asscreedkinkmeme | Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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Something is burning his face.

Blearily, he opens one eye, and winces. He's in his cell. He's cold; his shirt is missing, and at some point he had kicked the heavy blankets off. The arrow slit of a window has been stuffed with rags to help ward off winter's chill, but there is a slight gap at the top, and a spot of sunlight falls directly on his face. It's morning. He groans, flings a thin arm over his eyes, and rolls his head away.

There's a rustle below him and to the left. He freezes. He's not alone. His eyes snap back open.

The boy.

He'd made a nest of rags and blankets on the stone floor next to the pallet. He uncurls and props himself up on one elbow.

“Haytham? How are you feeling?” he asks. His voice is weary but full of genuine concern. He looks like hell. His eyes are red-rimmed and dark-circled, and there are mottled bruises on his face, faded to a blotchy yellow-green pallor. His lip had been split not long ago, and still looks swollen and tender.

Haytham. Yes. He's Haytham. His tongue darts out to wet cracked, dry lips. His voice is rough, and sounds like a stranger's to his ears.

“Connor.”

The man's eyes go wide and his mouth falls open briefly, and then he smiles wide, white teeth flashing, eyes glinting. He scrambles closer on hands and knees, his large hand gripping Haytham's shoulder, his face a mere foot away.

“Yes!” he exclaims, and then again, “Yes—Do you remember me?”

Yes. Oh, yes, he most assuredly does. He remembers everything.

The slap connects with the sharp report of a gunshot—Connor reels back, hand to his face, eyes wide, shocked, baffled. Haytham tries to get to his feet but his legs won't cooperate and they splay out as if he's a newborn calf. He collapses to his knees with a gasp of pain. Connor reaches out to grasp an arm but Haytham slaps that as well, scrabbling away from the man.

“Don't touch me!” he shouts.

“Haytham! Please, what—?”

“What in hell have you done to me?” His voice sounds high, almost hysterical to his own ears, almost a shriek, and the echo of it bounces off the brick walls and carries down the long hall. Connor's eyes are wide with alarm and shock.

“Quiet! Do you wish to bring the guards down on us?” He hisses, “I was trying to help you!”

“Why?” demands Haytham. Connor stares at his father, open-mouthed, aghast, as if Haytham is the crazy, unreasonable one.

“'Why?' Because you were being...” Connor blushes beneath the bruises and looks at the floor, clearly dismayed. Ah. Yes, that. Connor shakes his head. “Because there is a madman with an army of unthinking slaves who has styled himself a king! Because we need to rally support, we must find a way to defeat him! Because we need to get out of here!”

“And how will 'we' manage that?” is Haytham's terse demand.

Connor's brow beetles and he stammers, “I had thought that—you are by his side, almost every day—you must have some idea as to how—”

“Fool boy—he has a Piece of Eden.” He manages to stagger to his feet, though he still leans against the wall for support. The effort leaves him slightly breathless. “He's unstoppable. It's hopeless to even think—”

“It is not hopeless,” snaps Connor, “nothing is hopeless, not while you and I are still in control of ourselves.”

“In control? Look at me, boy!” He's a ruin of the man he used to be. Muscles that had rippled with a lifetime of training and hard work had been withered to practically nothing. He spreads his mangled hands, indicates the badly healed ribs that show through drum-taut skin, crisscrossed with scars. “What good am I to anyone like this?”

Well. Obviously Washington still finds a use for me, he thinks, and the violent shudder that racks his body has nothing to do with the chill of the cell.

Connor frowns deeper. Obviously, this was not the reunion he had been expecting. What had he wanted? An effusion of praise? That Haytham would fall into his arms and weep for joy? Thank the lord for his delivery and reveal a meticulous, carefully reasoned and dashing plan for escape?

“What would you have had me do, then?” he asks, a raw, frustrated edge to his voice. “Leave you insensate and enslaved?”

“And now I am cognizant and enslaved. Believe me, it's not an improvement. It would have been a far kinder mercy to have just killed me.”

Connor's face is solemn. “You cannot mean that.”

He throws up his hands. “It's over, boy. I lost. I have nothing left. May as well be by your hand, rather than... the inevitable.”

“I cannot kill you,” he says, dark eyes mournful and brimming with reproach.

Haytham's mouth twists into an unpleasant thing somewhere between a wry, mirthless smile and a pained grimace.

“No? You managed well enough once before!”

Connor's face contorts and he looks torn between agony and rage. “That was a different time—a different world! And you were trying to kill me!”

Had he tried to kill the boy? He wasn't sure. The incident had happened a lifetime ago, and the night had been a total chaos of bombs, fire and blood. He could remember being blinded by rage and pain, blinking blood out of his eyes from where his bastard son had cut open his brow with a broken bottle. Every labored breath had brought an agony of protest from his all-but-certainly broken ribs and his useless left hand had been slick with his own blood. He remembered wanting the boy to stop—to just stop. To stop struggling, to stop resisting fate, to stop being so willfully ignorant of human nature, to stop being so full of goddamned hope—

Still, Haytham denies, “Like hell I was, if I had wanted you dead—”

“So you were only pretending to kill me? You had your hands around my neck! I could not breathe!”

The boy has him there. Facts are facts. Regardless, Haytham glares at him. “Well. I suppose none of that really matters now, does it? As you say, it was different world.”

Connor's face contorts. “Does not matter—!” He stops himself, gives an irritated huff. “Fine. We should be planning our escape. I thought that you would be more thankful that you were no longer senseless,” says Connor darkly. Haytham's lip lifts in a snarl.

“'Thankful?' The things they've done, what I was forced to do—I was oblivious to it! Do you know what—” he hesitates, can't bring himself to say the man's name, damn him, “—what he'll do to me, once he finds out? Do you have even the slightest notion as to what you've done to me?”

“You. It has always been about you, has it not, father?” the word is hurled like a curse. He thumps his chest. “What about me? Do you even care about what they are making me do? Your son?”

His startled mind casts about for a moment. Notes the yellowing bruises on Connor's face, the fresh and tender scar tissue of the man's sharp knuckles. Vaguely, he recalls the fights, the impromptu ring in the middle of the throne room, the smell of stale sweat and fresh blood, screams and howls of the combatants echoing over the excited chatter and hoots of the gamblers and spectators. His Majesty's other special hobby.

“I'm so sorry. I forgot how violence makes you wilt like a lily in the sun.”

Connor's eyes narrow. “You are the most hateful, selfish prick I have ever known—”

“Oh, the pot calls the kettle black, boy! You tried to 'help' me? I can see right though your so-called concern. You're only trying to help yourself after you were foolish enough to be taken alive—if you had ever given a damn about me, you would have come before I'd been reduced to this!”

“I did not even know you were here! Kaniehtí:io said that you were dead!” Of course Ziio would say that. He can see her reasoning; better Connor to think his father rotting in the ground than alive and His Majesy's most exalted whore. It does not, however, make her omission any less painful. “Washington has misused you, yes, made you do unspeakable things, but your own suffering pales beside his other crimes. Do you even know what he has done—what he is still doing to people? Do you even care?”

“I cared enough to lead the goddamned Colonial resistance, you ignorant little shit,” he seethes.

Haytham can see that he's found the limit of boy's patience. Connor's hands pull into fists, jaw clenches, and for a moment Haytham thinks that perhaps the boy will do some throttling of his own, but instead he releases a long breath through flared nostrils, forces his fingers to straighten, palms flat against his thighs.

“Tell me what happened.” It's a command, not a request.

“Go to hell,” Haytham suggests.

“We are already in hell!” is Connor's outraged response.

Connor makes to continue his abuse but the sound of footfalls echoing down the hall gives him pause. Haytham's blood turns cold. If there was any color left in his pale face, it vanished. The cell faces a blank wall. Connor stalks up to the bars and presses the side of his face against them to sight down the long passage. He holds up three fingers to Haytham. Idiot. Haytham could have told him how many there were by ear alone. Two of the men are booted, judging by the heavy tread, the third has the sharper snap of shoes.

Haytham sits down heavily on the pallet, clamps his hands between his knees so no one can see how badly they tremble. He doesn't look up when he men come to stand outside. Connor stands near the bars, defiant, and does not even flinch when one of the men clangs the bars with the butt of a musket.

“Well. His Majesty's pet looks much improved.” Benjamin Church. The man who was twice a traitor. Rage sang through his veins, tempered with an equal amount of fear. He forces his eyes to the ground. If the king's physician even suspected something was off about Haytham's demeanor, that he had been restored to his cognitive faculties...

“No thanks to you,” says Connor. Church merely shrugs.

“He was either to improve, or he was not. I adjusted his medications and left you instructions, and it seems that that worked well enough. He's no longer sweating, at least.” He tilts his head slightly. “Though he looks pale yet. You've been feeding him?”

Connor's head jerks up in affirmation.

“He'll be fine, then. Or not. I suppose it matters little.”

“He is your patient,” snaps Connor. “I thought doctors swore oaths to help those in need.”

Church chuckles. “He's of little consequence; he ceased to be amusing long ago. Healthy or sick, fair or foul, I suspect I'll not need attend him much longer.” Haytham commands himself to keep breathing evenly, to not make any indication that he had heard anything of note. What was Church getting at?

“But he was your master!” Connor sounds shocked by Church's indifference.

“'Was' being the operative word. He ceased to be worthy of that title the day he lost his mind.” Church shakes his head. “Delusional fool. How he expected to keep this country from His Majesty's glorious influence, I can't even begin to imagine.”

“...So sorry, Kenway. But I always back the winning horse...”

“Well, I've other duties. Good day, savage. Master Kenway.” His voice drips with mockery. He turns and leaves. The two guards linger. One comes forward with a trays in either hand. He slides them though the gap beneath the bars.

“Best not get too comfortable,” the man advises, “His Majesty will be wanting the both of you soon enough.”

Haytham can barely hear their retreat over the throb of blood singing in his ears. He clenches his fists in the loose fabric of his trousers and resists the urge to scream. Goddamned traitorous, cowardly bastard... He barely notices when Connor takes both trays, sets one down on the floor, but he does note when the boy begins to remove the rags from the window.

“What are doing?” Haytham demands.

“Helping you by disposing of your poisons,” says Connor coldly, “whether you accept it or no.”

“What poisons?” he asks. “What are you talking about?”

“This,” says Connor, and points to the greens, “is what they've been using to control you. Achilles spoke of it. The Haitian witch-doctors use it to bend victims to their will, to make them their 'zombies.' And this tea is a... I do not know the word in English. Afra-something...”

“Aphrodisiac,” supplies Haytham, frowning. So, that's what had induced his apathetic state, reduced him to little more than an animal reacting to external stimuli.

“Yes, as you say. You should feel honored; this is very expensive. The kings of China use it on their slave-women, I hear.” He picks up the cup.

“Wait!” he commands sharply.

Connor looks at him. “What?”

“Give me the tea.”

Connor's eyes narrow. “No,” he says.

“I need it,” he says with rising urgency, and feels a surge of panic when he begins to tip the hollow gourd. “I'll scream, call the guards!” he warns him. Connor cocks a dark eyebrow.

“Then scream,” he suggests, sardonic, but there's a steel edge to his tone and his eyes glitter dangerously. “Let the guards know what I have done and that you are fully aware and wish to die. I'm sure they will oblige you. That is what you want, is it not?”

Yes. No... he's not sure. He crimps his lips together in a thin, bloodless line. Haytham has nothing to live for, sees the days stretch out before him, a series of tortures, trials and humiliations that will certainly end in death—or, worse, his submission, mind shattered—and despairs. But does he want to kill his son as well? That's what would surely happen, if they were to discover Connor's interference. Or worse, they might do to him what they had done to Haytham, a punishment he wouldn't have wished on even his most hated enemies.

“You heard the guard, boy. We'll be at court today, and I'm not a young man anymore. If I can't...” he shivers. “If I don't preform as expected... they'll know. And then we'll both be dead men.” Or worse, he could have said.

The boy frowns, taking his meaning, he sets the cup back on the tray. “You cannot have the other,” he says, and takes a fist full of the greens to shove under the bed, presumably because his actions would be noticed in the daylight. “It is too dangerous.”

“And what gives you the right to make that decision for me?” demands Haytham acidly.

“You are in no position to stop me,” says the boy coolly. Well, that's apparent. The two men had been of a similar size and build once, but Haytham is but a shadow of his former self, and his son is very clearly in the prime of his physical abilities.

“Very well. You'll have to sleep eventually,” Haytham reminds him darkly. For an instant, there is a flicker of doubt, of fear, but it's gone again, and the boy looks almost smug.

“Even if you had the strength to kill me, you would not,” he says in a matter-of-fact way that makes Haytham bristle further.

“Oh?”

“Because they would know it was you.” He slides Haytham's tray across the pallet. “Better eat. I suspect Washington has missed us. It will be a long day.”

He's hungry, but the thought of what's to come turns Haytham's stomach to knots.

Firstly, I hope your computer troubles are behind you! :) secondly, AHHH-MAZING AS ALWAYS. The vitriolic back and forth between Haytham and Connor is spot on. The detail in the description of how thin Haytham has become is heartbreaking but also very true. Washington is going to have to let Connor train if he doesn't want to lose his prize fighter. And Haytham has a point - he's going to need the aphrodisiac if they expect to survive longer.

The doors to the throne room are thrown open and Haytham is yanked through by his chain, like a misbehaving dog who has not yet learned to heel. There's a little knot of men standing in the center of the room that turn to look his way. There's something strange about the mobility of their faces, about the animation of their gleaming eyes. It hits him; they are not under Washington's control, he realizes. They are still their own men.

They stare at him, dismay and fear plain upon their faces. As the guard leads Haytham towards them, they draw away from him as if he has the pox. He recognizes a few. There—the fat one. Wasn't he... yes. Samuel Chase, one of the Maryland delegates to the Continental Congress. And there, James Wilson, from one of the Carolinas, he couldn't remember which. Others he knew by their faces, but couldn't place names to them.

Two of them whisper behind their hands as Haytham is lead past.

“Good lord, is that—?”

“I think so. I'd heard he was dead.”

“Apparently not. Although he does look like death warmed over...”

“How dare you presume to judge me, Mr Jefferson,” he hears Washington growl, and it's as if someone has dumped freezing water down the back of Haytham's shirt. He's furious. There would be hell to pay; Haytham just prayed that he wouldn't be on the receiving end of it.

The voice that answers him has a soft drawl to it. “I've never judged you, my friend. I was merely suggesting—”

“You haven't the slightest clue what I faced—you sat at home, cozy and warm, while I was at Valley Forge. I sent hundreds of letters to Congress—perhaps a thousand—and I received naught but excuses!”

Haytham sees him. Washington's face looks livid and his eyes glitter dangerously under his furrowed brow. He's the tallest man in the room and looms over almost everyone else, all but the man before him. The other man is nearly as tall, but whereas Washington is powerfully built, this other man is more slender and lanky. Haytham notes the reddish hair, angular nose and long face. Thomas Jefferson. He looks ill-at-ease, but remarkably calm for someone staring death in the face.

“I asked for more soldiers, and was sent half-starved, unruly boys and troublesome miscreants,” Washington continues, pacing back and forth on his dais, “I begged for bandages, blankets, warm clothes—”

“George—” Jefferson pleads, but Washington cuts him off.

“Boots! Even just shoes I would have been grateful. I had to march my men barefoot through the snow. They left their skin behind when they stepped on the ice. There was so much blood on the road you would have thought we were dragging butchered hogs behind us.”

“There were no shoes to be had! Not in New England, not even in Virginia, we sent you all that could be spared!”

“It was not enough! You and your fellow delegates sat in Philadelphia dithering and wringing your hands, and I watched my men die by the hundreds!” he snarls and his eyes flick to the scepter on an ornate stand next to the throne. “I saw an opportunity and I took it! My decision saved thousands of lives, perhaps tens of thousands!”

“Please, George, we just...” Jefferson's words trail off when he sees Haytham lead past.

Haytham shuffles meekly forward, his head bowed. Don't look him in the eyes, never in the eyes. When Haytham and his escort mount the dais, Washington's hand comes up to halt them. Haytham can feel the eyes rove over him, cold and analytical, and Haytham stares determinedly at the ground beneath his bare feet, limbs shaking, teetering on a knife edge between boiling rage and absolute terror. And then, unexpectedly, the moment passes without incident. Washington's eyes flick back to his audience and he waves a hand to Haytham's guard. A hand grips Haytham's shoulder, guides him to his place at the right hand of the throne, and forces him down to his knees, facing the room. The guard snaps the end of his chain to the arm of the ornate throne with a padlock.

“Haytham Kenway?” a different voice asks, bewildered. Haytham wants to turn his head, acknowledge that, yes, he's alive, that beneath his tattered clothes, the collar about his neck and the layer of grime coating his skin that he's still a man, not an animal. But he doesn't dare. He can't stop his eyes from flickering to the man, though. The man is another delegate, a head shorter than Jefferson and undistinguished-looking but for his sharp eyes and arched brows. The man stares at him, open mouthed. Confusion, anger, pity and grief battle across his careworn face.

“You rotten bastard, what in the hell have you done?” the man demands, face reddened, and Haytham recognizes him, finally: John Adams. Damn him.

Haytham rode to Philadelphia seeking assistance from the Continental Congress as soon as he knew who had taken possession of the Apple, warned them of the clear danger that Washington represented, and Adams had shouted him down. The lawyer had berated him like a child in front of an audience of some of the most accomplished and wealthy men in America and had named him a traitor for daring to suggest that General Washington was anything other than a capable commander and a dedicated patriot. Haytham had fled the city in disgrace, only narrowly escaping an angry mob with murder on their minds.

So Haytham can't help but feel a little pleased when an officer lurches forward and backhands Adams across the face, sending him spinning to the floor in a most undignified heap.

“You'll keep a civil tongue in that mouth or I'll cut it out meself,” the man snarls and Haytham feels that thrill of pleasure turn to ashes in his mouth.

Thomas Hickey. He hadn't seen him since the incident in the wilderness, when Haytham and his men along with Ziio and her people had tried to take the Apple in a surprise attack. The results had been disastrous. In the chaos that ensued, Haytham had lost sight of both Thomas and Charles. When Thomas failed to reappear, Haytham had assumed with a heavy heart that the man had been killed. He'd gone back to look for him, found a few men of a similar build, but by that point the wolves and scavengers had been at the bodies and it had been impossible to distinguish one man from the other.

But Thomas is far from dead; he looks fine. Better than fine; actually, he looks immaculate—a word that Haytham had never in both of his strange, disordered lives thought he would associate with the man. Gone are the perpetually rumpled clothes, the five o'clock shadow, the busted capillaries across his cheeks and nose, evidence of his hard drinking and fast living. He's clean shaven and his hair is expertly groomed, his clothing well-tailored and cleaned. His boots are so polished that Haytham can see his own reflection in them, if he squints. He looks every inch the perfect officer. If he hadn't stepped out to assault Adams, Haytham was likely to have never noticed him at all.

Adams staggers to his feet, cursing, and Jefferson shakes his head. “George, we came in peace—“

“Load o' bullocks,” Thomas announces and jerks his head at Adams, who spits blood into the carpet, where it is all but swallowed by the red wool underfoot. “Found this one's kin doing 'is best to stir up trouble down at the 'arbor.”

“Sam!” Adams gasps, “What have you done to him?” But Thomas only laughs and settles his hands on the butts of the twin pistols at his hips.

“The same fate that will befall you, if you continue to test me, Mr. Adams,” Washington answers testily. Whatever patience General Washington had possessed, it was greatly diminished the instant he obtained the Apple.

“And my wife? Where is she? What have you done with her?” Adams barks heedlessly, unable to see murder mere inches away.

“Abigail? Why, she's fine. Perfectly content. She tells me she's never been happier,” says Washington, settling himself in his throne, his posture stiff and agitated.

Adams goes pale. Jefferson begins, “George—“

“The words that you are searching for, sir, are 'Your Majesty.' If that strikes you too formal, you may name me 'Sire.'”

Jefferson glares at him. His face betrays his feelings, but his voice is still steady and even, his speech deliberately slow and careful. “The war is over, sire. We... You have won. It's done. Do you not think it time to retire to Virginia? Martha begs you to return to her.”

“What use have I for a half-built manor and some other man's widow when I have all of New England at my feet? Furthermore, it seems you are wrong, concerning the war's end.”

“I don't understand. The British have been repelled,” says Jefferson, shaking his head. “It's over. America is free to do as she pleases.”

“But she is not united. Was that not also our goal? And what of the ten thousand French troops quartered in Philadelphia and their armada lurking just out of mortar range in New York?”

“Ah, well, the French are confused,” says Adams, mockingly blithesome, “You see, Congress sent the French an envoy to press for help in our fight against King George. Well, they got very excited and were very eager to see this new nation and to fight their old enemy—so just try to imagine their surprise and dismay when they arrived and found that there was another King George on this side of the Atlantic that's as tyrannical as he is insane—”

He's cut off when Thomas delivers a hard punch to the guts. Adams doubles over, wheezing.

“Mr Adams, not another word or I will make you wish you had been born a mute,” says Washington.

Jefferson goes to help his fellow delegate, trying to help him stand upright. When he looks back at Washington, his face is alight in cold fury.

“The... whatever it is—The others are right; It has driven you mad.”

“On the contrary; I have never felt more sane.”

“I've had enough of this farce. We're leaving. Now,” he says, his voice not quite a shout.

“Are you? I do not recall giving my leave for you to depart,” Washington growls.

“I do not need it. I am my own man, sir. This meeting is over. You will order General Lee to stand down and withdraw your troops from Pennsylvania.”

Haytham resists a shudder. General Lee. Charles. The man who had doted on Haytham's every whim and command had become Washington's most trusted and capable general.

“I think not; I see a different outcome. You and your fellow delegates will surrender Philadelphia as well as Pennsylvania, following the expulsion of the French from my soil.”

Jefferson's face is grim and pale. “We have seventeen thousand seasoned, rested, experienced men ready to march on New York.”

Haytham can't see Washington's face, not from this angle, but the hand on the right arm of the throne tightens into a fist.

“You would send good men and patriots against their rightful king?”

“They are Americans! They fought a long and bloody war to rid themselves of a king, they will not willingly submit themselves to another!”

“They need me!” shouts Washington, slamming a fist into the arm of his throne. “I've seen your so-called Congress, sir, and I am not impressed! You fight and squabble like fishwives over petty differences, accomplishing nothing! America will not survive without a king! She'll be ripped apart by petty grievances and an easy target for foreign powers!”

“Yes, we do need a strong leader, but the last thing America needs is a tyrant!”

“The sixty thousand Bostonians and New Yorkers ready to fight to the death to defend their king are quite pleased with my rule.”

Sixty thousand? No. It wasn't possible. The Apple wasn't that powerful... was it? Surely he's exaggerating.

“Yes, and four—forty thou-thousand of them are... are starving women, sick children and old men!” Adams wheezes, having regained just enough wind to sentence his fate. “You cannot hope to defeat us!”

“You have only solders. I have... something more.” He caresses the handle of his scepter gently, lovingly. “Would you care for a demonstration?”

He lifts the scepter lazily. The Apple. The Piece of Eden. He had looked for it for half of both his lives and now here it was, so tantalizingly close, just at arm's length. But it may as well been a thousand miles away, sunk in a bottomless ocean, for all the good it would do him now.

It's like there's a cyclone in the room. Energy snaps in the air, raises the hair on the backs of his arms against his shirt sleeves, and the room goes dark—it's still sunny outside, but the light is so diminished that it may as well be midnight, and the tapers in their sconces give off nothing but the faintest pinpricks of light, like lanterns on a ship far out to sea. The Apple; it's stealing all the light in the world, casting it in upon itself until it glows like a tiny sun. It casts strange patterns on the walls and on the faces in the room.

Adams jerks, gives a cut-off scream, his entire body going ridged and trembling, as if he were struck by lightning, eyes rolling in terror. For an instant, Haytham can see the shine of the Apple reflected in his eyes, almost as if they themselves were glowing—and then he blinks. Adams' expression is mild and relaxed, almost vaguely amused. Jefferson's face is a stark contrast: it is the very picture of horror. Jefferson steps backwards towards the other cowering delegates.

“Mr Adams, how are you feeling?” asks Washington.

“Wonderful,” he says breathlessly, face rapturous. “I... I can't recall ever feeling so... so...”

“At peace?”

“Yes,” he hisses.

“Mr. Adams, do you wish to please me?” Washington asks.

Oh dear God, he wasn't going to make Adams—he wasn't going to use him like he used Haytham, was he? For as much as Adams had infuriated him, he didn't wish that fate on anyone.

“More than anything, Your Grace,” is Adams' emphatic response.

“Very good,” says Washington. He nods to Thomas. “Mr Hickey, lend Mr Adams your knife.”

Thomas unsheathes a squat dagger from his belt and hands it to Adams, hilt first. Adams takes it without hesitation.

“Mr Adams,” says Washington, “I've found you rather boorish, as of late.”

“Please, Your Grace, I never meant offense,” Adams says with utmost sincerity. “What can I do to make amends?”

“I don't think anything would please me more than to have you cut out that offending tongue.”

Adams tilts back his head and opens his mouth as wide as it will stretch, and Haytham knows what is coming, what he means to do even before the man pinches his tongue between thumb and forefingers. Haytham looks away, down at the flagstones, but not before he sees Adams lift the knife to his own face, and he hears the click of steel against teeth as the blade is maneuvered awkwardly into place.

Jefferson screams,“NO!” but he's immobilized, seemingly rooted to the spot, and Haytham is going to be sick, he just knows it, can feel the bile burning his throat at the sound of a sharp blade slicing through meat, accompanied by a sloppy gurgling sound—Adams swallowing his own blood so that he does not choke.

“Oh, very good!” says Washington, pounding a fist on the arm of his chair in approval. Haytham starts at the noise, looks up to see Adams grinning with red teeth, bright blood gushing in a torrent down his chin and staining his cravat. “If you will return Mr Hickey his knife, please.”

The man dutifully wipes the blade on the tail of his coat and hands it back to Thomas who accepts with a cordial nod.

“You see, I don't need soldiers; I have subjects. Sixty thousand souls who will do anything—and I do mean anything—to further my ends.”

“Dear God,” someone, perhaps Jefferson, moans.

“Gentlemen, I now give you my leave to go.”

Washington lowers the scepter. The light is returned to the world. It is only then that Adams begins to scream.

Op here.

Woah. Uhm, give me a moment. I just need to process this chapter. Wow. Wow.

I don't think there's anything I can say, really, except for fantastic job. Washington is completely and utterly insane and this is perfect.

Wow, I absolutely love the way that you're treating this prompt. Just the way that Haytham waking out of his daze doesn't solve everything, the way that Connor is using all his skills to try and deal with the situation and trying not to give up hope, the way that Washington in the last section is so perfectly horrifying because of the hints of the circumstances that drove him to crave that power and control; seriously, this is so well-done.

Insane. Bloody insane.

He supposes that he knew something like that would happen, that he'd be witness to some new and gruesome shade of brutality, but it hadn't made Adams' mutilation any less terrifying to behold.

Had he made an involuntary face? Made a noise? The drugged and complacent whore would probably not have looked on the scene with anything more than mild dismay, but Haytham isn't that good of an actor. He doubts anyone is. He feels sick, panic gnawing at his chest and he jams his hands between his knees to keep them from shaking. Adams makes low guttural noises that may have once been speech but now just dissolve into inarticulate, animal howls of rage and pain, echoing off the walls.

Jefferson takes Adams under the arm and hustles him out. The other delegates have already fled, made a run for the doors before Washington inspired more mutilations. Haytham wonders if the Adams will live to see Philadelphia.

His mind spins around the figure Washington had so casually bandied about: Sixty thousand. He was certain the remaining Philadelphia regiments and French troops were well trained and armed, but what would they do against men that were compelled to keep fighting unto death? Could they bring themselves to kill women bearing muskets? Children wielding knives and axes? And still, the larger question; how was that sort of power even possible? He'd studied accounts of Precursor technologies extensively, the Pieces of Eden in particular, but no where had he ever heard of anything capable of directly controlling more than a few hundred at a time. Washington was bluffing. He had to be. At least, that's Haytham's fervent wish.

Washington sighs, shifts in his seat, leans an elbow on the throne and rests his forehead in his hand, tense.

“Fools. Utter fools,” he growls, “How dare they? What do they even hope to accomplish by defying me?”

“Highness?” asks Thomas.

“Yes, Captain Hickey?” is Washington's weary acknowledgment.

“You want we should put a tail on 'em?”

“I doubt that will be necessary. It's an eight day ride to Philadelphia; we'll know their response soon enough.”

He calls out to his servants, to the other soldiers. He barks out commands. Ride into the country and collect all the horses that can be mustered, be they thoroughbreds, plow horses or ponies. Kill as many bears and wolves as they could find; they would dress as Russians if need be for a winter campaign. Have construction halted on his palace; they would need every laborer for the war effort.

Haytham is barely listening, though. He's staring at the last five inches of Adams' tongue on the carpet before the throne. He wonders if Washington specifiably chose red for the carpet in order to better hide the blood. Finally, one of the servants reaches down, covers the bit of human meat in a square of cloth, and takes it away with an offended grimace.

Haytham feels a hand brush against his neck, near the collar, and shivers. The fingers leave a burning trail in their wake thanks to the aphrodisiac that's been reintroduced into his system, but He can't feel the lick of pleasure over the revulsion and fear that churn his guts. Damn. Haytham was hoping that he would be forgotten in all the confusion, but fate was not on his side today.

“Collect as many natives as can be found in the frontier, they can be compelled to serve as cannon fodder if need be. No sense in letting good Christians be killed in the first volley.”

“Aye, Highness.”

Good thing Connor isn't present; no doubt he'd get himself killed upon hearing that. Haytham wonders where his son is. When they marched Haytham into the throne room, the guards had dragged the boy further down the hall.

All thoughts of Connor evaporate when Washington coils Haytham's chain around his fingers and jerks it slightly. Not an attempt to choke him, then, but a command. Wincing, he crawls on hands and knees to the front of the throne.

Washington reaches out and caresses Haytham's stubble-rough jaw, suspiciously, creepily gentle. He can see the tension in the muscles of the man's hand.

“Are you well?” Washington asks, all false concern.

No. He most assuredly is not. He feels nauseous, especially after witnessing Adams' mutilation, still feels weak, lightheaded, and regrettably lucid after being subjected to Connor's 'help.' He nods anyway, though.

“Did you enjoy your little reprieve?” Haytham doesn't know what to do—does he nod 'yes?' Shake his head 'no?' He doesn't know which Washington wants, so he just crimps his lips and stares at Washington's chest. Powerful fingers grip his chin, force his gaze back upwards. He settles his gaze at Washington's mouth, not daring to look him in the eyes. He wills his face to be as blank and his eyes as vapid as possible.

“I asked you a question, pet,” he says, that dangerous bite of steel lurking beneath his mild tone. He grips Haytham's chin tighter. “Did you miss me?”

Haytham nods, guessing that was what Washington wanted. He guessed correctly, apparently, because the self-made king grins and runs his fingers along Haytham's neck, rubs the back of his spine and Haytham feels a weak tingle that might be pleasure beneath his mounting unease.

“Truly? Well, then, perhaps you would like to show me how much?”

It's said as a question, but Haytham knows a command when he hears it. He tries to swallow his anxieties but his throat feels like it's lined with sawdust. He hesitates. This was so much easier when he hadn't the slightest clue what was going on, when he couldn't even remember his own name, much less the abuses that he'd been subjected to the day before.

Connor. Damn him, how was he supposed to be able to do this? Interfering bastard...

He doesn't want to know what the consequences will be if—no, when Washington finds out Haytham isn't the docile, dumb play thing he once was. He has to do it, though, has to make it convincing or they'll realize what Connor has done. He doesn't know why he gives a damn about what happens to the fool boy. Obviously, Connor doesn't exactly hold Haytham in the highest regard, judging from the way the boy stabbed him in the throat in their previous lives. Haytham shouldn't care less what happens to him, but... there's something between them, something that snide comments, hateful words, spilled blood and an all-out war hadn't been able to completely annihilate.

For a moment, Haytham wants to laugh. He must be going insane himself. It's just that the world has become so absurd, so twisted, that his life and the life of his son depend on how well Haytham preforms between Washington's legs.

Speaking of which.

He shuffles forward as Washington sits back and lets his knees fall wide apart. Haytham undoes the front of the man's breeches, his fingers feeling stiff and clumsy. Washington isn't wearing any small clothes. Haytham can't help but dumbly stare at his cock. For a brief moment he panics, mind racing, but if Washington notices he doesn't react. The king reaches down and gives himself a few quick pumps, and it's still only at half mast, but Haytham can tell that it's of an impressive width and length, not unlike the rest of the man.

“Well?” Washington prompts, traces the head of it along Haytham's lips. He can't afford to be reluctant; he has to play the part of the obedient, wanton little whore. Nothing he hasn't done before, apparently. Cursing himself, he leans forward and takes the head into his mouth. Washington sighs appreciatively, bucking his hips.

He doesn't know what to do. He had hoped that some part of him would remember how the act is done, what Washington prefers, but everything is so hazy from the time before, so he thinks further back, tries to remember what he himself had enjoyed, but he can't concentrate hard enough to recall those times either. He remembers to sheath his lips over his teeth, at least, and goes down as far as is comfortable, lapping at the thick shaft as he goes. He bobs his head up and down, trying to take in as much as he can, but when the head touches the back of his throat he recoils. He tries not to think of how much of a whore this makes him. It's one thing to be forced into doing this filthy act, quite another to be a willing—if coerced—participant. He tries to make his mind as blank as his face, to retreat further into himself, to make it as if this is happening to some unfortunate stranger.

Washington sighs. It's not the sigh of someone deeply contented and in the throws of passion—it's disappointed, agitated, the sound one might make while waiting for a carriage that's late. Haytham looks up at him discretely though his lashes. And against all common sense, all reason, and despite the fear that constricts his chest and threatens to strangle him, Haytham feels—well, weirdly indignant, because Washington looks apathetic—bored, even. More bored than anyone with their cock in someone's mouth had any right to look.

That, Haytham thinks, is a very bad sign.

He thinks back to what Church had said that morning, about how Haytham had “ceased to be amusing” and how he doubted that he would need to see to the king's pet much longer. Were they going to replace him with someone else? He didn't want to know what happened to Washington's cast offs.

He tries to redouble his efforts, to make up for his evident lack of finesse with faked enthusiasm, but it's apparently not enough. The man grabs Haytham by the hair and pulls him back. Haytham lets the flesh slide from his mouth. A strand of saliva and precome connect his lips to the head of Washington's cock. The fist clenches and Haytham's face is forced upwards. For the briefest of moments, their eyes meet. Washington stares at him, frowning, brow furrowed, and Haytham can feel the panic rise in his throat and set his heart to pounding—he knows, good God, he knows everything—but the man says nothing and Haytham forces his face to be as inscrutable as stone.

“Captain Hickey,” Washington says, and Thomas emerges from behind the throne.

“Y'Highness?”

“You did very well today. Would you like a little reward for your service?” asks Washington.

Oh, no, Thomas would never... But the eyes that rake over Haytham are hungry and malicious. Haytham had never in his life anticipated being on the receiving end of his Brother's lascivious smile; it makes his skin crawl.

“I think tha'd be right generous of you,” he replies and ambles forward with a swagger.

Washington smiles in a way that makes Haytham even more uneasy. He pushes Haytham's head back down. Haytham takes the hint and reluctantly resumes. Haytham flinches when Thomas yanks down his pants down around knees, exposing him to the chill of the air and the scrutiny of the entire room.

“Not bad, for an old bloke,” he chuckles, and Haytham can feel the panic starting to bubble inside him. It's Thomas Hickey, for God's sake. He would never... he preferred women, exclusively. Thomas may not have been especially discerning about the quality of the wenches he would take to bed, but it was always women. But it's not Thomas anymore, not really, Haytham has to remind himself. It's a highly dexterous marionette; Washington using Thomas' body as yet another object of abuse, as effective and hurtful as any whip or thumbscrew. It's really Washington's burning touch that skims possessively from the small of Haytham's back to his ass cheek, Washington's hand that gives his skin a ringing slap, Washington's dark chuckle when Haytham flinches.

Nothing I haven't done before. Nothing I haven't...

He hears Thomas spit into his hand, presumably to slick himself, then wet fingers slide along the cleft of Haytham's spread cheeks, making him shiver. Thomas gives his entrance only the most cursory of attention, almost as an afterthought. Then, Haytham feels something blunt and hot and far, far thicker than fingers press against his hole.

He can't mean to... Oh, no. No no no that wasn't nearly enough preparation he couldn't—

When Thomas' cock presses forward he feels the burn of skin against skin. He pushes and pushes, slow but unfaltering, relentless, sinking himself deeper by fractions of inches. The aphrodisiac isn't enough to mask the pain of it, not even close, and he wants to bite and scream, kick and punch out, but he can't, has to settle for clenching his fists in the fabric of Washington's breeches and moaning pleadingly around the flesh in his mouth.

He can't pretend to enjoy this. It's not possible. But Haytham's pleasure had never been the point, had it? Thomas sinks to the hilt with a grunt, his coarse hair ticking Haytham's overly sensitive flesh. Thomas pulls up Haytham's shirt and runs his hands over his scarred, quivering back, like he's trying to gentle a skittish horse. So this is what it's come to; on his knees, in public, one man in his mouth, the other in his ass, taken like a whore—no, worse, like an animal. Hickey pulls back, and part of Haytham feels like he's being pulled back along with him and he stifles a whimper at the friction.

“Always thought 'e was a tight-arse,” Hickey chuckles darkly. “Won't be, time I'm done wit' 'im.”

The hands settle on his hips, thumbs caressing the sharp ridge of bone for an instant, and then Thomas grips him hard enough to bruise, and mercilessly impales him.

He gasps around the cock in his mouth, thrashes, but Washington grabs a fistful of his hair, keeping him in place.

“Mind those teeth,” he growls, “or I'll take them from you one by one.”

He tries to scrabble forward, to escape the severity of Hickey's thrusts, only to have Washington's cock strike his tonsils, making him choke and sputter, eyes welling with tears. Washington's fingers knot in his hair and force his head up and down on the length of his cock.

“You like that, 'Atham?” Hickey hisses. “How's it feel to be the one gettin' fucked for once?”

Hickey's thrusts are agonizing. It's not the most pain he's ever endured before, but God, every push feels like the man is rubbing sand into an open wound. He's trapped between the two men, rocked back and forth between them, Hickey setting a brutal pace that Washington mirrors exactly.

“Always looked down on me and mine, didn't'cha?” he continues, “Walked around like your shit didn' stink. Treated us like we was scum. Well who's the scum now?”

It's not Thomas. It's not. They were never close enough to be friends, certainly, but Thomas had been loyal, one of the most effective tools in Haytham's arsenal, and Haytham had always given him credit where credit was due, always compensated him generously. He'd never misused him, treated him badly... had he?

“Whas that word you bandied about? Ah. Expendable.” He rests his weight on Haytham's back, the cold buttons and buckles of his uniform digging into his skin. He feels Hickey's hot breath against the shell of his ear. “You left me an' Charlie in the woods to die. Was worried more about that savage slut o' yours then your own Brothers.”

No, he wants to tell him, it's not true, I tried—but he knows better than to try to respond. Hickey's mouth goes to where Haytham's neck meets his shoulder, tongue lathing at his racing pulse.

“You brought this upon yourself, you know,” Washington says, a touch breathlessly. “If you were not so damnably willful and stubborn...”

Hickey then bites down, hard, sucking, gnawing at his flesh until the skin splits, and Haytham shudders, repressing the urge to scream.

“I wouldn't have to do this, if you would just let me in...”

And despite it all, Haytham wants to laugh—let him in? Good God, Haytham can feel the man's cock nudging his tonsils; how much further in did he expect to get? Washington's hand yanks at his hair, forcing him to arch his back, spit-slick cock sliding from Haytham's mouth.

“Do you want me to make him stop?” Washington growls just as Hickey punctuates with a particularly sharp thrust that shoots pain all the way up his spine and wrenches a cry from Haytham's throat.

“Yes!” Haytham gasps, unable to help himself.

“Look at me,” he commands. Haytham does so, bright blue meeting dark, stormy gray. Washington's eyes are glazed with lust. “Will you let me inside?”

“Yes!” he gasps again on reflex, mind whirling—Washington could have gotten him to agree to anything at that point, it just seems like the right thing to say in the moment. He doesn’t even know what he's agreed to do, but he's beyond caring either way. He just wants it to end. Almost anything is better than this.

Almost.

What he forgets is that there are things far worse. Washington is quick to remind him of it. The king reaches for his scepter and Haytham immediately regrets saying anything at all.

Suddenly his head is invaded by burning, scathing gold, bright and merciless. The world is gone, burnt away to Haytham, Washington, and the Apple. It's pain beyond reasoning, beyond words, more excruciating than anything he's ever felt before. He can't even feel Hickey anymore—whatever rude punishment he's inflicting is nothing compared to this, to Washington thrusting himself against him, battering at him with his power, assaulting him, stabbing him behind his eyes and twisting until the knives scrape bone. Washington boils Haytham's brain inside his own skull, burns down his spine, rips him with claws of fire that threaten to rend him into a million pieces.

Below all the pain, Haytham feels something else, something freezing that oozes into all those fresh cracks in his armor, makes him tremble with a queer sort of mixture of disgust and pleasure, caresses a familiar, icy finger against his startled and horrified mind. It prods and winkles, tries to gain access to something that Haytham wants desperately to keep hidden away.

No no no PLEASE—He screams but he's trapped, paralyzed, Washington encompassing him in a cage made of pain, crushing him under an impossible weight, moaning at Haytham's distress and lapping up his terror with tongues of knives. He can't think, can't breathe, rendered utterly helpless. This is worse than what Hickey is surely still doing to him, so much more intimately violating. It isn't about pleasure, pain, humiliation—this is Washington wanting to destroy him from the inside out.

“Just relax, pet,” Washington croons, but Haytham doesn't hear it with his ears, he hears him in his mind and it's not just Washington but hundreds, thousands of voices, screaming, laughing, muttering, shouting, all at the same volume, loud enough that he must be bleeding from the ears, and if it doesn't cease he's going to be driven mad—

“You don't have to fight me, Haytham. There's nothing left to fight for. Just let it happen. Just let me in.”

He feels that cold thing insist, promising instant relief, strokes him as gently and soothingly as a mother. It can all stop, right now, he can go back to being a mindless, pliant drone, like before Connor found him. Better, because he won't be all alone, he'll be one with all of the others he can hear, be useful, be part of something larger than himself. The pain, the humiliation, the constant violation will stop, it will be as if it had never happened. He can have everything he ever wanted, he won't have to think, or feel, or remember anything ever again.

And he wants it, doesn't he? It would be so easy to give in. He wants it all to stop, needs to, but...

But the boy.

No. He can't. He'd already walked away from his blood more times than he could count. He couldn't do it again. Not to Ziio's son.

“Let me in,” Washington insists.

No.

At once Haytham feels the cold power recoil, as if it has come against some sort of barrier, feels Washington scream with a rage that grinds glass into his spine, threatens to split his head apart at the fissures.

“Let me in, Haytham!” the legion of voices growl and hiss and scream.

And then something does break, and all at once Haytham is filled with something else, something that he clutches to himself that's as familiar and comfortable as his old cloak. Haytham's rage drowns out the terror, blocks out the voices, turns the pain back on itself. Haytham stabs out in all directions, howling—

Get out. GET OUT.

Haytham's back on his knees in the throne room, no, is still on his knees, because that's where he's been the entire time, and Hickey's thrusts have grown erratic, breathing labored, and the thighs beneath Haytham's hands are trembling, hard as stone beneath the fine linen. Washington's hand is before his face, cock in his rapidly-pumping fist, and Haytham cries out when the burst of cum strikes his cheek, Washington grunting in answer above him.

Haytham's still disoriented by the attack, limbs trembling and chest heaving for air, amazed that there's anything left for the two men to abuse, because the echos of what Washington did still rankle in his mind, tell him that his flesh should have sloughed off his bones like over cooked meat, that he should be bleeding from a thousand cuts, dead on the floor with his brain boiled out of his ears, but Haytham is still alive and whole. Sort of.

Hickey pounds at him, fingernails leaving crescents of blood where he grips Haytham's hips, and it hurts, of course it does, but the pain seems a trifling thing compared to what was just inflicted upon him. Hickey curses and sinks himself hilt-deep. Haytham's guts churn in disgust as he feels his former associate let go.

“It is very unwise,” Washington says, voice low and dangerous, “to promise what you cannot deliver, pet.”

Haytham glances up to see Washington's cold fury. His heart pounds in his chest.

“Captain Hickey.”

Hickey pulls out. Haytham feels his former Brother's seed ooze down his thigh.

“Highness?” asks Hickey, a touch winded.

“Fetch me my riding crop.”

Ah fuck. Haytham really needs acting lessons.

Your description of Washingtonl's attempt to get into Haytham's head with the Apple is amazing. It captured all of the madness and disorientation that the Apple scenes give off in the episodes and more. I really do adore your writing - its so good. Thank you again, for filling my prompt!

Again, as always, happy to oblige. Really, I'm just a monkey hammering away at a keyboard. When I should be drawing and working on my portfolio. Gahhh... This is all your fault! :P

“Haytham?”

There's someone touching him, shaking his shoulder. Go away, he wants to protest, but he can't get his throat to make the words.

“Father?” this is soft, barely a whisper in his ear, pleading.

He's curled up on the floor on his side. His throat feels raw. His knees. His back. His... well. His everything, really. Muscles strained and wrenched to the point of uselessness, the skin of his back broken in so many places that the whole of it is on fire beneath his shirt. He is the very definition of wretched.

He cracks one weary eye open. Connor. His son. His... liability. He's kneeling at Haytham's side. The boy's eyes are tense, his face brittle and hard, shoulders drawn bow-string tight. Is he paler than before? Hard to tell, in this dim light.

“It is time for you to eat,” he says, his voice carefully even. He has Haytham's standard calculatedly grim meal with him.

They're in their cell. It's dark. He doesn't remember how he got there. At some point during his beating his body and mind must have decided that he had had enough, and had shut him down to spare him further agony. Haytham looks past Connor; there's the silhouette of a guard standing on the other side of the bars, arms crossed over his chest, waiting.

He's not hungry. Food is the absolute last thing on his mind. He wants to lie on the ground and melt into the floor, never moving again. As always, though, people have other plans for him. Haytham gets an arm underneath himself and tries to push himself up, but his trembling limbs won't cooperate.

“Here, let me help.”

Connor sets down the tray of food. He grasps Haytham under the arm to pull him upright. He puts a hand on Haytham's back to steady him, but Haytham flinches away with a strangled cry. Connor releases him as though burned, holds his hand out to the light to see that the palm is wet with the blood that's seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt. Connor curses in Mohawk, turns his face to the guard.

“He needs bandages.”

“Ain't you heard, half-breed? There's a war goin' on. None to spare on the likes of him—”

“He also needs alcohol.”

“Ha! Don't we all?”

“He is bleeding! His wounds need to be cleaned!” Connor barks impatiently.

“His Highness' bitch needs to be eatin' his dinner. Doctor's orders.”

They know. They know he hasn't been eating the herbs—No, he corrects himself, they suspect. If they knew for a certainty that he was off his diet, they would have separated Haytham and Connor (and perhaps separated Connor's neck from his head) and then forced the stuff down his throat. Washington would have never allowed Haytham anywhere near his... his person if he had known for a certainty that Haytham was lucid. It does mean, however, that if this ruse is to continue, Haytham is going to have to be far more convincing. Which means he's going to have to keep letting... He shudders. God, he can't do this...

“Do you think your king will care what the man ate after he has dropped dead of corruption?”

The guard laughs, tries to make it sound dismissive but there's an edge of nervousness to it. “He dies, then it'll be your head on a pike decoratin' the armory.”

“If there is space for one head, there will be space for two.”

The guard doesn't have a retort for that. He shifts from foot to foot. “He eats. Then I'll see what I can do about the rest.”

“Very well,” says Connor grudgingly. “Eat, Haytham.” He picks up the tray, holding it out for Haytham's perusal. The boy gives the witch-doctor's greens a significant look.

Haytham takes a hand full with trembling fingers and puts it in his mouth. Chews. Tastes bitter, pungent. Swallows. Grimaces at the pain in his throat. The two other men watch him in tense silence as he finishes the herbs and starts in on the gray sludge that is probably meant to be stew.

Apparently the guard is satisfied, because he stalks off down the hall, muttering. Connor waits until the footsteps die away and then grabs the waste bucket, sets it in front of Haytham.

“Get rid of it.”

He's not sure he wants to, thinks perhaps he would be better off drugged, insensate and oblivious the next time Washington... but the look on Connor's face is hard, lips compressed into a thin line. There is an intensity in the boy's eyes that's disturbing, the threat implicit—do as he says, or he'll do it himself. So, Haytham sticks what's left of his fingers down his throat and brings the greens back up. He hopes that whomever is forced to clean up after them doesn't examine the contents of the bucket too carefully.

“I could hear you, earlier,” Connor says quietly as Haytham wipes bile from his lips with the back of his fist. Half of Boston probably heard him, if the rawness of his throat is any indication. “I thought... It sounded like you were being slaughtered. I thought... I did not expect to see you again.”

“Used the Apple,” Haytham croaks, throat burning, before taking the aphrodisiac-laced tea, hoping to wash down the disgusting taste in his mouth. He half expected Connor to give him that familiarly irritating look of befuddlement, but the boy stares at him levelly.

“You resisted him.” Well, yes, of course he did. Otherwise this conversation would be even more one sided. “Why? What made you say no?”

Haytham doesn't answer. He doesn't quite know himself. He shifts, wincing at the pain that shoots up his backside. The boy is damnably persistent, though. Connor's eyes glitter in the torchlight.

“This morning, you were ready to to die, you said there was no hope. Why did you not give in, then?”

Because of you, he should say. Because I couldn't abandon you. Again.

“Because I'm a goddamned fool,” he says instead, voice cracking.

They hear boots, more than one pair. Connor gets to his feet. Haytham does his best to eat as quickly as possible, but trying to consume the hard, flaky bread feels like he's swallowing knives. The guard appears in short order, accompanied by two others.

“I found some blankets. Old, but they're clean,” the original guard says, gruff. He quickly pushes the bundle of rags through the bars and yanks his hand back as quickly as he can, just in case Connor has a mind to seize him through the bars.

Unexpectedly, he then pulls a pistol from his belt; Connor draws back, wary. One of the other men brandishes his musket, the hallway just wide enough front to back for him to aim without leaning on the opposite wall.

“Back of the cell, face against the wall. You try anything smart, you and your friend's gonna have more than a few cuts and a sore arse to worry about,” he growls. “Hands up.”

Connor is slow to comply. Haytham can see the wheels turning in his head; Connor's wondering if he's fast enough to wrench one of the guns away if one of the men gets too close. He does as he's told, though, watching the guard over his shoulder. Haytham doesn't fail to notice that the men are not watching him at all, obviously not anticipating any trouble from the man sitting on the floor. And why would they? He's not Templar Grandmaster Haytham Kenway; he's just some sad, broken thing that eats and shits and bends over for anyone that cares to take him. A danger to no one.

The third man, the youngest of the three, hastily unlocks the barred door. It swings forward into the cell about a foot and a half. He drops a steaming wooden bucket with a rope handle, tips it a little in his haste, splashing water on the floor. It's followed shortly by another gourd cup, this one larger than the one that had contained Haytham's tea. He slams the door, rams the lock home and backs away as quick as he can. Connor turns, staring at the items.

“That's strong whiskey, monkey. You drink any of it, you'll regret it,” the first guard growls.

“I...” Connor hesitates, Haytham can see him struggle between lashing out at the man for the racial slur, or praising him for the favor. He decides on the latter. “Thank you. This will—”

“Just make sure he don't die,” the guard snaps and he and his companions depart.

Haytham reaches for the whiskey—he wishes there was a barrel of it and not this meager cup, wishes there was enough to drown in—but Connor is faster, stepping between his father and the alcohol.

“We need to take off your shirt.”

Rather than trusting him to do it, Connor steps in and pulls at the fabric. Haytham gasps. Some of the cuts have dried to the shirt. When Connor gingerly pulls the shirt over Haytham's head, it feels like he's taking his skin with him.

He watches Connor's eyes, assessing the boy as he evaluates Haytham. He looks troubled, but not horrified. Just your standard, run-of-the-mill flogging, then. Connor's eyes linger on the savage bite near his iron collar and the boy flushes, although with anger or embarrassment, Haytham cannot quite discern. Connor tells him to go to the pallet. Haytham doesn't even bother to try to stand up. He crawls the short distance and then flops down on his stomach with a groan. Connor follows him with the bucket, rags, and alcohol.

Connor's not the worst doctor he's ever had. For all his prodigious strength, Haytham's surprised that his son's touch is so gentle. He opts to carefully soak the blood and dirt from Haytham's back, rather than scrub. It still hurts. No amount of codling will prevent that, but the pain could be worse. His son dabs the wounds with the alcohol and Haytham does his best not to flinch. After the wounds are serialized, his son tears the old blankets into long gray strips and lays them delicately over the cuts. Connor says he'll have to wrap him in more bandages to hold them in place when he's done.

“I have a doctor acquaintance,” he says as if reading his father's mind. “He taught me how to treat wounds. Whiskey is not what I would have picked, but it will serve.”

Haytham should be grateful. Grateful that Connor cares enough about him that he's willing to speak out on his behalf, grateful that he's taking such care with his father's body. After everything they've been though, Haytham should be appreciative that the boy even cares whether he lives or dies. He's not, though. The boy's touch just further reminds him how completely and utterly helpless he is, at the mercy of everyone around him. Even though there's nothing even remotely sexual about it, the boy's touch reminds him of Washington, of Hickey, about what they had done to him and why it had made the boy's attentiveness necessary. His skin crawls and even though the water that cleanses his body is warm and soothing, he shudders all the same.

As Connor works his way down, Haytham's anxiety increases. The boy's hands falter at his father's lower back. The bruises at his hips are a livid purple against his pale skin, dark enough to make out the marks of individual fingers.

His son's voice is hesitant, soft. “Do you need me to clean... down there, again?”

God. Oh, God. The first part of that phrase is awful enough, but it's that small word at the end that disturbs him the most. 'Again.' Meaning, this is not the first time Connor's cleaned him up. He buries his face in the stinking mattress, mortified. His throat constricts, eyes and nose feeling hot. He will not weep. He will not. It's bad enough that the boy has seen what Washington does to him, witnessed it first hand, even worse that he's become accustomed to tending to him, afterward. At least he will spare himself the embarrassment and shame of the boy seeing him cry.

“No,” he croaks into the mattress.

Connor has him sit up. He kneels in front of Haytham, taking longer strips of fabric and winding them around his father's body in silence. He hates Washington. Hates Hickey. Church. Lee. Most of all, he hates himself. Hates his weakness, his inability to do anything other than let himself be violated over and over. He's not even human anymore. Just a thing. An object of pity. He wants to sleep, perhaps have a few hours of respite where he dreams of something pleasant—or better, dreams of nothing at all.

But the boy just won't leave him alone.

“We need to come up with a plan,” he says as he finishes wrapping Haytham up.

Haytham goes to run unsteady fingers through his hair, stops when he comes across something crusted. He pulls it out of the strands, examines it, and feels like throwing up—of his own volition, this time. Haytham gives Connor a ragged sigh. He can't meet his eyes.

“Not now, Connor. It's not a good time,” he says hoarsely.

“There is never going to be a good time,” Connor grouses.

“I said, 'not now!'” It comes out as a harsh bark. Connor starts, but does not draw away.

“Look,” Connor says, eyes pleading. “I know you are hurting, that you do not think you are capable, but you must help me. People are dying.”

Oh, lad, you have no idea.

“What do you want me to do about it?” Haytham croaks, irritated that the boy won't just let him be.

Connor gives him an annoyed look that makes him look very much like Ziio.

“Just... Anything. Collect information. You are at Washington's side almost every day; you must have heard something useful.”

“I know nothing that can help you,” Haytham says, and it's the truth. What he witnessed today, what he saw... it will do no good for Connor to know.

“I killed a boy today,” Connor says quietly, face drawn and grim. Haytham stares at him, raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to get to fumble his way to some sort of point. “We were brought into the throne room after you had been taken away. He was like us; the Apple did not control him. He was fourteen, if that. Half my weight. He came at me with a knife.”

“Why?”

“Because he was told to. It amused Washington to send him at me. The boy apologized. Said that if he did not kill me, the guards would let the whole barracks dishonor his sister—his younger sister. I tried to stop him. Took the knife away from him, easily. He still came at me. I fought him off, but, somehow the blade found his stomach. He died in my arms.”

Connor's rendition is uncharacteristicly detached. He has a far away look in his eyes, as if he's somewhere else. “There will be more like him, if we do not stop this.”

So, Washington is still singling out resistant people to fight to the death. Perhaps it's an attempt to break them, make them more susceptible to the Apple's influence, or perhaps just out of pure cruelty and sadism. Washington had tried the same tactic with Haytham, when he'd first been taken prisoner, only to be dismayed by his ruthless efficiency and utter lack of remorse. It was war at it's most primitive and basest level; kill or be killed. So he killed. It was only after he had worked his way through a full dozen other prisoners that Washington had decided to try a different route.

Haytham laughs. It's an awful, cruel sound that's more like a sob than anything else. Poor, tender, dear-hearted Connor. So absurdly unprepared. So naive. His son is one of the most talented, natural killers that Haytham has ever seen, and yet even the slightest bit of collateral damage seems to unnerve him.

“A boy. A single dead boy you didn't even know has you put out.”

Connor tenses, draws back. “He did nothing to deserve what I did to him.”

“They never do. And yet they die just as easily.”

“I should have never expected you to care,” Connor snaps. “There is no room in your heart for anyone but yourself.”

He shouldn't say anything. No good will come of it. But he's hurting, miserable, and frustrated. He wants lash out, hurt someone in some fundamental and irreversible way to prove to himself that he's still a man, that he's something more than just a receptacle for scars and abuse and cum. And the most convenient victim just happens to be his own son. He can't hurt him, not physically, anyway, so he uses the only two weapons he has left—his wit, and his tongue.

“You're absolutely right; I don't care,” growls Haytham, vocal chords protesting, “I am completely depleted of sympathy for your dead boy. And do you know why? Because I watched Washington make a man cut out his own tongue today. Because I learned that Washington intends to round up your people, subjugate them, and then let them be massacred when Lee takes Philadelphia. And there is nothing—absolutely nothing that you or I can do about it.”

Connor stares at him, slack-jawed, dark eyes glittering, threatening to overspill. Haytham is instantly reminded of that wet, horrible night at Valley Forge. The night that Connor threatened to kill him.

“What? You look so surprised. You shouldn't be. This is, what, only the third, forth, fifth time Washington has threatened or managed to destroy your people—?”

“Shut up,” Connor says, dangerously quiet.

“—It's practically a compulsion at this point. I never murdered any of your kin; why did you see fit to kill me and let him live?”

“Shut up!” he repeats, louder.

“Why? You wanted the information. Why sulk over one dead boy when there are thousands to—“

Connor draws back his arm, viper-quick, all the muscles in his arm tense and coiled to strike. But he stops. He glares at Haytham teeth bared, eyes wet, and Haytham cowers, bringing up his hands to protect his face, quaking at the sight of so much naked hate.

The hit doesn't come. Connor's hand wavers, and then drops. He stands, goes to the opposite side of the room, and slides down the wall. Crosses his arms over his chest and buries his head between his knees. His shoulders shudder, but he doesn't make a sound.

Not for the last time that evening, Haytham wonders:

What the hell is wrong with me?

Oh my god, this continues to be so heart-breaking and so amazingly well-done. Your characterization of Haytham is pretty much perfect, especially with Connor, and I love that there's nothing easy about their interaction. Connor's own situation and his attempts to keep going through all this is heartbreaking (all the more so because we only gets hints of it from tight Haytham's POV). In short: this is so good, and I look forward to every update.

*Haytham's tight POV, excuse the typo!

Aww, shucks, thanks, glad to know I've got a few followers =D Yeah, for the moment I'm trying to downplay Connor's suffering; since everything is though Haytham's POV, Haytham would be unlikely to notice anyone else's misery but his own. Things will focus more on the hell that Connor is being put through in the next few chapters--once Haytham stops wallowing quite so much.

OP here! I second all of what the above Anons have said. This continues to be immaculately written, at every twist of plot and every scrap of character. I like Haytham's observations of Connor's personality and ability - he is a naturally fierce killer, yet it's his humanity and ability to empathise that brings him away from the edge of psychopathy. I have to say, my favourite line in this part is the similie with Connor as a viper. The imagery from that line alone is sublime.

“We suspect the Master Assassin is a negro,” Charles says, walking beside Haytham at a leisurely pace, one hand leading his lathered mare by her bridle, the other resting on the pommel of his sword. He looks about him warily, eyes scanning the forest, as if expecting to be ambushed by a pack of wolves or a raiding party of irate natives at any given turn of the path.

“Really? That's... rather brilliant, actually,” Admits Haytham, leading his own horse laden with parcels.

Charles' eyebrows raise. “'Brilliant?' You sound almost impressed.”

Haytham had wondered how the Assassin killed so effectively, completely evading all detection, carrying out their ancient vendetta with surgical precision and the utmost quietude. The recent deaths had been all too carefully planned to not to be the work of the same man. The first incident had been a Justice of the Peace sympathetic to the Templar cause. The papers had reported that the man had become clumsy with drink one night and had fallen off his horse, dashing his head on the cobbled streets of Boston, but Haytham had suspected otherwise. On closer inspection, the man's skull had been broken and face bloodied in a careful, controlled manner; all the better to disguise the knife wound through the eye. They might not have ever discovered the subterfuge had it not been for Benjamin Church's careful examination.

The next had been a Brother that was, all had assured, fast on his way to being appointed the colonial governor of Connecticut. He had excused himself during a ball that Benjamin had hosted at his new Boston manse. Only the upper echelons of society had been permitted entrance. The hope had been that Haytham could generate some interest for their various projects while furthering the Templar agenda. The prospective governor was found an hour later in a servants' privy, still immaculately dressed and powdered, the handsomeness of his clothing somewhat diminished by all the blood from his slashed throat. After that, none of the guests had much cared for what Haytham had to say on the subject of bringing order to the new world, so eager were they to run from the house, screaming.

The most recent had been John Pitcarin's relation, killed in a discrete New York whore house that catered to clientele with a taste for the masculine. He had been initiated only three days prior. One minute the young man had been fine, and the next he had been gasping for breath, sweating and trembling and clutching his stomach, and then had expired shortly thereafter. Haytham suspected poisoned wine, but hadn't been given a chance to investigate; the bottle had been broken and the whore that had entertained the lad had disappeared in the chaos that had ensued. The death had served the dual purposes of thinning Templar ranks and thoroughly embarrassing the prominent Pitcarin clan in a town where reputation was everything.

A negro Assassin was a perfect weapon. Blacks were ubiquitous in the colonies and Caribbean. There was so much construction and demand for labor of all types; an unfamiliar face was a routine sight and few questions were asked when it came to origins. Most would pay the lot of them little or no heed. With the right clothes, the right bearing, and some careful acting, such a man could be practically invisible, if he so wished. After all, who would spare a second glance for a ditch digger walking along the road after a hard day's work, a lower house servant of attending to a gentleman’s privy, yet another exotic prostitute hustling in a place veiled in secrecy?

“I am indeed impressed. It's an excellent strategy; I only wish we were the ones implementing it,” Haytham muses, idly reaching up to run his fingers through the branches of a flowering crab apple tree as the two men pass, creating a flurry of pink petals in their wake. “Very interesting indeed.”

“Not interesting enough, it would seem,” Charles says, “For you to become involved.” His words carry just the slightest burn of acid.

Haytham sighs. “Templar and Assassin have been battling for thousands of years, before there were even names to delineate one order from the other. My involvement would solve little. I've given you all the necessary tools and training to deal with the situation while I engage in other pursuits.”

“You mean like setting up a homestead in the woods,” Charles says, deadpan.

“Like studying the Precursor site,” Is Haytham's clipped reply.

“You do know that there is an inconvenient amount of tension between going on in these parts; a War, I believe it's called,” Charles remarks dryly.

“Why, now that you mention it, I believe I have heard some news to that effect.”

“Perhaps this is not the most opportune time to be prodding about in disputed territories, then. Lest you offend the delicate sensibilities of the locals and they decide to scalp you for your troubles.”

“It's a good thing that I have one of the finest young Captains in His Majesty's army to attend to the well-being of my hair, then,” Haytham says jovially, clapping a hand on the younger man's shoulder. “It is still 'Captain' Lee?”

“Not for long, I have reason to believe that I will be promoted to Major soon enough, thanks to someone's benevolent influence,” Charles says, and a smile tugs at his lip, but he still looks troubled. “But I don't believe my military advancement was the subject we were discussing.” Haytham sighs. It was worth a shot.

“Yes, well, living up here on a nearly full time basis allows me to focus much effort on contemplating the site,” Haytham replies defensively.

“And, doubtless, the tomato, squash and potato sprouts aid your studies greatly.” Charles' eyes flick behind them to Haytham's package-laden horse.

“If I were to return to civilization every time I required food, I would be constantly on the road and accomplish nothing but wearing out the seat of my breeches. Growing my own sustenance is the most practical course of action.”

“Right. So this retreat from the city—it wouldn't have anything to do with the woman.”

Haytham's heart sinks. He sighs. “You weren't supposed to know.”

“Secrets like that do not keep, sir.”

“I didn't want—damn it, Charles, it isn't as if I planned this to happen.”

“And what does your squaw think of you critiquing her ancestral cave doodlings?”

“Her name is Ziio,” Haytham says sharply, “And, to be frank, sir, I find your lack of respect for her people appalling.”

Charles lowers his eyes to the forest floor. “Apologies, Master Kenway,” he says, stiffly.

Haytham sighs. “Don't be like that, Charles.”

“I was under the impression that we were friends. Friends do not keep secrets from each other, not of this magnitude.”

“I didn't tell you because I knew you wouldn't approve,” Haytham says, almost a grumble. What he wanted to do was make some snide comment about Charles' own secretive activities, but he didn't dare. It would ruin an otherwise pleasant afternoon. Not that, Haytham suspected, things were to remain pleasant for much longer.

“But I would have understood. And I would have respected your decision. I always do.”

“And yet you see fit to question me now.”

“You made me your second-in-command because you wanted me to be free with my opinions with respect to the Order. All men have needs, desires, but this move into the wilderness is detrimental to our other objectives.”

“I have a feeling that if I can solve the cave's riddle—everything else will be inconsequential.”

“It's been there for thousands of years, what's a few more months? Mr Johnson is seeing to the acquisition of the lands; once the war quiets down and you'll be able to study in safety. But for now, you are needed in Boston. Bring your woman, if you must. I assume she knows...” A pause. “You have told her of your intentions?”

The silence between them lasts a dozen steps. “She doesn't know,” Haytham says.

“You are not going to be able to keep something of this import from her for very long, Haytham. She's going to find out.”

He sighs. “I know.”

“If—when she discovers your deceit, she will be most wroth,” Charles says, frowning, eyes beseeching. He's sympathetic—no, he looks sympathetic, Haytham has to remind himself. Even though they have been friends for years, Haytham has always been at a slight disadvantage when it comes to truly knowing what the other man is thinking. Charles has a masterful command of his face when it's required of him; he would make a fine actor and an even finer politician, had he not such a short and fiery temper.

“Better to end it now, to minimize the damage. Come back with me, Haytham. There are ample women in the Colonies. John has—”

“Oh, doubtless Captain Pitcarin has a gaggle of eligible female relations that would be stabbing each other in the back for the opportunity of spending my father's fortune,” Haytham grumbles. “I do not want a simpering, flighty, painted fool of a woman, Charles, I want her.”

He'd had other women before Ziio, that was true enough, but none had ever kept his interest for longer than a few weeks at most. Once he had satisfied himself in bed and cleared his head of judgment-skewing lust, there was often little about them to hold his interest. Many he found downright detestable. Ziio is different in every aspect. She is not servile and chaste, not drenched in unguents and cloying perfume, not sequestered in pounds of ridiculous petticoats and slathered in ceruse. She's practical, athletic, fearless. Beautiful, inside and out.

“Well, we can't always have what we want,” says Charles, a touch sadly. His words are poignant because Haytham knows the emotion behind them is a real one. “Leave her, Haytham, before you're found out. It's for the best. For both of you.”

“I cannot. Things have become... complicated.”

“What kind of complica...” Charles trails off, frowning, crimping his lips together. Charles is very bright. It was this useful trait among many others that had attracted Grandmaster Reginald Birch's attention. He is quick to infer, to make connections. He clears his throat. “Is it a boy or girl?” he asks, reluctantly.

“You know, most gentlemen would offer congratulations upon discovering that their closest friend is a father,” Haytham grumbles testily.

“You and I are a far cry from being like 'most gentlemen,'” he points out, his frown deepening. “Haytham, you told me you never wanted to have children.”

“No, I believe I said that I didn't want children brought into this sort of life,” Haytham says, mirroring his frown. He doesn't like this, being on the defense. He much prefers to be leading the attack.

Charles looks at him with no small amount of alarm. “Are you saying that you are leaving the Order?” He's quiet, almost a whisper, as if he's worried that the trees have ears.

“No! Don't be ridiculous,” Haytham snaps at him, actually insulted that Charles would ever dare suggest such an unthinkable act. “I'm saying I don't want to push my son to be a...” He trails off. What does he want? He shakes his head. “I don't know, Charles. I just—perhaps I want to give him the opportunity to say 'no'. To make his own decisions, decide his own fate. It was a consideration and luxury that I was never afforded,” he points out, glumly.

“Master Birch will not be pleased to hear it,” Charles says. Haytham's hands tighten into fists.

“I don't give a good Goddamn what Reginald thinks—I'm not a child anymore! I can do as I see fit! I'm still carrying out his instructions; he sent me here to investigate the Precursor site and that is precisely what I am doing.”

Charles gives a ragged sigh. “This will not end well, Haytham. For anyone involved—You belong with us. In the civilized world, not out here in these god-forsaken woods. There's so much more to accomplish—”

Haytham whirls on him, eyes flashing. “You have made your opinions known, sir! Another word on the matter and I'll bloody your nose!” Charles stops as well, narrows his eyes, and squares himself. Haytham has to incline his head slightly upwards to meet Charles' glare; the man's height is intimidating, and Haytham is by no means a small man.

“If the sight of my blood would make you see sense, sir, then go right ahead.”

They both know he will do no such thing, but Charles obviously has no intention of dropping the subject. It's unusual for him to be so obstinate. A different tactic, then. He just hopes that it will have the desired effect without too much collateral damage.

“Oh, come off it, Charles. This jealousy of yours is very unbecoming.”

Charles glowers at him, brow beetled. “What in the devil are you talking about?” He scoffs. “Do you really think it my most earnest wish to traipse about in the woods, hunting squirrels, scrabbling in the dirt, chopping wood and fending off wolves?”

“You and I both know it's not my living in the woods that has you out of sorts.”

Charles' feigned ignorance is perfect. “You think I'm jealous? Of you and your wild woman?” Even his chuckle is carefully contrived.

“You can drop the act, Charles. I know how you truly feel about me.”

I forgot to mention at the top of the chapter that I'm going to do a few back story chapters interspersed in the story. I apologize if this threw you off.
--------------------------------------------

He didn't know, not entirely, but when all the color drains from the man's face, Haytham realizes his suspicions were correct. He's treated to the rare sight of Charles Lee's true emotions. His light green eyes widen and his mouth is slack with abject horror. Haytham flushes, mutually uncomfortable. Ambushing his friend is a new low... this is the last thing he wants to do to the man, but he needs to put Charles in his place.

“I—I—” Charles sputters, his face this time flushing with embarrassment, “But—how?”

“I made inquiries,” Haytham says, gently.

Charles' mouth bows wretchedly and he looks past Haytham to the creek beyond that the path follows, the trees, his horse—in short, looking everywhere but at Haytham's face. Finally, his gaze settles on the ground.

“Who was it?” He asks quietly, voice quavering. Oh dear lord, please, don't let him start to weep...

“Does it matter?”

“Who, sir?” He demands. Haytham doesn't care for the tone of that. He hopes he's not going to be on the receiving end of Charles' temper.

“Thomas.”

When Haytham had brought Thomas Hickey into the fold, Captain Pitcarin had privately voiced his dissent. “Mr Hickey,” He had said, “Is brutish, vulgar, and has a hand in almost every unseemly business in Boston, legal or no.” Haytham had responded, “You are most correct, sir. Which is why we need him on our side.” With Thomas' invaluable knowledge, Haytham had his finger on the pulse of the seedier aspect of the colonies; who was evading their taxes, who was flouting the Navigation Acts and smuggling in goods not produced in England, who was running protection rackets, pyramid schemes, engaging in blackmail, killing for profit, ad infinitum.

Mr Hickey also knew who visited whore houses, which ones they frequented, and what sort of services the client asked for. It had taken almost no prompting at all for Thomas to supply the name and location of Charles' favorite haunt; a place in Boston that was similar in reputation to the establishment where Captain Pitcarin's relation would later be murdered. Thomas had been most reluctant to volunteer anything else, though. When Haytham went to go investigate himself, he bribed the madam quite liberally and had asked about Charles' habits. She had pointed out a man that had looked as if he could have passed as Haytham's brother. He had thought the resemblance too strong to be mere coincidence.

“That uncouth, disingenuous, whoreson!” Charles growls.

“Don't blame him, Charles. He was just following orders.” Haytham goes to place a placating hand on Charles' shoulder but he jerks away.

“You had no right,” He says miserably, “My... what I do it—it was a matter that did not concern you!”

“I had a right to know if you were engaging in any activities that would compromise our Order,” Haytham tells him, a gentle reprimand, “We investigate every man and woman who seeks to join us, recommendation from a Grandmaster or no. The Assassins would have wiped us out centuries ago if we didn't take such precautions. I looked into you and didn't find anything about you that suggested that you had divided loyalties. Thus, when the time was appropriate, I made you my Brother.”

Charles looks at him sharply, shocked. “You—you knew, all this time?”

“I did.”

“And you said nothing.”

“As you said, it's a private matter. I didn't want to be having this conversation. I knew it would upset you.”

“And yet we are still having it. And you have upset me.”

“To illustrate a point, Charles,” Says Haytham, and he tugs on the lead of his horse, beginning their slow walk again.

“And that is?” Charles asks, voice rough, following.

“That we can't always choose who we care about.”

They walk. They had been walking side by side, when the width of the path had allowed it, but now the younger man hangs back. Haytham can scarcely recall a more deafening silence; the void between them drowns out the birdsong, the gurgle of the stream, and the hooves of their horses until all Haytham can hear is the words that they are not saying to each other.

“I'm sorry, Charles,” Haytham says, trying to defuse the tension. When Charles doesn't reply Haytham looks at him back over his shoulder. The other man watches the ground, shoulders slumped. Haytham shoots him a smile that is supposed to look warm and comforting but in all likelihood is wan and anxious. “If it's any consolation, I don't mind. I've never thought ill of you for it. I'm actually rather flattered.” He isn't lying. Had he found the information disturbing? Yes, but only at first, really. The knowledge had explained quite a bit about Charles' behavior towards him.

Evidently, it is not consoling. Charles' eyes flick to his and he looks away again, shamefaced. “Oh, good lord...” Charles moans.

“I did not wish for any awkwardness between us, that's why I waited so long to tell you—”

“Sir, please,” He begs, “May we just change the subject?”

Whole minutes pass in silence. Haytham fingers the odd bit of metal that is hanging from a leather cord around his neck.

“I sent to Reginald for an expert about a fortnight ago,” He says, trying to broach the silence once more. “The markings in that cave are indeed consistent with other Precursor antiquities. This pendant—it is connected in all of this, somehow. When I brought it inside the cave, the markings glowed, Charles. I've never seen anything quite like it.”

He's told him all this before; Haytham's just trying to bridge the void between them. Charles makes no indication that he's even listening. He continues anyway, perhaps hoping that their work will take Charles' mind from the bomb that Haytham had so casually and tactlessly thrown into his lap.

“It's a door, I'm almost certain of it; there's a seam in the wall where air escapes from the other side. There's a hollow in the wall, smooth and even as the finest porcelain bowl, a little larger than a fist. I think, maybe, that is the lock. All we need is a different key. I have my suspicions on what that key may be, but I wanted to get a second opinion from someone more scholarly.”

“Very good, sir,” Charles says stiffly. Obviously, he could care less about the cave at this point.

More silence passes.

“The crab apple blossoms are lovely,” Haytham observes when he can stand it no longer.

“Yes,” Charles agrees glumly, “Yes, they are quite lovely.”

Haytham sighs. Well. This is perfectly disastrous.

Neither man says another word for the rest of their walk.

------------------

Alright, since it looks like my chapters are getting longer and longer, I'll probably start posting links to the chapters at AO3 when I update here, unless someone objects.

Holy fuck, anon, I've probably said this before, but your characterization is so good. Haytham's loyalty to the templar order and to Ziio, and his attempts to negotiate a path that can accommodate both is perfect (and so sad, given how we know it will end up), and I love the way you handled the awkwardness between Charles and Haytham. (Also, the hints of Achilles being a total BAMF? YES. YESSS.) I'm so looking forward to seeing how these flashbacks fit into the story.

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OP here. I like this change of pace! It's interesting to see the cracks and the fractures that you've out into the characters which really adds depth and a layer of sadness to it. (I'm sorry if none of this makes sense, I'm bout to doze off.)

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Oh dear this is just perfection! Connor here is awesome, and very Connor! Haytham, Arrrggghhh, I just want to give him a big hug!
I think there's one thing must be said as to how good author!anon is: I basically skipped any part that involved bodily or psychological cruelty (like the tongue, and using the Apple on Haytham), because it's just brutal...
I'll probably wait a bit longer for a more positive plot twist to continue reading it. But Geez! Well done!

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FILL ---------13 (part 1) of ? -------Enthralled

(Anonymous) - 2013-08-09 19:37 (UTC) - Expand

FILL ---------13 (part 2) of ? -------Enthralled

(Anonymous) - 2013-08-09 19:38 (UTC) - Expand

(Forgive me. I was a huge fan of this thread when it was new, and recently have been thinking about it. I checked for new contributions, and at seeing none, I felt the need to write. Original Anon, if you return, feel free to ignore my contributions and continue where you left off. I am just so inspired, even years later. Thank you!)

It was abnormal for Washington to take his pet back through the filth and darkness that was essentially a dungeon. Haytham usually walked with the guards, but at his side, Haytham had to crawl. The floor was unfinished, so dirt and pebbles pressed painfully into his knees and hands. Washington would tug on his lead if his pet was not keeping pace. Haytham felt his blood boil, but he continued to precariously crawl, his eyes helping him to avoid jagged pieces of glass from old bottles.
Connor had already been placed in his cell, still handcuffed, sitting on the pallet they called a bed. His face was contorted with disgust before Washington began down the hall, Connor aware something "special" had to be going on if Haytham was not brought back with him earlier. When he listened for the footsteps, he paused. They were different, better, nicer shoes that never walked on this kind of floor, no semblance of stealth in the way the ground snapped. Haytham's slow crawling almost sounded like a person being dragged, and Connor's chest became tighter. His face returned to its state of disgust when the well dressed "King" came into view. "You had best not be stealing from my pet's plate. He may be my toy, but he is worlds beyond an animal like you," Washington started, two guards who had been standing watch opening the lock of their cell for him. Haytham had remained on his knees just out of view of the cell, but Washington soon yanked him forward. Connor's disgust turned to sternness, trying to mask his rage.
"I do not eat his food," Connor said flatly, concerned his responses would make Haytham pay in the end.
"Still such fight in your eyes, almost like this one once was..." He trailed off and began to pet Haytham's head. Haytham gritted his teeth as warmth spread in the wake of Washington's touch. Connor looked away, but Washington grasped his face, and pulled it close, "No, animal. Watch. Watch how you will be one day..." Haytham's gut turned upside down, his eyes blinking over and over to avoid holding them wide in dismay. His son would be next...Haytham had to do something. Haytham mewed at Washington, rubbing his face against the clean, but clammy hand that had caressed him. "What is it? Jealous pet? No need for that, I will show him why you're always my favorite," a grin that sickened the other two pulled gingerly at Washington's pale face.
His pointer painted Haytham's lips, sending chills down his spine he allowed to shake him, wanting to put on a better show. Connor watching was degrading and deplorable, but now...Connor had seen it all, and Haytham would do what he had to in order to prevent the boy from experiencing it too.
It had been easy for Connor to look away whenever his father was forced to shamefully please self-absorbed men. Haytham expected it, though he would always glance from the corner of his eye, to ensure his boy saw as little of his shame as possible.
"No. Watch us," Washington started, "Beast, I am talking to you," he said with more force, a slight echo making his words ring more sickeningly in Haytham's ears. Connor glared downward and then lifted his eyes, despite how much he wanted to close or avert them.
Haytham felt the burn of those soft brown eyes watching his lascivious acts. His breath increased in pace as he continued to carefully lick the throbbing shaft that bulged with need. Grey eyes looked through pained slits at the brown, innocent eyes that were fully taking in his father's skill. Connor stood so tall above Haytham, a small form on his knees. His eyes watched Haytham's tongue, the dark pink circling Washington's tip with increasing speed and pressure.
Connor's own breathing became faster, and not from nerves like Haytham. Though he had no tea to blame, his pants began to grow tight, and he shifted uncomfortably, well aware his endowment would not be easy to hide. Haytham had focused enough on his task to not notice yet, but he felt the burn and tingling over his form to a greater degree than normal. He cursed himself. He dripped in his rags, knowing it was mainly because of how dirty and lowered he felt from his son, his strong, impressive son, watching him.
Washington's fingers knotted themselves in Haytham's messy locks, his fist pushing Haytham down onto his length. Connor took in a breath. Haytham gagged momentarily before bobbing in an experienced rhythm, taking the man to the hilt each time. Connor's eyes followed his lips up and down the shaft, his father's sultry moans making his own cock twitch against its confinement.
"Good boy..." Washington moaned, his hips moving up with need at the knowing mouth that pleasured him. Haytham opened his fogged eyes enough to peer at Connor again, almost wanting the shame of his judgment.
He lost his rhythm when he noticed the incredible boner pointing straight at him through his son's tattered trousers. Washington forced him back into a faster pace, Haytham's hand moving between his own leg to put pressure on his now throbbing cock. He knew better than to play with it without permission, but something in him, something he hated himself for, something that was more than the tea, made him want to play with himself in clear view of Connor. Connor licked his dry lips, trying to keep from moaning himself as he heard his father moan with each bob of his hungry mouth. The man was imagining Connor was in his mouth instead, which was coincidentally what Connor too fantasized as he watched with shameful envy.
Washington was getting closer, Haytham knowingly increasing his speed, his tongue massaging the underside of the mushroom head as he swallowed the dribbling precum. Washington's knees became weak and his hips bucked wildly as his fist pulled Haytham's head down. Shot after shot of bitter cum hit the back of his throat, shooting straight down, his gagging turning Connor on more.
Connor could no longer hide his panting, and with Washington calming down, all three were made fully aware of his arousal. "Turned on? Of course, a beast like you would be. Seeing someone like me, with how powerful I am, it makes you want to bow too, doesn't it?" Haytham cringed. He knew Connor was aroused by watching, yet Haytham was quite confident, and oddly hopeful, that it was his own skill and submission that sent all of Connor's blood south.
"I should increase your rations..." Washington started as he put himself away and moved toward Connor. The native shifted in his chains, Haytham's heart racing as Washington reached for Connor's erection. A deep grunt burst from the boy when it was grabbed, Washington chuckling as he lightly squeezed, "We will need to sustain you for later...Maybe more will be required to break you, like that one." A chill moved down Connor's spine, one of disgust, his muscles shaking with the urge to resist. Haytham crawled over, sitting at Washington's feet, his eyes on the man's hand, the urge to tear it off consuming him.
A single finger traced the shaft, Haytham nearly drooling as he became distracted with a better visual of his boy's hidden bulging shape. Despite his tanned skin, Connor's deep blush was apparent, Washington smirking as he began to exit the cell, petting Haytham on his way out. The guards that had waited to the side and out of direct view left behind Washington after securing the cell, their footsteps soon out of earshot.

"I suppose they are leaving me chained..." Connor said to break the silence, his erection having decreased, but not enough to make it justifiable.
"At least you can sit for now, your limbs are bound, but just enough that you cannot lift them over your hips when you stand..." Haytham could not remove his eyes from his son's erection, his own throbbing between his thighs. The goosebumps and warmth from his aphrodisiac had not subsided, maybe even grown, at Washington's absence, and the shame was overwhelming.
Connor slowly sat, his brown eyes avoiding Haytham's gaze. He knew mentioning it would open the door for Haytham to question why he became hard to begin with. The two sat in near silence for over an hour before guards returned with food. The two servings were near identical, though Connor had an even darker tea than Haytham, as though more herbs were used. The guards unlocked Connor's cuffs and he rubbed his wrists and ankles to return the blood flow to his hands and feet. They left in a hurry, whispering about a party and news, but nothing more of note they could decipher.
Connor immediately grasped both sets of greens on their plates, tossing them out the barred window. Haytham looked with uncertainty at Connor's tea as he lifted his own to sip at it. "He is giving you my diet...That, means he has plans for you. The fights clearly get to you, but perhaps he enjoys this way of breaking men more..." Haytham sipped at his tea again, a bit unsure of his own motivation. He was concerned for Connor, but also consumed with curiosity at how ferocious his boy would be after drinking that strong tea.
"His chuckling and his...actions..." Connor said as a chill of disgust interrupted him, "I already suspected." Connor took a few begrudging bites of bread. The food was bad overall, but having that much of the slop was so much more than he had been receiving.
Regardless of how much he enjoyed getting closer to full, he felt like a whore. Connor glanced down at the forest green tea on his tray. He felt guilt crawl down his neck, knowing Haytham would have the better idea of true sexual shame. The man had no right to feel so much shame he thought, but besides his father's sleepy misbehavior, Connor was entirely virginal. His inexperience made all of this the more serious, it made his cock throb with a different kind of need and his shame hit a different nerve, yet he would not allow himself to consider his lot worse than Haytham's. He took a few small sips and then returned to chewing at the stale bread.
Connor had savored his slop stew, Haytham eventually falling asleep on the pallet under their thin blanket. Connor continued to stare into his tea, occasionally taking cautious sips, fear welling in his gut at the warmth spreading between his legs. He licked his bowl clean and washed it down with the tea. Yawning and feeling his lids weighing, Connor moved beside Haytham, laying to provide the elder warmth, or so he would have sworn.
Connor's lids pursed before opening to confused slits as he awoke from a pleasant dream. There was a nice feeling, a strange feeling. Haytham's hand was moving slowly up and down his naked shaft. His soft breathing let Connor know he was still asleep, and had somehow pulled Connor's length free while they both dreamt.
His breathing hitched, it was so much better than the other times Haytham had tried to touch him while in a horny haze. He had not actually touched Connor's flesh in his sleep before, and his son was already so needy from the aphrodisiac and what he had witnessed Haytham do earlier, that it was hard to move. Connor audibly moaned, believing he should stop it, feeling it should be easy, but the pleasure stopped him in his tracks. He could not stop thinking about how good it felt before when Haytham touched him in the past, how he denied the extreme pleasure for his sanity, but knowing how wrong it was with Haytham made it inexplicably hotter to be getting off in his hand.
He pushed his hips forward, allowing Haytham's attentive hand to have more access. Connor moved his hips, Haytham's hand moving faster as he sighed with pleasure in his sleep. Soft hums and pleasurable noises escaped Haytham with each breath, the sound almost like music to Connor's sensitive ears.
Connor's strong right arm wrapped around Haytham, pulling him close. Haytham's breath hitched, his hand opening and releasing Connor's erection, his subconscious afraid he had done something wrong like always seems to be the case with Washington.
The younger man inhaled deeply, Haytham's scent still distinctly his, despite the filth and sweat that always seemed to coat his skin. Without any punishment to sway him, Haytham's hand returned to its soft ministrations of Connor. A quiet gasp slipped from Connor's lips when Haytham returned to touching him. He left some room between his groin and Haytham's back, for his father's hand to touch him with more freedom. However, he could not let him go. He had to hold the man close, take in his smell, listen to his breath. It was more than the aphrodisiac, there was a part of him that wanted Haytham close to him. More than that, he wanted to offer his father comfort too, and only after having the strong tea did he understand exactly what was driving him.
A rough hand gently played with Haytham's hair, lost in the sensations between his legs. Small changes in Haytham's breath spurred him forward, his fingertips dancing down Haytham's neck, and then feeling his chest and the scars that littered his abdomen. Lovingly he traced the healed scars, many he had washed and tended to with his own hands.
After caring for Haytham in the ways he had, there was even more of a possessiveness he had for the man. Connor did not expect his father to feel so good against his body. He could not use him, or at least, in the ways all those men had. He could not resist him any longer either, but should Haytham wake and want it to stop, Connor would not think twice.
There were goosebumps soon left in the wake of his fingers as he felt his father's lower back and hips. The bone jutted farther from his body than it should have, but it added to Haytham's current state of femininity. Though he would never admit to the elder man, Connor found it oddly attractive, the still firmness of his ass and thighs, the softness of much of his body which was once calloused or rough.
Even if it were wrong, there could be nothing worse one could do to Haytham now. The soft caresses and knowing touches brought him sweet dreams. There was a warm fire, Ziio raking her nails down his chest, nuzzling his neck.
"Please..." Haytham whispered to her, crystal eyes hopeful and wanting as they gazed with longing at his lover who sat on a bearskin rug beside his half naked frame.
"Please...?" She asked with mock confusion, her nails tracing lower and lower on his abdomen with each sweep, but still avoiding the growing mass between his legs, just barely dipping under his britches with her most recent caresses. Haytham moaned, his hips bucking at the touch, a soft, almost yelp of protest as she avoided his most sensitive area. She smirked as she carefully undid his belt, taking ages on the button.
"Please..." he whispered again, more of a whine to his voice, his brows furrowing upward, the teasing feeling good, but his need more powerful than he could remember. In his haze he closed his eyes, the warmth of the fire comforting him as he felt himself freed from his painfully constricting pants. Soft chuckles died in her chest as her fingertips barely touched the shaft, tickling upward with their tracing.
"Oh yes!" He moaned, her soft chuckles quieting as his cock twitched and bobbed with need.

Then the soft, knowing chuckles returned, but the voice was deeper, the chills created by this different voice almost painful. He opened his eyes, the cabin surrounding him, the hot fire still kissing the air. His body was still partially nude on the plush, dark rug, but there was a body holding his, one that felt larger, and stronger, rather than smaller like Ziio's.
Looking down, he saw a tanned, strong hand teasing him, his pants at his knees. Part of him wanted to ask what was going on, scream maybe, wasn't Ziio just here? However, he felt so warm, so nice, it had to be right?
That deep chuckle vibrated against his ear again and he melted into the frame holding him, "Connor..." he moaned softly, leaning his head back and exposing his neck. Sweet, almost healing kisses were placed on his neck, moving down to his shoulder, and back up again. Haytham opened his mouth with pleasure, sinking further into the strong, native man who held him as though no one would hold him again.
Searching fingers moved like feathers across his inner thighs, the crease that met his groin, and all around his sack. Light, teasing fingers traced up the front of his shaft again, finally making their way to his reddening tip.
"Oh..." he heard Connor moan into his ear as the man felt how wet Haytham had gotten from his exploration of his body. Wet fingertips danced down his shaft, spreading the wetness before grasping him with uncertainty.
"Yes..." Haytham gasped, wanton need in his hushed tones. His hips began to move without him knowing it, soon meeting the pumping rhythm. Soon he vividly felt a hardness against his back, something he was eventually bouncing off of as he sought the sweet touches.
As he began to focus more on the hardness pressing against him, how large it was, how good it felt to bounce, he began to remember why he had a sudden like for things like that, he became shaken from his dream, and tired eyes opened to the haze that was their current reality. His body ached, the floor was hard and cold despite the blanket beneath him. There was an arm wrapped around him, and the warm, strong frame that held him close was still just as warm and inviting.
The pleasure he dreamt of was still happening to his surprise, his mouth agape as Connor's fingers rolled against Haytham's tip. No one had touched him like this in so long, for more than a few seconds of sweetness, he ached for this. He cursed himself for not caring that it was Connor, and the more he thought about the touches, the more it turned him on that it was in fact his son causing him such delight.
"Ah!" Haytham blurted when Connor began to rub him up and down again, pumping him with slow strokes. His son still believed him asleep as he continued to just barely hump against Haytham's curved ass.
"That's right..." Connor rasped deeply into Haytham's ear, sudden, sharp shivers shaking him to his core. He could hear the need in his son's voice, and the rumble was something he would have equated to a mountain lion in depth.
Haytham was no longer stroking Connor. That had stopped quite a while earlier, well before he woke. That did not concern the boy. It was Haytham's pleasure he was concerned with, though he could not prevent himself from unconscious, wanton humping.
Feeling a man pressing against his ass would normally make him ill, but Haytham only wanted more, and not in a purely physical way. He cursed himself again before curving his spine, pressing his ass back into the soft movements his son was making.
"O-oh..." Connor moaned, his hand jacking Haytham faster, his moistened palm like silk to Haytham every time he touched the sensitive head.
Haytham was lost in the sensation, surprisingly with no tinges of shame or disgust ruining his only escape. He soon could not contain his moans and gasps, his head moving left and right with need, it becoming clearer and clearer to Connor that Haytham was conscious.
"It's okay Haytham..." Connor whispered, his husky voice echoing in Haytham's mind as he drifted more into the touches, "Shhh... It's okay...." As he pumped, he made sure to put more focus on the tip with his thumb, rubbing small circles every time he neared it, "I'll make it feel good...you deserve to feel good..." Haytham mewed with need, his gasps almost like a woman's as he humped with abandon into his son's hand. Without realizing it, he nuzzled his head against Connor, the rest of his body cuddling as the pleasure washed over him, for the first time without serious pain or punishment attached in longer than he could remember.
Battered hands reached for something, anything to grip. Connor offered the hand of the arm he was laying on to Haytham's left, then letting Haytham cock go for the shortest of moments as he guided Haytham's right hand to his hair. Haytham almost cried at the loss of sensation, Connor nuzzling the back of his neck as he returned to touching, trying to reassure Haytham as the man's fingers became lost in ebony locks.
He gripped Connor's hand, then releasing in shame, but Connor gripped him back harder, his tongue then tracing the shell of Haytham's ear, "Squeeze me, it's okay Haytham....You're safe for now," Haytham then squeezed Connor's hand with all the need and emotion he had been holding onto.
"Yes...shh..." Connor said in as much of a comforting tone as he could, trying to hide his unconcealable lust.
Haytham moaned, still quiet enough they would not be heard, but loud enough to send chills straight to Connor's cock. The man continued to push against Connor's arousal, moaning at their contact despite the thin cloth that still covered Connor at least.
"Shit..." Connor exclaimed under his breath, shaken by how aroused his was, his tip moving between Haytham's globes with his each of their met thrusts. His hand moved fast on the hard flesh that had Haytham in such a trance, Connor feeling his father twitching and growing harder as he humped with need.
"I...I..." Haytham muttered with sheepish, almost confused tones, "I..." His fingers knotted themselves in Connor's hair, fingers shaking as his nails dug into Connor's hand.
"Yes...you can cum Haytham...Cum Haytham..." Connor moaned into Haytham's ear. The sharpness of his 'C' on each word made them sharper to Haytham's ears, made it feel like a command, one he finally wanted to obey if he was fully honest with himself.
"Ooohh..." Haytham gasped, his mouth freezing open as he tried to stay the sound. Connor pumped Haytham up and down, maintaining his speed and increasing his grip, the tip of his thumb tickling the underside of Haytham's head with each thrust.
Haytham's body began to contort against Connor's, twitching and shaking like he had never seen. Then, he finally began to release; stream after stream of hot need escaping Haytham as his muscles contracted with orgasm. Connor's pumping slowed, making sure his father was complete before he let go. He immediately began wiping the cum from Haytham's softening member, as well as from his belly.
More than anything, he wanted Haytham comfortable. Haytham slumped against Connor, panting and shivering like a virgin in his grasp. His mind became less hazy, and he began trying to formulate a way to put this entirely on Connor, to explain that he was still dreaming...but Connor's strong grasp never wavered, and Haytham could not help but cuddle into his warmth. The waves of pleasure still pulsated over Haytham's body, something he rarely got to enjoy when he was made to orgasm by Washington or the guards.
When Connor sat up, loosening his grip on Haytham, the man tensed, ready for an awkward conversation, ready for the venom he so readily spat at others to come from his son's lips. Instead, Connor reached for a bowl of water, bringing it carefully to Haytham, continuing to hold it steady as Haytham sat up weakly to sip with thirst he barely registered he was suffering from.
Being treated with such kindness was all around foreign, no one ever tending to him except his own father. He could feel that Connor was still erect, likely painfully so, against him, but the boy moved not a centimeter. He showed respect Haytham had not even believed could have been instilled in him, and for the boy to not be inspired by the men who continued to brutalize him... Haytham began to cry.
The tears were mostly silent, but his body shook so noticeably that Connor immediately held him tightly, letting his legs spoon under Haytham's, "I will get you out of here. It will be over soon Haytham..." Connor whispered sweetly, sweeping hair from Haytham's face, using the back of his hand to dry his father's cheek. He gripped the hand that consoled him, holding Connor against his cheek as tears continued to pour from his eyes. It was Connor's fault, being so kind, touching him with consideration if he had to touch him, and even before now, restoring his sanity, Haytham was admittedly overwhelmed.
This is the man who killed him, yet Haytham forced his hand, this is the man who has seen him at his worst, and still hopes for and remembers his best. All Haytham wanted was to disappear into his embrace, and after another twenty minutes he did just that, drifting back into a sweet slumber as Connor caressed him into a stupor.

Where is more of that? That was so good. The best hurt/comfort funfic with Haytham I have ever read 🙂. Do you have something familliar with him or Connor also?

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