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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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."

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.

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!

holy fucking shit

i just

wow

*wraps shock blanket over anon*

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

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

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. :)

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."

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.

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.

Hi there, anon. I love you too :) Thank you for reading - the next update will be coming in 24-48 hours. ^_^

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...)

Yeah, I feel bad for Lee as well, but this is so not the right way to go about getting over his grief. Connor's slipping... Ratonhnhaké:ton hasn't yet, but Connor is.

And yes! Well spotted, the drug was in the honey! I was wondering if anyone caught that. :) Thank you for reading - next part is now up!

His father's shirt was soft, softer than he was used to, and Connor stood in it to finger the fabric for a few minutes before tucking it into his trousers. After finally breaking from his nightmare he'd found himself alone, still naked and curled in front of the fire. He remembered flames. But someone had rescued him and he couldn't be sure that it was the same person that had dragged him away from his mother when he was four.

His wet clothes were gone, replaced by a pile of neatly stacked boxes. The first and the biggest box made Connor throw it across the room in a fit of rage. It's lid flew off, the tricorn hat inside falling out and tumbling away to a dark corner where he didn't have to look at it. He pawed his way through the other boxes, tossing some to the side (cape, coat, ribbons). The trousers he pulled on immediately. One of the snowy white shirts was laid on the rug, edged nervously towards the fire. Connor didn't face the flames directly. He pulled the shirt away far too early for it to have warmed properly.

Haytham's waistcoat was a piece of beauty. Although it was quite loose around his waist, it had been designed in a manner that was agreeable with the activities of murder. Small darts allowed it to roll with his shoulders, letting his hands reach above his head without any fear that it would be rumpled when he lowered them. The colour was a red deeper and richer than the evening sun against the clouds, tiny strands of golden thread decorating the fleur-de-lis and Templar cross pattern. It was a clever design.

Connor removed it, not feeling comfortable in a piece of clothing that was so obviously his father's.

Still quite alone, he stood to investigate the cabin, but he couldn't find anything new that he hadn't seen the first time around. Desk drawers and books were rummaged through with nothing to show for his efforts. He took a bite of the stew - now disgustingly cold - and settled for the bread, chewing slowly as he picked out a book.

The sun was quite high now. It wasn't quite midday, and outside it was eerily quiet, but a glance at the yard with his eagle vision told him all he needed to know. Surrounded. Even the animals knew to stay away from so many soldiers. Settling in next to the window, he tore into the bread, wondering if he would ever be able to explore the outside world again.

The book he had chosen out of boredom than a desire to read, lay open in his lap. Seeing nothing else to do, and having no idea when Lee would return, Connor started to read. He wasn't sure he understood most of it since it was based on a political system he'd never seen in action, but it was interesting enough to keep his attention.

The book was plucked from his hands. Connor lunged into an attack out of surprised reflex, sweeping the thief's feet from underneath them, grabbing the book before it had a chance to fall. The thief rolled and used the momentum to get back up again. They pulled a riding crop from their hip, but Connor threw his book first, slamming them square in the forehead. With a moan, they collapsed in a heap, revealing themselves to be nothing but a foolish young soldier.

"Haytham, that is enough!" called Lee, appearing in the doorway, but he had a smirk as the attacker was dragged away by his friends.

A heady scent of fresh food wafted from the tray Lee was holding. More stew, but at least it was hot. Connor's stance relaxed, although he was still wary of the large pitcher of water. His stomach rumbled, finding the thought of food to be quite agreeable. As Lee came into the room, Connor shuffled back, edging away from his captor.

Lee's foot kicked the abandoned tricorn. The tray was placed next to the first as he bent to pick up the discarded clothing, draping them over his arm. He brushed the dust from them, arranging them over the armchair, and glared at Connor.

"You have not dressed yourself properly. I had hoped that you would since I had given you the privilege of remaining unchained, but alas, it is not so," said Lee.

Guards hustled in, a stocky bear collar in their hands. Connor's throat clenched up, still sore from Charles' earlier choking, and he shook his head.

"What is this? You do not want it?" asked Charles. "Then dress."

"They are my father's clothes," protested Connor.

With a displeased noise, Lee snatched up the guard's riding crop and cracked it over Connor's shoulder.

"I said dress!" he screamed, bringing the crop down again. "I know every mark and scar that has been erased by your reincarnation, and I will make them again if you force me. Now dress yourself, and then you may eat."

The crop lashed for a third time, right across the shoulderblades. The collar loomed in the corner of Connor's vision, making quite a bit of noise as it's bells and weights clinked together. He shuddered, and took up the red waistcoat.

When he was finished, Lee gestured for him to turn around. He tugged and pulled, smoothed the fabric over Connor's shoulders, and fixed the narrow necktie that bound his throat in crimson. One hand touched the soft bristles on his head, stroking the velvet with an ever widening smile. Connor stared out the window, focusing on the dripping ice in a tree, ignoring the hands that confidently examined him.

"You are coming together well, Haytham."

"Yes, Charles," murmured Connor absently.

The tricorn was the last to go on. He'd left it off on purpose, hoping that Lee would forget about it. But now Lee placed it on his head and Connor didn't notice, even as Lee tilted it forward in that particular manner with which Haytham had worn it. He blinked, looked down at himself, and clutched at his cape, trying to hide the outfit.

"Come now, Grand Master, tell me your name," whispered Lee.

Spitefully, the assassin leaned in and replied, "Connor Davenport."

Pain exploded from his groin as Lee struck him with the crop, and he keened, doubling over slightly. He shoved at Lee as the man grabbed the injury and squeezed, his large hands full of strength. Connor yelped, and the heavy bear collar settled on his shoulders, the chains looping around his body. They toppled him, and he crashed onto his bed, quickly chained to the wall, hands and feet being captured and cuffed.

Lee sat next to him, a spoon and the stew in his hands.

"Are you going to behave now?" he asked.

Connor nodded, winded. Pain still radiated from his prick, the chains sitting heavily over it. Lee offered him a bite of stew, and he took it, anything to distract him.

"Tomorrow, we will wake you early. There is a fitness regimes that you are fond of. Then some breakfast, and lessons. In two months our Lodge will be completed," said Lee. "You will be ready for your debut by then, Haytham. I am sure the men will be quite pleased with their new Grand Master."

Connor continued to chew. He didn't want to say anything more to this madman. Not even to ask why the peas hadn't been properly soaked.

He fingered the soft fabric of his shirt cuffs and smelt the lingering perfume Haytham had used. He hadn't thought that it would be a comfort at any point in his life - Haytham may have been his father by blood, but Connor had felt detached from him. But this subtle reminder soothed him, just like African potpourri that reminded him of Achilles, or of the fresh herbs that his mother had grown and seasoned their meat with. These were the memories that Lee couldn't have, couldn't stop.

The stew was finished, and Lee gave him some water to wash it down, the salty taste making him thirsty despite needing to take a trip to the outhouse. In full chains he was taken, startled gasps of some of the men positioned outside making him keep his head up and stare them in the eye. Connor did not know why they gasped - for his resemblance to their former master, or for his dramatic restraints - but they were afraid. Good. Let them be afraid.

"Look how they respond," said Charles. "They recognise you. They want you to lead them, sir."

"I am chained, not blind," snapped Haytham. "Honestly, Charles, you baffle me sometimes."

Charles' back stiffened as he assumed a military posture. For a moment, Connor thought he was going to be punished, but Charles' expression was too lively, as if a dark veil of mourning had been pulled away. It was pleasant. He actually looked human, a lightness in his step as he waited for Connor to do his business. Even the smile had lost it's sinister touch, and Connor gave pause to this image; it must have been something much similar to what greeted his father when Haytham had first landed in America.

Lee left him undisturbed for the rest of the day, secured to the cabin wall.

Dammmmmmmmmmm it.

holy fucking shit

i know i keep saying that but

holy fucking shit

let me smother you with hugs anon

If you smother me, I cannot write more! D: Haha, just kidding. Smother me all you like, sweet Anon. :)

Once again this is fabulous. However, am I the only one wondering what's going through the minds of the guards during all this? Do they just not care? Or are they constantly thinking: 'must go along with the crazy-man, do not set off the crazy-man, I'm only two weeks away from retirement, yes sir Mr. Lee that most definately is Grand Master Kenway no doubt about it please don't hurt me'?

Thank you, Nonnie! And thank you for pointing that out. I realise I hadn't explained it quite that well, so the next chapter is introducing a few new elements, and giving (what I hope is) a feasible reason behind the guards. In short, they sort of care, but they mostly don't. They're curious more than anything else.

OP: Damn. Just...DAMN. Charles has completely lost it. I love how he's trying to help 'Haytham' one second and then just completely flipping out the next. I feel so bad for poor Connor.
But seriously, this fic just keeps getting better and better, I love it!

Ahhh, that's a relief, OP. Thank you so much for your lovely comments!

Lee tends to flip about. But he's calming, somewhat, now that he has a Haytham substitute. Which is bad news for Connor, good news for the rest of the Templar order?

In the cloak of shadows, they slipped into the manor, taking their place at the long table in the dining room. Nobody sat in Achilles' chair. Neither did they sit in Connor's.

"I have disturbing news," announced Clipper. "Grand Master Kenway isn't dead."

The young man looked around to the others. As expected they were not shocked but each wore a grimace.

"My contacts have confirmed this, although nobody has actually sighted him," replied Dobby.

Stephane did not seem entirely convinced. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hand thoughtfully over his apron. What guarantee was a rumour? He'd made the mistake of trusting them in the past and he would not allow himself to be misled twice.

"I think it warrants further attention. The Templars could be trying to mislead us," he ventured.

His fellow assassins nodded.

"I will press for further information," said Dobby.

"As will I," chimed Clipper.

"And you?" asked Stephane, gesturing to Jacob, Jamie and Duncan.

Jamie shook his head, pushing away from the table. Enraged by this action, Stephane stood, thinking it to be an act of defiance against the Brotherhood.

"Our priority is not chasing a ghost," said Jamie.

"If we do not find out the truth then we are at great risk," spat Stephane.

"And if we do not find Connor then we are at an even greater risk. You three may run after what is clearly a trap, I will dedicate myself to finding our leader."

"Don't be so pig-headed," cried Dobby. "You would abandon us? Your family?"

"He is not abandoning you. Without Connor, we are liable to crumble. Look at us, squabbling like selfish children," snapped Jacob.

Stephane huffed, clutching the handle of his butcher's knife. For a moment he glared at them, and they were silent for fear of setting his firecracker temper off.

"Sit, Jamie. You too, Stephane. And do not even think of putting that on the table," ordered Duncan.

Reluctantly, the two men sat, relinquishing their dominance to the soft-spoken former priest.

"Now, I suggest that Clipper and Dobby continue to look into the Haytham situation. If this is not a rumour, then we are in deep and perilous waters. The rest of us will focus on maintaining control in the cities while investigating Connor's disappearance. I suspect there is more to Haytham's miraculous recovery than a couple of bandages and a few days rest," he continued.

"I fear for Connor's life - if he has been captured, then a week of being in Templar hands..." Dobby trailed off.

Reaching for her shoulder, Clipper clutched it, giving her a reassuring pat. Everyone was concerned, not only Dobby. Voicing the obvious wasn't getting them any closer to finding Connor.

"I know. We must act with haste but also precision. There will only be one chance for everything," said Duncan.

They spent an hour memorising particular code words and laying out protocols for their missions before closing their meeting. As they left, they bowed to Achilles' chair, then slipped out as the sun was beginning to break over the horizon.

***

Captain Zachariah Morgan was a good guard and a loyal Templar. He did his duties, did not question his superiors, and had a reputation for training his men ruthlessly. He was not an ugly man either, and had decent wealth and property. A fiancee was waiting for him in Bristol. All in all, he had many advantages in his favour.

He was to be initiated into one of the lower circles at the opening of the Lodge. After the devastation that the Assassins had wreaked upon their Order, he was comforted by the grand show of power that would be displayed by the opening of the Lodge. While their main forces had been driven from New York and Boston, the Templars did not rest, instead beginning work on a sort of fort.

However, Zachariah wasn't sure what to make of Grand Master Lee's newest pet. After an escape attempt within twenty four hours of capturing the prisoner (which they had all expected, it was only a matter of when), the Grand Master had ordered Zachariah's men to replace the current guards. Now he stood at the only door in or out of the small cabin, peering curiously as Grand Master Lee employed various techniques on breaking his prisoner. It was true that the prisoner mirrored their late Grand Master Kenway in features, and at a distance it was flawless, but this was an assassin. You couldn't break an assassin.

It was a shame. Lee would probably grow tired of playing and eventually order an execution squad. Such a waste of an immaculately kept human weapon.

When his men asked him of Grand Master Lee's intentions, he replied that they should not be asking such things. Their job was to obey. (But on the side, in their time off, he quietly put forth his opinion of Lee's madness as a strange torture. They needed the prisoner for some reason. While their ward was not Grand Master Kenway, he was just as valuable and skilled. Somebody else whispered that the prisoner was the son of Haytham - he was quickly hushed. They agreed not to speak of it.)

Otherwise, Lee appeared to be quite sane, dedicating himself to finding new recruits and pushing to reclaim their lost territories. Admittedly he had lapsed into an intense depression when Kenway had died, alternating between hours of silence and rampages of temper. Zachariah had been present to witness this period. He could quite safely say that the death of Lee's predecessor had broken something in the man.

Still. His men obeyed. They had seen far worse, from both sides. If Lee wanted to force the prisoner into the Grand Master's clothes and groom him into someone else, then that was his prerogative. After all, Zachariah had good standings. Breaking them now would be the height of stupidity.

They were not supposed to care. So they didn't.

***

Wake up at dawn.

Train alone. Exception: guards watching set up obstacle course. Their punishment for lazy soldiers is to train with me. Exceed them, if only for the fact that most mornings I see hellfire.

Eat breakfast. Try to pick out the hard lumps. Must eat.

Lessons, extending my linguistics, law, political skills, charisma. I don't see the point of charisma.

Eat.

Study Haytham's journals.

Write in my own journal. Limited, often scathing.

Train with Captain Morgan. Good swordsman, friendly enough, if not slightly timid to land hits.

Late supper. Talk with Lee. Answer his questions correctly. Bear collar or water if I don't.

Read for my own pleasure, if not experiencing visions.

Sleep. Sometimes with Lee beside me.

***

The tailor was blindfolded. Charles tied a mask over Connor's face before removing the cloth from the tailor's eyes. Thankfully Connor could see. Thankfully he could avoid another flashback to that horrible day he was to be executed.

His measurements were taken in near silence with an occasional rustling of tape measure and the squeak of a pencil on paper. Swatches of fabric were shown to Charles, lots of silvers and crimsons, some dark navy blues, and Connor craned his neck to see what Charles would pick. The tailor quivered in his seat, handing Charles prospective designs and annotating the rejected prospectives. While the tailor made sure he had taken his measurements correctly, Connor looked to the designs scattered across the small table. They were all beautiful, elaborate, perfect for an Initiation night, but not perfect for him.

"Have you any experience of Naval uniforms?" Connor asked. "Their cut is clean."

The tailor jumped, dropping his tape measure, not expecting Connor to speak nor with the deep aristocratic tone that it had been meticulously trained into. Charles twitched his moustache, fighting an amused smile.

"Well?"

"Y-yes, sir. Some sir," stammered the tailor.

"Something like that then," said Connor.

Even as he gave his request, he stomach churned over. Precisely how big was this celebration going to be? Charles was setting him up for something quite impossible.

Lee, Connor scolded himself, not Charles.

But it was so hard to think of him as Lee. Damn his compassion. Damn his stupid ability to empathise. He was actually growing fond of Cha - LEE. Lee. Fond of Lee.

"Well, mister..."

"Mr Kenway," supplied Lee.

"Mr Kenway, I'll be back in a week for a first fitting," said the tailor.

Haytham nodded, but Connor screamed on the inside, curling around Ratonhnhaké:ton protectively. He wasn't angry at Lee anymore. He was changing. Lee knew this, this was what Lee wanted.

As soon as the tailor had been led out, blinded and bundled into his carriage, and he was alone, Ratonhnhaké:ton sank to the ground. He was turning into a Templar. He was beginning to lose his own stance, mannerisms, his own voice. He had betrayed the Brotherhood.

"No," he choked. "No, no, no!"

But try as he did, Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn't pronounce a single word of English without Haytham rising to the fore. He half-screamed, half-howled, his agony demanding to be felt. What happened to the four-year-old that had demanded Charles Lee's name?

"Sir?" asked a voice from the door.

Captain Morgan was leaning in, closing the door behind him. He slowly approached the man huddled on the ground, bare hands outstretched. Ratonhnhaké:ton watched with cautious eyes, chest heaving, slowly shifting his feet into a position that allowed him to leap or roll away as the situation called for it.

"Grand Master Kenway, are you hurt?" he asked.

Connor narrowed his eyes, fingers curling into fists. He saw his chance and he was going to damn well take it.

"What is my name?" he asked.

"Grand Master Haytham Kenway," replied Captain Morgan.

Connor bowled him down, clapping a hand over Morgan's mouth. The captain flailed and beat at Connor, but one large hand grabbed his wrists and slammed them over his head.

"Wrong," snarled Connor. "Now you are going to listen to me, and you are going to remember what I say. My name is Captain Connor Davenport of the Aquila. I am an Assassin, and so help me I will kill you, your family, and your loved ones if you so much as peep a single word of this to anyone other than the intended. If you do not help me now, you will not have a second chance. Do you understand?"

Wisely, Morgan nodded, although he did not seem afraid, his eyes were wide with clarity.

Connor continued, "Travel to Boston or New York, whichever is closer, spread the trail at every tavern, public house, and slum. Tell them that I am alive. Connor Davenport is alive. Let them track you when you return."

He raised his hand, letting Morgan speak, "Yes, yes. Don't hurt them. Please don't hurt my family. I worked hard to bring them here."

"Good."

"Now what?" asked Morgan. "I need an excuse to go to New York."

A smile twisted on Connor's face. So they were closer to New York. Funny, Boston would have been in the Templar's advantage, if only for the shipping port.

Well now, Captain Morgan," he paused, thinking. "Now, I am going to put you in the infirmary."

And he knocked Captain Morgan's head against the floor.

holy fucking shit! you, as always, amaze me!

i hope the assassins get there in time... but i also don't. i'm torn between wanting connor to be okay and for them to get there just as he finally completely breaks.

i love that connor finally managed to get the upper hand. i love this fill. i love you, anon

Re: Grief's Madness 5/? (TW: as above)

(Anonymous) - 2013-04-30 05:40 (UTC) - Expand

http://archiveofourown.org/works/779360/chapters/1467390

AO3 edition is now available. This will update about 48 hours after the chapter is posted here. However, it is cleaned up and there may be a few extra sentences here or there. :)

Haytham sat patiently, listening to the conversation that bubbled around him. It was a rare treat to be allowed out of the cabin. This wasn't the real world - it was the complex's mess hall - but it wasn't far removed. Charles certainly had been busy.

The atmosphere was cheerful, morale was high, and when Haytham used his second sight it revealed a comforting sea of blue foot soldiers. High above him the ceilings stretched in dark, curved timbers, resembling an upside down boat. It was of a similar structure to the native longhouses that dotted the frontier in clustered communities. Heavy, study slabs of local timber had been converted into work ready tables, and they were used for all manner of activities. Scanning the hall, Haytham spotted weapons being cleaned, papers being reviewed, boardgames being considered, and of course, meals being eaten. There were eleven of these tables, ten of them set up to run parallel with the hall's length, while the eleventh had been arranged at a right angle. This one was smaller than the others, sitting ten people along one side only compared to the twenty for the larger tables. At present it was occupied by several captains and other higher-ranking soldiers.

The space was lit by iron chandeliers and black candelabras that squatted in the middle of the tables, glass domes scattering the candlelight. These men were on the dog's watch - their meal was breakfast rather than supper. Once they had finished, they would relieve their comrades, whom would hurry in, eager to eat and trot off to bed. In total, there were over two hundred men in each shift, and there were three shifts, pushing the current populous of the complex at over six hundred and thirty men.

Construction on the Lodge had been halted, delayed by a rising need for a fence. Initially Lee had hoped that they would be able to disguise the complex as a town, but it hadn't worked out as well as he had expected. Hence the new fence plans. Charles had fumed about it - the Initiation had to be pushed back by a month and a half.

"At least this will give the tailor more time to perfect the ceremonial uniform," Haytham had said and Charles had seemed to calm.

It had been a month and a half since he'd been taken. His hair was growing back with remarkable speed. Yet it would be a while before it was long enough to pull back into a ribbon. But Haytham didn't remember being captured. Not at the present.

As the men left for their watch, the few that passed Haytham tilted their hats respectfully, the others not at all perturbed by the Grand Master in the corner. Charles emerged from somewhere, going against the stream of men trickling out, but finding no difficulty in parting the ocean before him. They naturally separated, clearing a path for their superior.

"Charles," Haytham warmly greeted him. "Have you finished your errands?"

He stood and hooked his arm through Charles'. A flush of pleasure appeared on his companion's face. Haytham chuckled; for such a simple and innocent action, Charles always seemed surprised by it, as if each time was the first that Haytham had decided to display their friendship.

"Yes. They are quite done. However, I wish to show you something before we retire," said Charles.

Such a pup, thought Haytham. So eager to please. Afraid to offend but loyalty and truth comes before preservation of social niceties.

They trotted into the brisk air, heading towards the cabin. Charles turned them away before it was in sight and headed towards the prison-cells. Haytham could hear a steady stream of (remarkably religious) insults wafting through the air, and the voice sounded familiar but he couldn't place it.

Charles pulled back the peephole on one of the cells and gestured for Haytham to look inside. Confused, Haytham did, and spotted a man in an old priest's uniform. He slammed the peephole shut again.

"We do not capture priests," hissed Haytham.

Inside the cell the threats and snarls stopped. Perhaps the priest thought he might soon be free. It was easier to think without damnations being shouted at him from close range.

"He is not a priest, sir. Duncan Little of the Assassins," replied Charles.

"They have sunk to new lows, then," mused Haytham.

"Indeed. What should we do with him?"

Drawing the peephole back again, Haytham leaned in to observe Little pacing the room in agitation. The man snapped his head up at the sound. For a moment, their eyes locked.

"Keep him fed and clean. We can use him as leverage," decided Haytham.

"Very good, Haytham."

The assassin leapt forward and grabbed the iron bars that protected the peephole. Haytham instinctive moved back to avoid any rudimentary weapons the prisoner may have fashioned. They still maintained eye contact.

"You are not Haytham," whispered Little.

He pressed his face closer to the grill, trying to see Haytham in the shadows.

"Connor?" exclaimed Little, but Charles slammed the peephole shut.

Haytham ignored the desperate shouting and pleading that Little made, the sound fading as he and Charles walked away, arm in arm, from the prison cells. Connor was his son. His dead son.

Haytham hoped the fence would be completed soon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

^^^ part 5 above

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grief's Madness 5/? (TW: as above)

Re: Grief's Madness 5/? (TW: as above)

Grief's Madness - AO3 Edition

Grief's Madness 7/? (TW: as above) previous part should've been 6