to us everything you learn. The more information we have, the easier things will be when the time comes.'

'I am not convinced they will tell me anything much, outside of the planning.' Serious doubt has been creeping back in ever since he set foot in this room, there is no guarantee that even Haytham really trusts him after all. Not that the man actually should anyway, he can't help but think as he rapidly pushes aside the ominous idea of 'when the time comes'.

'Don't be so sure. You have something they want.' As the closest thing the Brotherhood has on this side of the Atlantic to an expert on those who came before and their remains, her quiet resentment is palpable. While she must not believe for a second that he would ever dare go so far as to actually show the site to Haytham it is clear that the mere offer of it rather irks her. It's not really surprising that she becomes harsher when she continues. 'They need you, but don't think that will stop them gutting you if they ever find out what you're really doing there. Should you begin to doubt your safety in the least you are to leave. Immediately. Is that clear?'

'Yes, entirely clear.' Achilles had gone over the exact same thing with him, twice, during their last private talk. Now, that doesn't mean he is entirely sure he'll have the sense to do any such thing when it comes to it, but that's not going to stop him offering the assurance anyway.

A conspicuous look passes between the two older Assassins, a silent debate, both of them seeming slightly less than convinced. Contrary to his expectations however the master simply sighs; 'This opportunity you have created is undeniably a great benefit to us in this struggle, Connor, but it is not worth losing you. All we want is to be sure that you recognise your own limits and will not try to overreach yourself.'

If only. This cautioning would have been far more effective had it come before his first meeting with the grandmaster, or maybe even the second, for he has the feeling he crossed his limits long ago. Still, if he can just prove to himself that Dobby is right then everything will be fine. He can do this, he has to believe that. 'You have no need to worry, I understand the risks and have no intentions of letting them discover or kill me. Things worked out well enough at Southgate, they will work out again.'

'You certainly do have the melon... There will be eyes constantly on that building, so do not hesitate to signal if you need us. Otherwise, should all go well, Ton or I will meet you at the southern end of Macneal's Rope Yard in three days time to check up on your progress.' Discussion abruptly over Yvette turns her back on him, returning to the table and the previous object of perusal. Having now come to some manner of conclusion she seems to see no need for any further talk. One hand waves dismissively; 'Go now, get some sleep while you can still rest easy.'

And just like that he too is dismissed. Once again he has somehow managed to come away from an interrogation with no more than a warning, albeit another rather strong one. Not wanting to linger any longer in this room than he has to, Connor gladly does as instructed and follows Tom towards the door. He casts one last look over his shoulder at the wall, knowing with a shiver of anticipation that tomorrow he'll be facing at least some of them in the flesh again. After the glow of all those candles the climb to the next floor seems a lot darker than the last, and a steeper one too. The attic is divided into a number of smaller rooms by a number of partition walls that were clearly installed after construction, each housing a bed for anyone passing through who might need one. In spite of, or perhaps because of, the plain practicality of the design the space rather recalls the feel of a prison. At least there are no leering soldiers, he tells himself, that counts for something. Nonetheless getting a good night's sleep up here will be impossible. Not that he intends to mention any such thing to his elders, and particularly not the fact that he may well be much better rested after his first night in the Green Dragon. Or not, he quickly corrects himself.

Guiding him into one of the larger box-rooms, which has the additional virtue of a small window, Tom grimaces at the sight of the rather dismal straw mattress within and quickly ducks away to go in search of some form of extra bedding. Both gestures are very much appreciated, nevertheless the teenager is relieved when the older Assassin shows no particular inclination to stick around and chat after he hands over the blanket. Teasing would have been inevitable if he had, and Connor is in no mood to endure any of that right now. Left alone, he wastes no time shutting himself in, preparing for a long night of lying awake and listening to the building creak. Stripped down and stretched out atop the blanket the novice knows that if he closes his eyes he will see the cave, replaying the memories yet again. It's a bittersweet prospect and, tempting as it may be, he doesn't dare indulge in it now, for the walls up here are paper-thin.

...

In the end it's quite fortunate that he doesn't get much sleep, as it spares him from a drenching when Tom comes to wake him with a bucket of water in the morning. He still thinks that wandering in there soaked-through is far from a good idea, not if he's going to stand any chance of doing anything useful anyway. Ignoring the blatant disappointment on the Assassin's face he slings his quiver over his shoulder, signalling his readiness. Inside he is torn between wanting to get things underway quickly and wanting to hold off the inevitable. The flights of stairs somehow feel even more precarious and narrow now in what little dim light manages to filter into the space. Ahead of him the line of the man's shoulders grows tenser as the distance to the back door shrinks but upon reaching it he turns to the novice with a sudden bout of breeziness.

'Don't you go getting all soft on them, all right.' Tom's hand rests on the door handle, there will be no time for talking once he opens it. He offers one last, slightly strained smile by way of parting; 'Stay safe.'

No sooner than feet have touched pavement than it shuts fast behind him, a bolt audibly sliding into place. Certainly the Englishman has mastered the art of closing doors near-silently. Connor's skin prickles with that sensation of being watched as he pauses, standing there exposed in the empty alley. Somewhere up above, just out of sight, the master Assassin lurks, ready to shadow his every footstep. That wavering disquiet is only building further now, in spite of the fortification provided by the, relatively, fresh air that he breathes in hungrily. Along with something that feels far too much like guilt. Ignoring the pressure of Yvette's watchful eyes as best he can, not foolish enough to expose them both by attempting to locate her, he braces himself and heads east. It is as the safe-house recedes from reach that he realises he actually has no real plan from here. So focused has he been on actually just getting to Boston and appeasing the older Assassins that he hasn't really had a chance to think past it. Part of him was simply so sure they would see through him, that they'd realise the danger and put an end to his association with the grandmaster.

Studiously avoiding any trace of red, he creates a rather circuitous route across town that gives him more time to think, or at least stall, and likely causes more than a few headaches for the following Assassin. If nothing else he can always claim that he's just trying to keep her sharp. Although the sky is quite clear of clouds this morning there is a frost on the ground and every exhaled breath is visible in the chill air. A prelude to the fullest onset of winter. Boston is nonetheless in the midst of waking to go about its business as usual, although those of its citizens out on the streets are a little more tightly bundled up and are moving a little faster. Just because people are keen to get back indoors to the warmth of a fireside though doesn't mean that they ignore him. He draws looks, as he always seems to here, and before long he is dearly wishing he at least had a hood to hide behind. Were he not already sticking mostly to the back-alleys and cut-throughs the stares would have caused him to do so.

Eventually however he has to near his destination, with a mixture of relief and trepidation; were he to start going in circles, as he half wants to, Yvette would probably decide that he'd changed his mind and promptly haul him back to the safe-house. He has the feeling that she, just as much as Achilles, will be consciously looking for the least excuse to call this off. Fortunately the novice catches sight of the sign before he can take more than a step out of the shadows of the empty alleyway. Fairly safe in the assumption that there aren't going to be any other taverns, inns, or other public buildings with a greenish-coloured dragon hanging over their doors, he nevertheless pulls back. Now more than ever Connor dislikes the idea of walking straight into the place alone. Even in the company of his fellow novices he has never felt very comfortable in any of Boston's drinking establishments, for their patrons are always far too interested in him for his liking. Frontier taverns are one thing, those in larger settlements are quite another. His concerns are certainly not helped by the fact that a group of redcoats are conspicuously looping round the block as if waiting for the moment when they can rightfully leave off duty and go straight inside.

Besides, the fact is that he can't be sure that Haytham is even in the building right now. So surely it's better to wait out here, to just watch until he sees the man before doing anything. The idea of having to introduce himself to the other Templars doesn't exactly thrill him. Sinking down, pressing his back to the reassuringly solid brickwork, the teenager does his best to disappear into the shadows. No one should pay him much heed here and he has a good, clear line of sight on the entrance to the Green Dragon. For the time being at least he can stay, although the novice is quite aware that this is a pretty poor tactic and that he'll have to bite the bullet eventually. The longer he drags this out, the more annoyed he's going to be making Yvette, and that's a worse prospect to face than the inside of the tavern. Still, he remains hesitant as the sun continues to steadily rise higher above the horizon. What if he's wrong? What if he's right? Either way, crossing that threshold will change things, tip the balance, and not necessarily for the better. There's no choice though, there never has been. Whatever there is between them, he needs to know. If nothing else it'd always be good to get rid of Braddock.

'I do hope you weren't planning on staying out here all day.'

Heart attempting to both leap and plunge in an instant, Connor ends up feeling slightly nauseous, and more than a little embarrassed. His attention must have slipped severely for him to have missed the pad of footsteps approaching from behind, however quiet they may have been. Deprived of the chance to properly steel himself, he looks up to meet Haytham's inquisitive expression and nothing has changed.

Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [13.7/?]

[(Anonymous)]

*screams*

Aaaaaahhhh oh man I love that we learnt a lot in this, and I like how you're detailing the other assassin's jobs and missions. I'm also glad in a way we didn't have to nervously read Achilles' conversation with Connor (unless I missed an update?) because I love Achilles but he's so scary sometimes, even when you're just reading him in fic TT_TT

oh man oh man oh man i don't know what to say except thank you write anon thank you so much!

<3

Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [13.7/?]

[(Anonymous)]

This story is just amazing, anon. That last sentence got me. I too am torn like our poor Connor here -- don't know whether he can trust Haytham or just shun the very prospect of going further... /pats Connor/ Paranoia can't feel pleasant either.

Very excited for the next part!

Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [13.7/?]

[(Anonymous)]

Anon, you're incredible and I'm super glad you decided to fill this. Looking forward to the next update, whenever you are able to write/post it! Much love! <3