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.

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Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
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Fill: He Who Gave You Wings [ 1 / 2 ]

[(Anonymous)]

Allow me to preface this by saying that I'm very sorry for doing this to Haytham. 8( I'm going to go crawl under a rock now.

***

I.

As a child, Haytham only had eyes for his father. The man was his idol, and he could do no wrong; his words, his wisdom, his skill--he could only hope to be as great as Edward. Such was a fool’s errand, of course, as no one--no one--could be as incredible as he.

This was, at least, his mindset up to the point that he started to live under the guidance of Reginald Birch. The two men were similar in a sense (inspiring, powerful, skilled with a blade), but the presence of his mentor was different. While his father had an aura of playful mystique about him, Master Birch seemed... darker. Oh, make no mistake, his personality was no less alluring to a young boy, but there was definitely something that stirred a feeling of fear within him.

Still, he could not help but be drawn toward the man like a moth to a flame.

Besides, it was not as if Master Birch had done him any wrong--quite the opposite, actually. With his mother a hollow shell of whom she used to be, his father dead, and his sister missing, Haytham had few others to turn to. Master Birch was the only individual he could trust and the only one who seemed interested in getting revenge upon those who had decimated the Kenway family, even if he did seem rather preoccupied by all of this business about Assassins and Templars.

The two factions didn’t really matter to him--not now, not at this age. Haytham was happy enough to find order in his life again--purpose and direction. (Master Birch always thought that was amusing whenever Haytham voiced his appreciation for his patronage.) The structure and rigidity of his mentor’s teachings were exactly what he needed now after all of the upheaval he’d experienced; it served as a way to ground himself, even if it didn’t mesh well with what Haytham had learned from his own father.

As the years passed, though, that fact became less and less important. Edward Kenway became a fond memory, a man great in his own time, but it was Master Birch who held his admiration now--and it was all too obvious that he was not the only one who held his mentor in such high regard.

Whenever Haytham attended a Templar gathering with his guardian, he could feel the attention of all in the room fall first upon the Grand Master before shifting to settle on him--his one and only pupil. He would bask quietly in the attention, and whenever he was complimented for his current achievements and what great promise he held, Master Birch would swell with pride beside him.

It was a sight that made his own confidence soar, and Haytham would endeavor to do all in his power to keep himself in his mentor’s favor. After all, what better feeling was there than to know that the man who’d given him a second chance--given him the means to pursue all of his dreams--was proud of him?

Haytham would do anything for Master Birch. Anything.

II.

In the eighteenth year of his life, Haytham became a Knight Templar.

It was a momentous occasion, and for days after, he would continue to marvel at the silver ring around his finger. Reginald would chuckle at his boyish wonder, and it was with some bitterness that Haytham noted that the Grand Master’s attitude toward him still felt like one between adult and child, master and apprentice. Was he not a man now and worthy of respect?

Some would have argued that Haytham had just gained his wings and had yet to come into his own, but his hands were already stained red in the name of the Templar cause. It frustrated him, but he remained quiet, if only to avoid Reginald’s disapproval. All that he did was for the Order--for the Grand Master. He was determined to find out and do what was necessary to become an equal in his mentor’s eyes.

In the end, what was necessary was, perhaps, not what he was expecting.

Returning to their French chateau following a mission, Haytham felt terrible; he was covered in the dust of his travels, the blood of his victims stained his clothes, and his hair was a tangled mess--not to mention that exhaustion was clearly apparent in his expression. His appearance spoke of the trouble he’d suffered in trying to attain the letter stuffed in his coat pocket, but Haytham certainly didn’t want Reginald to think that he’d had trouble with his assignment.

Any hope of escaping the man’s notice until he’d managed to clean up a tad were dashed when Reginald greeted him halfway up the path to their residence, sitting astride his own steed as if he were expecting Haytham all along. The drag of his eyes over his body was expected, given his disheveled state, but the slight smile that accompanied it was a little less so.

“I did warn you that those bandits were a rough bunch, did I not?” Reginald asked, voice pitched to that perfect condescending tone that he knew Haytham hated. He bristled and urged his horse back into a walk.

“Come to laugh at my inglorious return, have you?” he bit out, growing more irritated with each passing second. Haytham reached inside his pocket and wrenched the letter out, stuffing it into Reginald’s hand; his eyes flashed in challenge, daring his mentor to say a word. Certainly, he had come back a little worse for the wear, but Haytham had returned, which was more than could be said for a number of other Templar agents who had been previously tasked with the job.

“On the contrary. You’ve nothing but my eternal gratitude.” Reginald tucked the letter away, no doubt to savor it later on, and Haytham tamped down the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, the man’s next words would cause his annoyance to all but melt away: “You have truly come into your own, Haytham. You have grown into an admirable man and my most trusted and talented agent.

“I’d have no other by my side.”

He felt a hand settle against his arm, and Haytham looked down at it briefly before meeting Reginald’s gaze. There was a look in the man’s eyes that he’d long come to associate with want, and when the Grand Master wanted something, he would always have it, regardless of whether it was money, power, land, or something of a more personal nature--of a matter that had nothing to do with the Templars. It was a look that had once made him shiver as a boy, and while he was now a man, he found his hands clenching a little tighter around his reins, his breath catching in his throat.

Haytham carefully pulled his arm out of Reginald’s grasp, but he kept his eyes locked with the Grand Master’s. “You need to stop thinking that I’ll disappoint you,” he answered, allowing a sharp smile cross his features. “You’ll injure my pride that way.”

“Mm, I suppose we can’t allow for that to happen.”

Reginald did not touch him or give him any more strange looks after that, but Haytham would remember this exchange, if only because of the odd feeling it left in its wake--one that was not pleasant but not entirely unpleasant either.