Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

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Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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Part 1
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Grief's Madness 1/? (TW: psychological abuse, forced transition, elements of non-con)

[(Anonymous)]

His necklace was gone. The absence of it's gentle pressure agwainst his collarbone made Ratonhnhaké:ton immediately reach up, only to find his wrists were tightly bound by handcuffs and these, in turn, were attached to a short length of chain to the wall beside him. He growled but did not tug, pausing to take in his surroundings, fighting the seductive caress of sleep that threatened to pull him down. It would be better to find something to pick the lock with than to risk unnecessary injury. 

The bed he was lying on was basic, although layered with thick blankets, and the rest of the room followed in the same fashion. A grated fire had been lit some hours ago, it's glowing coals now bathing the room in blurry shadows. There was a window on Ratonhnhaké:ton's other side, but it was dark and he only saw the faint lights of a distant town from the awkward angle he had twisted himself into to peer from it. Nobody would hear him in this place. Besides the bed and the fireplace, there was a small bookshelf, loaded with rich leather tomes, a desk, and an armchair. Nothing that could help him within reach.

Over the years, Connor had been bound many times, but handcuffs had always brought a painful bite around his wrists. It was strangely absent this time. When he glanced back at them, he was startled to discover they had been carefully wrapped in soft leather and placed over his shirt sleeves. The fact that he hadn't noticed this immediately caused a crease to mar his brow; what exactly had he been knocked out with? Some disgusting mix the Templars had invented, no doubt.

The door opened, lighting a masculine figure from behind, and the fire glinted off the man's eyes. Connor tensed, ready to fight, knowing immediately who had stepped over the threshold into his prison cell. One didn't forget eyes so pale they looked like the world had drained them of all colour, leaving only the palest stain of grey-blue like the blind eye of a beggar. They were bloodshot and red-rimmed, dark splotches of too many late nights painted under them.

"Ah, Grand Master," said Charles Lee, "I see you have awoken from your brutalisation by the Assassin."

Jerking back now, the sleepiness falling away, Connor narrowed his eyes at Lee, then at the tray that his enemy was holding. Lee didn't seem to be offended, taking the recoil in his stride. The tray was laid on the desk with a rattle, and Connor saw a bowl of hot, thick stew and slices of bread laid out next to a German stein of unknown liquid.

"You were quite violent in your sleep, so we had to restrain you."

The tone in his voice was too soft, too tender compared to what Connor was used to. This wasn't the Lee that he knew. This was someone alien in mannerisms and attitude, distorting the man's body into affection beyond what Connor thought him to be capable. It was frightening.

"Give me my mother's necklace and you may yet live, Lee," Connor growled.

"I do not know of this necklace you speak of," replied Lee, shrugging his shoulders.

Lee prodded at the fire with a poker, coaxing it to lick at the fresh logs he offered, then sat back in the armchair and rested his head on one hand.

"You are a liar and a thief," said Connor, wriggling his wrists around in their cuffs.

"I am no such thing. Not to you, at least, Grand Master Kenway. I would never betray you," retorted Lee.

He turned his beggar-eyes on Connor, watching the young man. A scolding noise slipped from his throat. The leather wraps were slipping now, rubbing red welts across the most slender part of the wrist. Large hands were useful as an intimidation and combat tool - slipping handcuffs, not so much. If Connor had to break a hand in order to escape, then so be it.

It was looking more likely by the second, and Connor wasn't interested in finding out exactly what Lee had planned for him. A secluded hut, a captured enemy, and a motive: he wasn't stupid. The array of torture tools would come out any moment now.

"Stop that. You will hurt yourself," said Lee. "We killed the assassin. He is dead and buried. Bled to death with a hole through his throat. A masterly use of the hidden blade, sir."

"Stop calling me that!"

"Calling you what, sir?"

Lee was deranged, Connor decided, completely deranged by grief over Haytham's demise. The quicker he escaped, the better. But Lee was pulling a small vial from his coat pocket, sprinkling the liquid onto a handkerchief, and stood, holding the fabric gingerly.

"What is your name?"

"Connor."

Lee's lips twisted into a thin line. Before Connor could tuck hus face against his upper-arm, the cloth came over his mouth and he choked, trying not to inhale. He didn't want whatever it was and struggled viciously, squirming and kicking, but eventually he had to breathe and the scent overwhelmed him. Stars burst across his vision.

"Shhh, it will all be fine, Grand Master. You have had a nasty injury and it is to be expected that you are confused," crooned Lee, pushing Connor onto his back.

Lavender. It was only lavender. Connor stilled, trying to lure Lee into thinking the oils had worked. A ripple of revulsion rolled down Connor's neck as Lee stroked what was left of his hair.

"The savage was cruel to you, cutting your hair like that. Of course, I should respect him, he was your son after all."

The rough fingers pinched a lock and rubbed it between them, feeling the texture. Lee lifted the cloth and Connor wheezed, taking in a breath of fresh air. Slowly, the room began to spin. He grumbled something in Mohawk and tried to shake it, but still persisted.

"Now, what's your name?" asked Lee.

Through gritted teeth, the captive spat out, "Connor. Connor Davenport."

He received the cloth once more, with Lee's smile and the beggar-eyes the last things he saw before the stench overwhelmed his tired, injured body.

Re: Grief's Madness 1/? (TW: psychological abuse, forced transition, elements of non-con)

[(Anonymous)]

OP: I love this! This is simply incredible, you are an awesome writer. I love how you wrote Charles here, he is so creepy! And I really like how Connor gave his last name as being 'Davenport', I don't see that too often and I love anything to do with Connor and Achilles.

In any case, I really adore this and I cannot wait to see the rest!

Re: Grief's Madness 1/? (TW: psychological abuse, forced transition, elements of non-con)

[(Anonymous)]

Thanks OP! I'm all sorts of flustered blushy right now. I'm glad that this got off to a good start! Let's hope I can keep it up!

Charles is in a pretty bad state right now, but the creepiest thing about it is that Connor will keep expecting to be hurt...but Charles never physically hurts him (until a certain part...yeeeees...). The hanging threat of being hurt and being unsure of what Charles is up to is what is truly scary in this.

Ah, I'm glad you liked the Davenport part! Names have a particular importance in this, and I shift between them on purpose. So look out for that. :)
I think Connor wouldn't use Haytham's name unless it was to his benefit. Otherwise, I think he'd take on Achilles', because Achilles was more of a father to him than Haytham, so it's only natural that if he's going to be called Connor, then he might as well be Connor Davenport, the Assassin.
Ratonhnhaké:ton is reserved for his personal self, and for visits to his village. Only they have the right to see the real Ratonhnhaké:ton under the Connor shell.

Re: Grief's Madness 1/? (TW: psychological abuse, forced transition, elements of non-con)

[(Anonymous)]

holy shit this is an amazing start! I can't wait to read the rest! <3

Re: Grief's Madness 1/? (TW: psychological abuse, forced transition, elements of non-con)

[(Anonymous)]

Ahhhh, thank you, sweet anon! More will be in a day or so.

Grief's Madness 2/? (TW: same as prior ch. This part has some watersports elements incl desperation)

[(Anonymous)]

Lee was still there when Connor snorted and sat up, haziness from the lavender oil still fogging his body. The stew wasn't steaming anymore but it was still dark outside. It could not have been more than a few hours that he was unconscious for.

"Haytham," murmured Lee, attention immediately on Connor's movements, like a snake ready to strike.

"Haytham is dead," snapped Connor. "I killed him."

And he winced at the hoarseness of his voice.

"No, you killed the assassin, sir," said Lee.

Taking the stein, he offered it to Connor, trying to tip it down his throat. It was tempting - Connor's throat felt like someone had slice into it with a knife, peeling away the skin - but he did not trust Lee.

"It is only water."

To demonstrate, he took a sip himself, then held it to Connor's lips once more. Hesitantly, Connor drank a mouthful of the water. He tried to pull away but Lee tipped the stein up and pinched Connor's nose shut so he was forced to drink the rest or suffocate. Right at the very bottom a sweet globule of honey fell into Connor's mouth, and he swallowed it in surprise. Lee refilled the stein from a pitcher that hadn't been on the desk before.

"Are you still thirsty?"

"No," said Connor.

"You need to be washed, from the inside out. Doctor's orders."

The mug came forth again, but Connor flung an unbound foot at Lee, knocking him, but not disabling him. If the stein dropped, then he wouldn't have to drink. Connor lunged again, foot ramming into Lee's thigh, other leg coming around to smack into the Templar's hip. He was successful this time, and it clattered to the ground, breaking the handle from the body and tearing a gaping hole in one side. Lee's face crumpled for a moment, a high flush of red on his cheeks.

Good. This was the Charles Lee that Connor knew well. He braced himself to be hit, a backhand or a punch, or even a well placed jab to the ribs, but Lee only bent down to pick up the wet, broken pieces, and placed them on the tray.

"There was no need for that. You need your fluids."

Lee took up the gallon pitcher, thoughtfully turning it around in his hands. There was still a great deal of water left, sloshing about. He seemed to decide upon something, for he took the few steps across the room and roughly shoved Connor against the bed-head and straddled hus legs, pinning them. While Connor was still distracted, he pushed the lip of the pitcher into Connor's mouth and started to pour.

The water assaulted the younger man, filling his throat, and he gulped it down as best he could, excess splashing his shirt, making it stick to his skin in little droplets. He thrashed about, struggling to breathe and had to give that up when Charles grabbed his nose again. He smacked his bound fists against Lee trying to push him away, but it was a desperate, useless action, for that flush of red only darkened, Connor's nose released momentarily as Lee grabbed the chain attaching Connor to the wall and dragged the end of it to hook over a steel bolt in the wall, shortening it.

"Why are you hurting me, sir? I only want to do what is best for your continuing health. Now drink," said Lee.

Connor couldn't take much more of the water, but he needed to breathe. It sprayed from his mouth as he swallowed and failed to keep it down, but still Lee kept tipping the damned thing. Finally, after what felt like far too long with blackness blurring his vision, the pitcher was taken away, and he coughed on the air, sucking it into his lungs.

"Nearly half a gallon. Very good."

"You are mad!" screamed Connor, bucking Lee from his lap.

But Lee leaned back and pressed on Connor's lower abdomen, knowing precisely where Connor's swelling bladder was.

"I cannot understand what you are saying," said Charles, idly.

"You can understand me perfectly, Boiling Water," Connor growled in Kanien'kehá:ka.

"Well of course I do now," replied Lee in the same manner. "I did not realise that the mother of your son taught you their language."

Connor paused. Mulled this confirmed suspicion over. Then Lee pressed down a little harder and Connor clenched his thighs. The water hadn't helped relieve what was already contained.

"Is there something wrong?" asked Lee innocently, not butchering a single syllable of Kanien'kehá:ka.

"Remove your hand," said Connor, switching back to English, refusing to allow Lee to taint the tribe by speaking their language further.

Lee's face crumpled into a quizzical expression. He leaned his head towards Connor, as if trying to hear better. The thick moustache that perched on his lip twitched and bristled.

"And there is that damnable accent again. You are slurring your words. Perhaps you should sleep again," said Lee.

The fullness was getting worse. This game, whatever it was, appeared to be going around in circles. Connor wished Lee would just get to the point, and stop calling him by his father's title. It was frustrating enough to have been caught, but for Lee to not do anything, well, that seemed odd. The Templar's objective wasn't clear. At least Haytham would have given Connor a good spar after a heated exchange of words. That made things interesting.

What did Lee want? Wasn't he supposed to be the Grand Master, now that Haytham was dead. He was supposed to be running the Order, not taking in spare assassins from funerals.

"I was not slurring," spat Connor, pronouncing each world slowly. "I wish to relieve myself."

A cry of angry tore from him as Lee jabbed him.

"Again."

"I wish to relieve myself, Lee," said Connor.

 "Lee? Have I done something to earn your displeasure, sir. Again."

It was getting too much - he didn't know how long he'd be in these clothes and he didn't particularly like smelling of piss if he could help it. But Connor didn't know what Lee wanted from this. Presumably it was some mad reasoning behind it.

"Again."

Connor snarled in frustration and had the underside of his chin tapped lightly for his troubles.

"I wish to relieve myself."

There was nothing wrong with his voice! The chains rattled as Connor grunted and tried to unbalance his captor. Lee was steady though, and lifted his hand to relieve a margin of the pressure before reapplying it.

"Again."

Yeah, he really needed to piss. It had been half an hour.

"I wish to relieve myself."

"Wrong, wrong!"

Connor moaned in frustration. What had his father called Lee? As much as Connor was loathe to indulge in Lee's sick fantasy, this was the only way to guarantee  wouldn't soil himself and risk further punishment.

"Do it again."

"I wish to relieve myself," and here Connor paused in contemplation, one last chance to turn back. "Charles."

He closed his eyes so he didn't have to see those beggar-eyes light up in delight.

"Again, Haytham."

Realisation hit Connor like a eight pound cannonball to the chest. He wasn't here to be physically tortured, but to be groomed into his father's image. Lee wanted him to retrain his voice into Haytham's. A ball of contempt and disgust, cold, small, spiked, sat in his stomach.

No. He might be of Haytham's blood, but he wasn't Haytham. They only resembled each other in passing. It wasn't obvious that he was Haytham's child. No, no, no. Ratonhnhaké:ton cringed; Haytham wasn't his father, he was not spoken of. Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't have a father.

But surely obligating this unspoken request wouldn't hurt. Connor was stronger than that. He could lure Lee in. One lapse wasn't all that much.

"Charles, please," said Connor, wrapping his mouth around the words in the best imitation of his father's voice. "I need to relieve myself."

"Yes," sighed Charles, a smile appearing under his twitchy moustache. "Of course."

Re: Grief's Madness 2/? (TW: same as prior ch. This part has some watersports elements incl desperat

[(Anonymous)]

Please excuse my bluntness, but this was fucking creepy as fuck.

In a good way, of course.

Also, I love the desperation element, anon.

Setting up a camp and eagerly awaiting more.

Re: Grief's Madness 2/? (TW: same as prior ch. This part has some watersports elements incl desperat

[(Anonymous)]

Mm, bb, I do not mind the bluntness at all. If someone wants creepy forced transitions, then I am going to make it as creepy as I possibly can. After all, Charles doesn't want Connor, he wants Haytham.

Okay, so the soft glowing in my backward is your camp? I'll be sure to leave marshmellows out for you. :) Thanks for reading!

Re: Grief's Madness 2/? (TW: same as prior ch. This part has some watersports elements incl desperat

[(Anonymous)]

holy fucking shit

i just

wow

Re: Grief's Madness 2/? (TW: same as prior ch. This part has some watersports elements incl desperat

[(Anonymous)]

*wraps shock blanket over anon*

It's only going to get worse. Thanks for reading!

Re: Grief's Madness 2/? (TW: same as prior ch. This part has some watersports elements incl desperat

[(Anonymous)]

OP: Words cannot describe how much I love this. Re-training him to speak in Haytham's voice? That is both genius and insanely creepy. I can't wait to see more :3

Re: Grief's Madness 2/? (TW: same as prior ch. This part has some watersports elements incl desperat

[(Anonymous)]

You can't say that Charles isn't thorough. ;D It'll take a bit of time, but Connor will find it more and more difficult to speak in his original voice. I am really happy that this hits the target for what you want! If I ever cross the line into "too creepy, cannot do this anymore", let me know and I will tone the creepy down. :)

Grief's Madness 3/? (TW: as above.)

[(Anonymous)]

Attaching a longer chain, Charles led Connor outside, where dawn was beginning to break, and directed him into a little outhouse. During the chain swap, two other Templars had come in to secure his legs, pinning him down as he twisted and kicked.

"It is all delirium," said Lee, watching the padded cuffs go on.

They forced Connor's still bound hands up, looping a thick band of leather around his nape and attaching it to either side of his hands. Stomach exposed, Connor felt vulnerable, like the soft and non-toxic underside of a toad, ready to be pecked apart by crows. Lee ran his eyes down Connor's body, the tiniest hitch in his breathing betraying the moment they slid over Connor's crotch. The assassin shifted uncomfortably. That was always the part that caused attention and he wasn't quite sure why.

"L-Charles. Hurry up."

The outhouse was clean, not that Connor expected anything less from the Templars, and one of the grunts, the shorter one, lifted the toilet lid. Connor tensed, still trying to hold on, and glared at Lee.

"I am not a magician," he pointed out, in his own voice.

Haytham's accent was hard. It tended to slip into parody, and was soft around the edges, while sharp and pointy in the middle - an upper-class attitude went with it and that was the part Connor was fighting with the most. The aristocracy just didn't care about middle or lower-class people. Connor did. But Lee refused to listen unless he made some attempt to emulate it.

"Charles?"

At least that was a word he had experience of. Haytham had talked about his second-in-command quite frequently.

"Charles, my hands - " began Connor.

"Yes, of course, Haytham," replied Lee.

Immediately he reached for Connor, and started undoing the buttons to his trousers. Connor turned his attention elsewhere, not wanting to see the greedy and lustful care with which Lee was handling his body. Lee's hands were cold, the shock almost making him lose control before he was ready. His prick, trying to leak, was tugged on, Connor stumbling forward to follow.

He almost moaned in delight as he was allowed to relieve himself, Lee aiming him carefully, but kept his pleased noises to himself. Once done, Lee wiped Connor's prick down with a wet rag and tucked him away, although not nearly as tightly as Connor normally preferred he did not want Lee to touch him more.

It was a cold walk back to the cabin, frost crunching under his bare feet, a numbing sensation that Connor hadn't noticed on the way out. He dug his feet into the soil, scared that he wouldn't feel the earth between his toes for a while. Purposely slowing, Connor turned around, taking in the peaceful little spot that Lee had built his cabin in. The trees were naked except for a shawl of late snow with tiny buds of new leaves studding the melting ice with jewels. They stretched to the sky, limbs and fingers reaching for a sun they would never be able to touch, only feel. Even the grumbles of the Templar lackeys complaining about the cold and the lack of women couldn't dampen this image. They faded into the background, and Connor crouched to crush fallen pine needles under his feet and to take in the sharp smell and the spikes pricking his skin. It eased that rank overload of lavender that still lingered in the back of his nose. The frosted grass was broken in a lot of areas - for such an isolated spot, there were many fresh footprints.

One of the lackeys nudged Connor with their rifle stock. Without even thinking, Connor snatched at it as far as his bound hands could. When that failed to yield a weapon, he rolled back, standing up to ram the solider in a sort of reverse headbutt. His skull connected with soft cartilage and Connor felt the blood immediately ooze onto his skull. Tucking his chin to his chest, Connor managed to unloop the leather band from over his neck and used it to grab the other soldier in a stranglehold. The Templar struggled, bleating pitifully for help.

Connor dragged him, walking backwards to use him as a shield between him and his inevitable pursuer. He would not go back. He would not be used in such a disgusting way. At about half a mile, Connor dropped the solider, watching them sob in gratitude as their life was spared for another day. The snow and pine needles weren't pleasant now but Connor had endured worse with Achilles. They were the leftovers from winter, more of a frost or such than a proper snow.

But he took only one step away from his former hostage when all manner of weapons were pointed at his throat or chest. Ah, the extra footprints. They were the rest of Lee's security detail. Connor cursed the wailing of his hostage smothering the noise of the Templars slowly close in on him. A stupid, foolish mistake.

Connor's lip furled in displeasure. They grabbed him by his upper arms and forced him back.

Lee was waiting - his expression was so forlorn that Connor almost felt sorry for him. Almost. He threw a blanket over Connor and tutted at the Assassin's muddy feet, streaked with blood from stones and pine needles.

"Your little adventure had me worried, Haytham. But at least it gave me time to have your bath properly prepared," said Lee, tightly clasping Connor's hand with both of his.

"My bath?"

Lee wrinkled his nose.

"Yes, it is quite unlike you to allow yourself to become so dirty, if I must give you my truthful opinion, Grand Master Kenway," replied Lee, ushering Connor into the cabin.

A wooden tub had been set up in the middle of the room and more lackeys were attending to it, boiling water in the fireplace. It was about one third of the way full with fresh ice being hauled in from outside to supplement the hot.

"In you get," announced Lee, and the next thing Connor knew was he was being pushed into the tub, clothes still on.

"Oh dear. It's a shame that you fell in. Well, I have just the thing," Lee said. "It should fit just fine."

Grief's Madness 4/? (TW: as above, PTSD, hallucenogenics.)

[(Anonymous)]

The water had turned into a mire of war paint, grime, and dried blood. His hands had been unbound, but his feet were still chained. Charles had given a cry of dismay at the red marks on Connor's ankles, viciously delivering a backhand to one of the men responsible for collecting Connor. They hadn't been quick enough.

So Lee wouldn't let him be injured. That was an interesting piece of leverage, Connor mused as he rubbed his skin with a wet cloth and a bar of soap, working it into a lather. He stood, taking up a bucket of fresh water and rinsed himself off, stepping onto a soft reed mat, dripping water while Lee unashamedly stared. Connor held out his hands for a towel. When Lee didn't move Connor nudged past him, seemingly breaking the older man from his stupor.

A hand slipped down dark skin, stroking old scars and tracing the vertebrae of his spine. Connor stiffened, which he realised as soon as his muscles contracted was precisely the wrong thing to do. The lackeys had vanished, he noticed, and he inconspicuously tilted his head to see what Lee was up to. Smothering desire, a fire of lust, gleamed in the pale, sweaty face. The hand moved over to rub at his stomach and guide him back to press against Lee's front.

But Connor didn't let the hand guide him, striking Lee's face with a sharp snap of air, palm, and skin. Revulsion churned in Connor's stomach. He forgot to maintain his accent.

"Do not touch me!"

Lee snarled back, shoving Connor back. Connor stumbled on the edge of an extravagant bearskin that served as a rug (had it been there before? Connor wasn't sure), and fell. Immediately he was pinned down, light from the fire catching edge of a blade. Hidden blade. Haytham's hidden blade. A hand crushed Connor's throat and he scrabbled at it, wheezing for air.

"You are missing your scars, Grand Master. You have so many but none that are yours," hissed Lee. "Do not mistake my admiration and indulgence of your body as complacency."

The fire flared up, a log being licked clean by flames discovered a nook of particularly dry bark, and Connor was four years old again. Terror filled him as he felt his breath go, the inferno swirling behind the grate, destroying him, destroying everything, spilling onto the floor like liquid and engulfing the room. Kanien'kehá:ka poured from Connor's lips, and he screamed, trying to push Lee away. It was touching his skin, searing his flesh and he could smell it: the human meat bubbling away in its own fat.

He had to find his mother. He could rescue her this time. He could, he could. But a log had trapped him and it was he who was burning alive. Ratonhnhaké:ton howled and screamed, pushing at the log, but it only pressed heavier. It grew branches that wrapped around him, held him tighter, bit into his flesh but didn't penetrate. Breathing was so difficult yet he still screamed and hoped that someone would hear him, someone would take him away.

Who would rescue a half-breed like himself? So many people had told him he was an abomination, that he belonged neither with his people nor in the world of the white man. He was hideous. Deformed. It was best if he died in this fire, then his mother wouldn't be burdened with him, Kanen'tó:kon wouldn't have to pretend to like him anymore, and the clan could be done with him. One less unworthy mouth to feed, to dress, to teach. What was the word Kanen'tó:kon had used? 

Traitor.

Yes. He was a traitor. He hadn't done enough to save his village and now they were gone. He wished the flames would hurry and kill him. Roast him. Give him release and send him to the place that foul, unlikable, half-breed, traitorous monsters like himself went. The air was thick with smoke and he sucked it in trying to suffocate. But it would never reach his lungs, filling them but not hurting him.

Ratonhnhaké:ton began to sob, tears freely falling down his face. Someone was massaging his neck. He hoped they were about to snap it. But that would be too quick a death for him. He was supposed to suffer first.

"Shh, it is the fever-dreams," murmured a kind voice. "Only fever-dreams."

They stroked his temples, and the log shifted into a human shape. A strong human shape, a protector. Ratonhnhaké:ton latched on and cried, trembling and burying his head in his protector's shoulder.

***

Lee wasn't surprised by the hallucinations, nor by the flashbacks. But he was surprised by the extremity. Never had he hoped that the drugs would be so quick and so powerful. Haytham was entirely placid, although crying quietly, and tucked into Lee's arms. All Lee had to do was make comforting noises and whisper to Haytham in Mohawk, and he would clutch closer, completely unaware of the outside world.

The sight was beautiful. It was as it should be. As it would be. Together, they would claim the colonies for the Templars, they would destroy Washington, and they would never be apart again.

Haytham's skin was darker, his chest was a little broader, and his features had more than a hint of savage blood, but he was Haytham. This was his Haytham. Lee held the man, now simply shivering against him, the warmth of his bath wearing off, and pressed a kiss to the shaved head. He wondered if this Haytham's hair would curl at the tips if left to dry naturally. Haytham's eyes were the wrong colour, but that couldn't be helped. Not yet, anyway.

Drawing his coat around both of them, Lee made a mental note to feed more of the hallucinogenic pellets to Haytham.

Re: Grief's Madness 4/? (TW: as above, PTSD, hallucenogenics.)

[(Anonymous)]

Hello. I don't know who you are, but I love you. This is just so wonderfully dark and twisted, and I cannot wait to see where it goes.

Re: Grief's Madness 4/? (TW: as above, PTSD, hallucenogenics.)

[(Anonymous)]

Asdfghjkl wow anon you know how to spoil us! Charles is super creepy, but I feel bad for him since he's obviously had a complete mental breakdown. I feel worse for Connor, poor guy has to put up with Charles' grooming.

The drug pellet was in the honey from part 2, right? (I hope I guessed that correctly...)

Grief's Madness 13/? (TW: as above)

[(Anonymous)]

Snow fell in small flakes around him. Haytham brushed the ice from his shoulders, and adjusted his cape. Hadn't it been spring? A wolf howled in the distance, several others replying. There were only trees around him, and the ground did not seem to rise nor fall in gradient.

Something moved at his feet, and from the snow popped a very familiar face. Spado. Haytham tucked the dog under his arm, drawing his coat over the immaculately groomed pet. He glimpsed a flash of brown, a splash of blue, a trickle of red. There was no sound but the crunch of his boots - the wolves had ceased.

A tugging sensation spiralled from his chest, a thread coaxing him forward. Spado growled and wriggled, leaping from Haytham's arms, taking hold of the hem on his cape, and tried to pull him back. Unfastening the chain that held it, the fabric dropped over Spado's head and he frantically spun around, trapped. Yet when Haytham lifted it, feeling guilty, the dog had vanished. He scrabbled in the snow for a few minutes but to no avail. Spado was gone.

He decided to follow the thread.

The cloak was a black speck behind him when the ground suddenly sloped upwards. So he climbed it, losing his hat on a clawed branch, but he ignored the loss and kept climbing. Somewhere, someone cried outraged, and it echoed thrice then fell victim to the silence. The slope was steep but consistent, and when Haytham reached the top, he came face-to-face with Spado again.

Haytham scolded the dog for wandering off, and ignored Spado's sharp barking as he walked past.

There was a house. A manor. A manor with a door. An axe - a tomahawk - the handle yellowed by the sun, cracks in the wood from a lack of oil (how long had it been since this war started? How long had he been away? How long would it be before he could remove it, wipe away the dust, and place it on his bedroom wall as memory of a friend who had died at his hands?) was embedded in a white pillar. Haytham didn't touch it, and pushed the door open.

He peered to the left - a study or parlour - and then to the right - a dining room, and before him a set of stairs. The thread led up to a bedroom. When Haytham padded in and looked around the room, the sliver of blue and red and brown belonged to someone.

Two someones.

A child. His child. A man. His child still but grown.

They extended their hands in invitation while their eyes burned with fury.

Then Spado bit his ankle and Haytham yelped, turned away, and chased the dog with idle threats. He clattered down the stairs, out the door, slid down the hill, and chased, chased, chased, until he found his cloak, and feeling cold, put it on.

He grasped at the hands pulling a blanket over his shoulders, petting them. A huff of laughter made him crack open an eye. Haytham was in bed - he'd kicked the blankets off. It was too early to be getting up, the nip of spring mornings still curled around the complex.

"Where are you going?" he mumbled sleepily.

Charles pressed a kiss to Haytham's forehead.

"To business in New York. I will not be gone long."

"Do not leave me with nothing to do," groaned Haytham.

Chuckling, Charles patted a parcel of papers.

"I thought you might like to check my paperwork," he replied. "Then check on the new families. I am sure you will find something else that requires attention."

Fingers stretched from under the blanket and stroked Charles' cheek tenderly.

"Of course. Stay safe," said Haytham.

He didn't quite catch Charles' reply, but he did see the longing gaze that Charles gave him before Haytham fell asleep again.

***

It was Stephane's turn to cook. It was nearly always Stephane's turn to cook, and for that the Assassins were grateful. They ate in relative cheer, passing a few bottles of wine around. Tomorrow Duncan and a few recruits would ride for the Homestead to prepare the people there.

For some, this was the last time they would see Duncan, their glass eyes only staring at huts and clear skies, stars, smoke, and fire. An orange glow. Their blood spilt in the name of freeing a man they had never known. Their loyalty repaid by death. They knew the risks of their new lives and afterwards someone would swear and damn the ground, damn the skies, and damn the bastards that convinced them to take so few into so terrible a battlefield.

But this is the future. This is not now, with Aveline at the head of the table and Stephane at the other, good food between them, and hungry mouths of their comrades, one or two whispering grace while others looked on with mixed amusement, bemusement and annoyance at being restrained from eating.

"A toast!" cheered Aveline, taking her glass and raising it. "To the success of our mission!"

Glasses were raised, the sentiment repeated, and they drank the spiced wine.

After the meal, the table was cleared away and pushed to the side, and more than a dozen bedrolls were set up. Hammocks were slung above these, as the den was a small house squashed with no dignity between two other similar houses, and Connor had sealed off the upper floors, including several bedrooms. If one hadn't known exactly where he'd plastered and wallpapered the staircase, a person would never find it. It was easy to assume that the upper floors were occupied by another family.

The first watch set themselves up for their three hour duty. As the Assassins nestled into their beds, the chatter decreased into a comfortable silence as they fell asleep. Sleep was a precious commodity the recruits had learnt after the first night.

Again, they assumed the pattern of Aveline at one end and Stephane at the other, a mix of their people in between them. The novices were clustered towards the middle, the more advanced assassins near the outer edges. Quite a number of them had rolled together in their slumber, heads nestled in the crooks of necks and arms thrown across chests and shoulders.

The second watch saw Duncan and his group leave so they might slip out of the town without being noticed.

The third watch sounded an alarm.

"Templars, heading straight for us! Lee is with them."

In less than five minutes, the bedding had been packed, as well as food, and they were escaping into the underground passages. The option of fighting was impossible - they did not need to display their power, or lack thereof, before it was necessary.

"How?" snarled Dobby. "How did he know?"

Aveline shook her head, "Perhaps my arrival was more conspicuous than I first realised."

They split into five smaller travelling teams, and ran for their lives while Templars riffled through the pots and pans they had left behind.

"Do we always flee?" asked a recruit.

"No," replied Stephane. "But sometimes it is better to."

Through grates and cellar doors, they heard the piercing cries of, "Fire, fire!" that disturbed New York. Her citizens awoke in terror, and the newspaper described the destruction in minute detail, claiming no bodies had been found in this heinous and random act of arson, the ink still wet as it was waved by newsboys before the embers of the former den had cooled.

Yet the sealed rooms remained so, and the house was untouched by scavengers.

Burn the rats from their nest. Burn them before they breed and wring the necks of their helpless young, pink and hairless and disgusting. Watch them jump overboard as the ship burnt merrily, the fire singing in a twanging tune of creaks and groans, snapping flint and buckling copper, to accompany their three day trek to find land before they too drown like the sailors that were thrown from their Crow's Nests.

Lee inspected the remains. The rats may flee but they would die soon enough.

Re: Grief's Madness 13/? (TW: as above)

[(Anonymous)]

holy shit lee how did you know?? urgh i'm so glad that the assassins escaped (even though i guess they didn't exactly need to) and that duncan's group got away safely (but for how long? charles must know about the homestead, mustn't he?)

"haytham"'s trippy dream... i want to know more. i love that there are lots of hints and symbolism but i'm sure i'm missing half the important clues and foreshadowing in that sequence. ugh i love it please tell me we'll be making more trips into "haytham"'s head?

and charles is so sweet to "haytham", it's adorable considering how fucked up everything is. but i have no idea what to think about their relationship any more. (platonic? romantic? familial? and what's with those gazes from charles? i'm too sleepy to speculate this stuff properly >_<)

aaaah, aveline and the others are such BAMFs and ugh i love this fill and you, dear anon, so so much. thank you once more for an amazing continuation! <3 <3 <3

Re: Grief's Madness 13/? (TW: as above)

[(Anonymous)]

Heee! *grinning madly* Thank you for the wonderful review. I come back and re-read all of the reviews from time to time to keep myself motivated. You cannot begin to imagine the joy I get when I see them.

Good job on picking up the clues! I try not to let my artistic purple-prose get too heavy (I read a lot of this sort of modernist texts for uni, so it tends to spill into my writing), but it's good to know that you don't mind!

To put it plainly, Charles would like to fuck Haytham into the mattress, but only when Haytham makes the first move. The brainwashing isn't through secual assualt, but by other techniques, as you've seen.

Grief's Madness 14/? (TW: as above)

[(Anonymous)]

They were going to strike during the ceremony, but the raid had changed that. Stranded in the underground, they hurried, scurried, and sought shelter where there was none. Some of their recruits left, the weight of their decision only becoming apparent now. Tried to leave.

Aveline brought them back. They were shamefaced and humbled. Someone screamed something about loyalty, another pointed out that they had not been given sufficient information when they joined the Brotherhood. Clipper coldly cut through the chaos and snarled that they were not playing a game. This was a war, bigger than themselves, part of turmoil that had raged and scathed thousands of years of history. This wasn’t just England versus America. To fail in this mission would be to allow the future to crumble in front of their eyes.

They deserters were silenced by this abrupt change in character.

They did not try to run again.

***

Soot. Covered in soot. Both of them. Haytham picked the ash from Charles’ hair, laughed as it smudged and turned it grey.

“You look old,” he commented.

“I feel old,” replied Charles. “Especially next to you.”

“Well that’s because you put me in my son’s body,” murmured Haytham.

Charles paused for a moment, inspecting Haytham with a strange and alien look. It was uncomfortable, and made Haytham want to shift and squirm, and he gasped as Charles grasped his chin firmly. Blue eyes - blind beggar-eyes - flicked over his face.

“Yes. Yes I did,” he admitted. “But you will outlive me now. I feared that I would spend my last days waiting for death to take me, so that I might see you again.”

He released Haytham, rubbing the marks that his fingers had left on the darker skin, his ghost limbs moving of their own accord.

“I understand why,” said Connor. “But it does not make it right.”

The splash of white and blue danced around them, reflected in his mind’s eye. Lee had been lonely. Haytham had provided stability. Haytham had been his idol, his mentor, his master, and his companion. His lover, perhaps. The kisses suggested lover, but then again, Lee was aware that he was not entirely Haytham, not entirely the same, and therefore would treat him slightly differently.

Connor understood. And he retreated because he had come to care somewhat.

“Oh Charles, I was only joking,” said Haytham. “You do not look old at all.”

It was times like these that completely threw Charles off-balance. Not even a moment of that brief conversation to Connor seemed apparent in Haytham’s mind. He had skipped over it, like an orchestra missing a page of music, and continued on as if nothing had happened to begin with. Haytham touched Charles’ brow, smoothing the frown that had appeared.

“Of course,” said Charles, trying to laugh.

Haytham brushed some more of the soot from his cloak. It had been dumped over the dark navy wool when Charles had embraced him upon their return. He had been unsure of Charles’ business, and why he had to leave so suddenly. An unease had crept into his heart after Charles had left, as if the sleepy farewell would be the last time he ever saw Charles.

He had fretted and worried, his nightmares returning without Charles to chase them away. In the fire, he had burned, his flesh peeling from his skin. In the snow, he was torn to pieces by wolves - sometimes he became the wolf, and he would chase the threads of blue, brown, and red; the figures that ran from him, their hands clasped. The little one would hide in the trees, the large one liked to stalk Haytham from behind.

The screams would scare his guards, and they would burst in only to have whatever was close to Haytham’s hand hurtling towards them. Still they did their duty, and loyally checked on him up to four times a night.

“You are pale,” said Charles.

“I have not been sleeping well,” Haytham admitted.

Even the guards shifted their weight, surreptitiously exchanging a twist in their mouths and a tighter grip on their rifles.

Charles sighed, and patted Haytham on the shoulder, promising, “It will be better tonight.”

Boston. Then the Homestead. Smoke out the rats. Burn them to their root. Destroy the Brotherhood, and claim Haytham for good. This was his Haytham. They would not be allowed to tear him away again.

“Would you like to take a cup of tea in the cabin?” asked Haytham. “The Lawrences were kind enough to gift me with the most delectable strawberries as thanks for helping them settle.”

“Of course,” said Charles.

He had noticed the guards skittishness. Something had disturbed their reasonably peaceful camp. The question was strange - Haytham wasn’t talking about strawberries.

As soon as the door to the cabin closed, and Haytham had put the kettle on to boil, the reason for the interrogation became clear. He motioned for Charles to sit. A temper growled under the surface of Haytham’s skin.

“Why were you in New York?” demanded Haytham. “Were you behind the arson?”

“Arson? I do not know what you are talking about,” said Charles, quite startled by this outburst.

Haytham slammed his fist on the table, barking “Damn it, man! I told you the location of their den so we could keep an eye on them, not make them angry. You are covered in soot. I am not a fool.”

“No, sir, I-”

“Do not ‘no, sir’ me, Charles!”
“I am sorry. It was a mistake. I had hoped to kill them off.”

Reaching for something in his pocket, Charles laid out a package, with a cord and amulet wrapped around the outside of it. He pushed it towards Haytham.

“And did you?” snapped Haytham.

“No,” said Charles, lifting his head defiantly. “It was for the good of the Order. They know we can find them and we know that they’re building an army. Trying to, at least. The sealed rooms contained multiple artefacts that could be of use to us. They had extensive weaponry, art, and quite a few First Civ trinkets.”

Plucking the package up, Haytham undid the cord, flipping the amulet between his fingers.

“This is the key that I gave you to safeguard.”

A curious gaze returned to the package, unfolding the brown paper. Dried leaves sat inside it, raw tea, and from the scent that rose to his nose Haytham judged it to an Indian Chai, with a rich brown tone, long unbroken leaves and tiny jasmine flowers. He put the package down.

“This is an apology?”

“No, it was a gift. And a suggestion,” said Charles, speaking carefully.

The kettle whistled. Haytham stood, grasped the handle with a wrapped up cloth, and poured the hot water into a porcelain teapot. He put the kettle back, the burning sensation of the metal already seeping through the cloth. Charles didn’t touch the teapot - Haytham always took charge of making the tea. He slowly pushed his chair back while Haytham’s back was turned, snagging the amulet.

“The cave requires another key,” continued Charles. “And I believe you know where that is, Ratonhaké:ton.”

Before Haytham could duck away, Charles dashed forward and tossed the amulet around Haytham’s neck. As much as he hated having to do this, the boy knew where the real key was. Haytham shrieked, arching his back. The amulet hadn’t had this effect before. But then again, there hadn’t been two personalities in the one body before.

Charles clapped a hand over Haytham’s mouth, pulling him flush against his front, wrestling him to the ground. He wished he’d done this earlier - the Haytham personality had forceful dominance. But Ratohnhaké:ton was strong.

“Tell me, and the pain will stop.”

The child screamed and howled behind Charles’ hand, even bit it, but Charles didn’t let go. They kept it up for three hours, until they collapsed, exhausted.

“Charles, why are we on the floor?”

“You had a dizzy spell, sir,” said Charles, stroking Haytham’s hair.

“I remember the tea, and the amulet, but...” the other man trailed off.

“The heat from the fire and the steam of the kettle made you faint. Perhaps you are ill.”

“Yes,” Haytham paused. “Yes, that must be it.”

******

Author Note: Thank you everyone for the lovely feedback. I will get around to replying to you all tomorrow, but for now I must sleep. :) This is also a notice to say that there will likely only be two or three more parts to this, and then it's all wrapped up. OP, this is close to your last chance to influence the ending! Bittersweet or sad? (I am fully able to go either way).

Re: Grief's Madness 14/? (TW: as above)

[(Anonymous)]

Not OP but would love to see both sad and bittersweet endings if possible.

Also oh my fucking god holy shit I can't even

Deserters? But not! And "Haytham" sort of knows he's not really him? And oh god I want to hug little Raton, and I'm glad Connor's not totally gone. Perhaps, if the assassins are sucessful or at least if he gets away from lee's influence he can recover somewhat from his fractured personality...?

Re: Grief's Madness 14/? (TW: as above)

[(Anonymous)]

Not OP as well, but I would like to see both bc just the sad one would probably make me cry unu

But oh wow, this is great. The last little bit was just... yikes. Can't wait to see what happens next ;u;

Re: Grief's Madness 14/? (TW: as above)

[(Anonymous)]

OP: Amazing, as always. I loved Charles + Haytham's relationship here, and I'm glad that Connor's not completely gone. Really weird since he's technically aware of himself but also deep in the other personality.

For the ending, I do agree with the other two reviewers but I'm personally leaning towards bittersweet because I know the sad one would make me cry :(

But I know either one would be amazing so I think it should be totally up to you on where you want to take it :)

Grief's Madness 15/16 (TW: as above)

[(Anonymous)]

With precision that would put an experienced butcher to shame, Stephane cleaved the arm off the soldier, yanked his knife out and spun to meet the next man in battle. Aveline was nearby, duck and weaving, delivering devastating blows to her opponents, her machete in one hand and hidden blade in the other. One made the mistake of trying to approach her from behind, and was rewarded with a swift backwards kick and a bullet-less rifle through the chest as he fell. Clipper was high, nestled in a tree, picking off men that were too close to overwhelming the novices. His best students were in other trees, doing their best over the chaos that raged below.

It was difficult to tell between friend and foe while they were cloaked in blood.

Higher on the hill, the complex burned with crackles and sparks of embers that looked like shooting stars against the night sky. The group split, some slipping into the dancing shadows, using the moving light as camouflage to join the team that had set fire to the main Lodge. Connor was around here somewhere; he had to be, there was no option otherwise.

There couldn't be another option.

***

He was ill. He was very ill. Charles said so and Charles wouldn't lie to him. Charles doesn't lie to him. He felt hot and feverish; his eyes itched, weeping tears of stress and sleep. At times, when his strength was restored a little from rest, he would sip at the honeyed tea Charles offered him.

At one point, he was gripped with an overwhelming sense of fury, and he grabbed Charles by the collar, dragging him down and clawing his face with neatly clipped fingernails. Red welts appeared on Charles’ face. Anger rose in those cold beggar-eyes, and Haytham was horrified by his actions. He kissed the wounds, but Charles pushed him away and Haytham made a noise of distress.

Why, why, why? Was he not good enough? Was he not perfect enough? It was his eyes, his eyes didn’t match, his eyes disgusted Charles. His skin was too dark. He was of native blood – but he had English parents. Why did he have native blood when he had English parents?

This was not his voice. His voice was softer. His voice rolled over this second language and touched it with all the hesitancy a kitten might do with a puddle. Silk. Silk in vibrant green and blue, like a bejewelled bird of the forest. It evoked autumn leaves and the smell of roasting meat over open flames, and the feeling of sudden warmth after being frozen by ice and snow. It had the ability to meld with the waves of humanity, or strike out over the booming, echoing noise of cannons. It could be indignant, sad, calm, and it could burn with passion and conviction of a man that would not stop until the mission was done.

This was his voice and it would not be quelled.

Haytham’s body shuddered with tears, and he clutched at the hem of Charles’ coat, begging for forgiveness, demanding he be restrained and collared. Charles did restrain him, but only to stop the mad caterwauling and drug Haytham so he might sleep and recover. The blissful drugs made Haytham sigh and stroke Charles’ face, sleeping peacefully for the first time in weeks.

The fever broke.

Charles wondered at the ability of the Piece of Eden, studied it carefully. Although it did not have the same raw strength of an Apple, as written about in the past, the round talisman certainly had more ability than anything he had seen before. And Haytham’s blood had reacted with such passion. He ignored that it hadn’t done so the first time around, that the blood was different, the aims were different, the situation was different.

***

Slipping the vambraces on had never felt so good. It felt right. The hidden blade had been well cared for in his absence, and it slid in and out at his will. Charles helped with his cravat, making sure it sat perfectly. They exchanged a kiss, a brief press, and tongues slipping between teeth and lips. The taste was fresh – Charles had taken to chewing on mint leaves as of late, something Haytham mimicked with much relish.

His robes were as pristine as the day he’d first laid his eyes on the heavy cream bolt of fabric, the lighter-weighted silk rolled onto a wooden spindle next to it. In a sudden change of mind, Charles had brought the ceremony forward, forgoing the luxury of having all the guests present. They had simply pushed the tables to the side in the mess hall, and assembled the full forces there.

“Due to recent events, I have decided that our more ceremonial induction shall have to wait,” announced Charles. “As you all know, I have been loyally looking after our Grand Master Kenway during his recovery and reincarnation. This has proven to be successful in all aspects.”

He gestured for Haytham to step out. The candlelight reflected upon his features well, Charles decided, unwrapping a ring he had kept in his pocket since the fateful day of Haytham’s “death”.

“Are any opposed?” asked Charles, looking to his attentive audience.

Not one even blinked.

“Very well, then. The time has come to renew your vows. Do you swear to uphold the principles of our order and all that for which we stand?”

“I do,” replied Haytham.

“And never to share our secrets nor divulge the true nature of our work?”

“I do.”

“And to do so from now until death – whatever the cost?”
“I have died once and I will do so again for the cause.”

“Then we welcome you into our fold, brother. Together we will claim the New World that which the Assassins have tried to soil. One defined by purpose and order. Your hand, if you would.”

Haytham extended it, and watched as the elegant ring slipped over his finger. The Templar cross, emblazoned on the silver, shone back at him, the ruby gems glittering like the fire of the earth. Charles bent to kiss it, and straightened his back, again addressing the soldiers.

“You are a Templar, and the Grand Master of our Order. May the Father of Understanding guide us.”

“May the Father of Understanding guide us,” echoed Haytham.

***

Throwing Charles against the wall, Haytham pulled at his clothes, pressing demanding kisses against his lips, and biting the throat once exposed. Charles smiled against them, clasping Haytham’s face in his hands, staring at the eyes that must have enchanted Haytham into lying with the native woman all those years ago. They tumbled their way to the bed, not caring that their robes would be creased as they were thrown to the ground.

The teasing and gasping, the moans and declarations of pleasure, came together in a burst of lust, grinding together until they collapsed in a mass of sweaty limbs and exhilaration at the final divine consummation. They had bound themselves their destinies, and together they would rule the New World, in the economic force, where people were more obliging to overlook. Presidency was a nice option, and Charles had craved it for so long, but now he had come to his senses. Ruling like that would not aid the Order.

No, it was far better to lurk in the shadows – a page straight from the Assassin’s book. They had some use, at least. Providing wonderful Templars, for a start.

The Assassins would come, and they were ready.

Grief's Recovery 1/? (TW: psychological abuse, same triggers as before)

[(Anonymous)]

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

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

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

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

But then how had he made it here?

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing made sense.

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

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

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

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

He screwed his eyes shut and waited for the release.