Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

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Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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Grief's Recovery 1/? (TW: psychological abuse, same triggers as before)

[(Anonymous)]

Connor's beads had been clumsily woven into his hair, the locks not quite long enough to be braided properly.

Haytham raised his hand, an effort that felt as if he were dragging it through ice slurry, and picked at the beads. His eyes were dull with sleep. A heavy weight had settled upon his mind. Another fever? At that moment Haytham wanted nothing more than cool hands to massage his temples. Exactly like Ziio.

Except Ziio had never massaged his temples, had she? Only when he was a child, sick, with a fever that had induced such horrible dreams. Those cool hands had provided comfort. A balm to soothe.

The bedroom he was in was much larger than the cabin's. It was too plain to be the Lodge, but it felt about the right size. What if this was the Lodge unfurnished? Maybe Charles had wanted to surprise him?

But then how had he made it here?

The beads felt familiar. As if he knew the texture. The room also felt familiar, but only faintly, as if he'd seen it through milky glass a long, long time ago.

A gagging sensation came up in his throat, bile rising with acidic vengeance. Twisting to one side, the contents of his stomach were deposited into a bucket, having being handily placed by someone with a great deal more foresight than most. This purge preoccupied Haytham for several minutes, his throat burning but his stomach easing up. With the foul stench beside him, it was difficult to determine whether he'd finished or not, but eventually Haytham deemed it safe to lie back, propped up by half a dozen pillows.

Then it struck him. This was the room from his dreams. This was the room that his son and child had led him to, through the snow that crunched under his boots and Spado with a silk ribbon trying to pull him away. This was the room he'd forgotten.

Haytham eased himself up, looking around him. The first thing he noticed were the irons clapped around his ankles. Then the jug of water on the bedside table, still frosted with condensation and rattling chips of ice.

A knock at the door drew his focus. It opened to admit one of the Assassins - Aveline. She was carrying a tray but Haytham couldn't see what was on it. Probably for the best. In Haytham's experience, those sorts of hidden trays were a prelude to torture. When she looked at him, her eyes seemed sad, pitying almost. That didn't make sense at all.

Nothing made sense.

His head hurt from thinking about it, a good sign that he was either dreaming or she was a fever hallucination. His immune system had been so weak these past few months.

The Assassin put the tray down, revealing nothing more dangerous than a warm bowl of porridge. She didn't seem sure of how to approach him, hesitating, examining him with her eyes, before saying, "Good morning, Connor."

"You are deluded," murmured Haytham as he rolled over, not wanting to see that strange, sad gaze anymore.

If they wanted to kill him, then so be it. This was just a dream. If he died then he would wake up, and he was sure he would be carefully entwined in Charles' arms, the sun barely breaking through the canopy of the trees to play twisted shadows on the floor. It was a very convincing dream, but a dream nonetheless.

He screwed his eyes shut and waited for the release.