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asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5
Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
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Discussion
Re: Grief's Madness 4/? (TW: as above, PTSD, hallucenogenics.)
(Anonymous) 2013-04-29 12:07 am (UTC)(link)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.
^^^ part 5 above
(Anonymous) 2013-04-29 12:08 am (UTC)(link)Re: Grief's Madness 4/? (TW: as above, PTSD, hallucenogenics.)
(Anonymous) 2013-04-29 12:15 am (UTC)(link)i know i keep saying that but
holy fucking shit
let me smother you with hugs anon
Re: Grief's Madness 4/? (TW: as above, PTSD, hallucenogenics.)
(Anonymous) 2013-04-30 05:33 am (UTC)(link)Re: Grief's Madness 4/? (TW: as above, PTSD, hallucenogenics.)
(Anonymous) 2013-04-29 01:51 am (UTC)(link)Re: Grief's Madness 4/? (TW: as above, PTSD, hallucenogenics.)
(Anonymous) 2013-04-30 05:35 am (UTC)(link)Re: Grief's Madness 4/? (TW: as above, PTSD, hallucenogenics.)
(Anonymous) 2013-04-29 04:15 am (UTC)(link)But seriously, this fic just keeps getting better and better, I love it!
Re: Grief's Madness 4/? (TW: as above, PTSD, hallucenogenics.)
(Anonymous) 2013-04-30 05:38 am (UTC)(link)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?
Grief's Madness 5/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-04-29 11:02 pm (UTC)(link)"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.
Re: Grief's Madness 5/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-04-30 01:04 am (UTC)(link)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 am (UTC)(link)I think the ending is up to the OP, but they didn't specify, soooo... who knows? ;)
Connor is a fucking badass. He's torn between biding his time, and just wanting to slaughter anyone that gets near him. Unfortunately, the drugs have pacified him somewhat.
Grief's Madness - AO3 Edition
(Anonymous) 2013-04-30 09:29 am (UTC)(link)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. :)
Grief's Madness 7/? (TW: as above) previous part should've been 6
(Anonymous) 2013-04-30 11:44 pm (UTC)(link)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.
Re: Grief's Madness 7/? (TW: as above) previous part should've been 6
(Anonymous) 2013-05-01 01:08 am (UTC)(link)i-- i can't
oh my god connor isn't connor any more (please tell me he's not entirely "haytham" yet please please please i need a little glimmer of hope) and duncan is there and he knows something really bad is going down and do i smell an assassin/templar confrontation on the horizon??
and asdfghjkl i loved charles and haytham's friendship (OR IS IT MORE?!1) dynamic in-game, and to see it written here, tied in so well with the dirtybadwrongness of the situation... well, it's almost too much for my poor little heart to take.
tl;dr ilu anon, lots and lots and lots <3 <3 <3
Re: Grief's Madness 7/? (TW: as above) previous part should've been 6
(Anonymous) 2013-05-01 02:33 pm (UTC)(link)I can't tell you that, because spoilers for the next part, but your keen nose certainly has picked up on a confrontation of some sort. But the Assassins are going to have to get their act together - 630+ men against 5-6 assssins is going to be a tough one. I suspect someone needs to put the recruitment posters up.
To me, Charles and Haytham have a sort of Watson and Holmes relationship. Charles clearly adored Haytham, while Haytham was slightly more reserved in his affection. The early sequences are really interesting, because Charles has a very puppyish demeanour when he's trying to impress Haytham. Yet, I do think they're both on the same intellectual level. There isn't a massive gap like Holmes and Watson, although Charles seems to downplay himself a little. And the thing is, in this time period, men had really good male friends. They would take a bullet for each other. They would link arms in public. They would set up business together. (And jump redcoats together). They were close, and would keep that friendship strong until they died.
Uhm, yeah. That's my two cents on it.
Re: Grief's Madness 7/? (TW: as above) previous part should've been 6
(Anonymous) 2013-05-01 11:09 am (UTC)(link)And oh shit- Duncan's going to have a hard time dealing with this. Im still holding out hope that there is some of Connor left... just enough for him to be somewhat back to normal with time
poor, poor connor ):
Re: Grief's Madness 7/? (TW: as above) previous part should've been 6
(Anonymous) 2013-05-01 02:38 pm (UTC)(link)Duncan will probably have the worst of it. After all, Haytham killed Duncan's uncle. That's a horribly traumatic event for anyone.
Thanks for reading!
Grief's Madness 8/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-01 02:14 pm (UTC)(link)He had little to give, except for the rumours that the war would soon be at an end. Already the French were pulling out, their naval force collecting troops. It might not be for another few years that peace was officially made, but he was assured that the Templars would be able to flourish in peace. Their fort might not have to be as military-geared in the future. They wouldn’t be disturbed, at any rate. Grand Master Lee had made political amends - they fought for the Patriots now.
Well, that’s what they wanted the Patriots to believe. They fought for themselves.
But Captain Morgan was more interested in the news that they had for him. Was it really true that they had caught another Assassin? The other captains smugly told him that they’d allowed the man to stay at the west outpost thinking he was a missionary, but caught him snooping around the Cabin. Morgan scolded them for being misled by the obvious disguise.
Morgan’s run-in with the Assassin in the Cabin had been the height of humiliation. He’d learned his lesson from the incident - never trust an Assassin. Furthermore, never trust an Assassin strung out on hallucinogenic herbs, and certainly don’t approach them in the depths of a vision. Yet Grand Master Lee had been kind to him. After he had recovered from the concussion, Morgan had been allowed a pass of leave.
So he had left, done the task (however reluctantly, the fear of all that he held precious destroyed being the only motivator to keep Morgan going), and seen his fiancée, collected trinkets and mail, and returned, his social grace within the fort somewhat restored. Later, he would find the prisoner (he couldn’t think of him as Grand Master Haytham, nor did he dare think of the man as Captain Davenport. He was a wraith that haunted Morgan’s dreams) and be freed from his contract. He’d done the task. He’d betrayed his brothers-in-arms. And for what?
His darling Charlotte.
Morgan closed his eyes, brushed off some of the younger men, and joined the officers for a late meal. Such a betrayal. Justified only by love.
***
Stephane currently had a squirmy tailor, pleading for mercy, at his feet and willing to tell him anything.
“Please, don’t do it!” wailed the man.
“And why should I not? I think they would look better without arms.”
“No,” shrieked the tailor. “I said I would tell you anything. I need this commission, you cannot ruin so much work!”
“Tell me who these are for,” demanded Stephane.
The tailor babbled something incomprehensible, tears and frantic sobs distorting his speech. It was pathetic. Stephane had never taken much stock of fashion, and it disgusted him to see such extravagant amounts of money wasted on impractical clothing.
“A man in a cabin. I don’t know where, maybe four hours from here? They come for me at night and keep me blinded until I am left with a few men in a cabin.”
This made Stephane pause, give a forceful tug at the right sleeve. It popped a few stitches, and the horrified gasp was enough to make Stephane stop.
“There is another fitting in three days time. You can follow them quite easily - they put me in a carriage with my equipment,” sniffled the tailor. “I would not lie, please sir. They forced me.”
Settling the garment back on the counter. Ruining a commission wasn’t in Stephane’s interests - he wasn’t about to destroy this man’s livelihood.
“What does this man look like?” asked Stephane. “The one you’re making these robes for.”
Blowing his nose into a handkerchief, the tailor flapped his hand at a mannequin standing in the corner of his tidy, colourful workroom. Calico cushions had been tacked to it, increasing the shoulders to a breadth that Stephane was quite familiar with.
“He’s big. But he has such awkward proportions - his waist is delicate compared to his shoulders. As you can see, I had to rustle up some padding to get my mannequin right.”
There was a drawing tacked above the mannequin, a coat of pale cream and bronze detailing had been artfully conceived, taking in elements of coats Stephane had seen on many military officers. This one had something that made the assassin think of the ocean.
“Yes, and have you ever heard a name?” he pressed.
“Henry. Han. Haymitch, I do not know! I do not try to listen. I did not ask to be involved in this. They threatened to besmirch my business and my family. I have three little ones. They are only paying me out of courtesy.”
Stephane slammed his fist into the counter, upsetting the pin-box, making the tailor jump in unison. Haymitch was close. But he needed the tailor to come to his own conclusion. There needed to be a genuine recollection, not a frantic attempt to get Stephane out of the shop with words that the tailor thought he wanted to hear.
“Merde, man, think,” snapped Stephane.
“It was very close to Haymitch,” mumbled the tailor.
He picked up the pin-box, collecting the strays and dropping them back in. Stephane was about to snap at him that this really wasn’t the time when the man’s eyes widened and he exclaimed, “Haytham! That was definitely it.”
Stephane closed his mouth, nodded, and apologised for the disturbance before running to the closest courier.
•••
“Captain Morgan,” called a voice. “I wish to speak with you.”
A large hand clamped on Morgan’s shoulder, pulling him back. When Morgan spun on his heel, a reprimand on his lips, he jolted in shock. The prisoner was out. The prisoner was out and nobody seemed concerned.
The brown eyes were not the same as when Morgan had last seen them. They did not hold the fire or lust for escape. This was not the same Assassin. Grand Master Lee had been successful then. They’d converted the Assassin.
Morgan swallowed. Converted or not, this was still a dangerous man to be playing games with. To tread carefully would not be enough - crawling across the ice would be more apt than walking.
“Yes, sir,” said Morgan faintly.
He wondered if this was the end. The prisoner ushered him over to the entrance of the mess hall.
“A thousand apologies for knocking you about earlier. When I came to my senses, you had already been taken away. Charles saw fit to keep me bedridden. The doctors say it was a fever,” said the prisoner.
“And you are all better now, sir?” Morgan asked.
“Of course. It was only a fever. Do you forgive me?”
“Yes, as you said, it was only a fever. No lasting damage, sir.”
The prisoner patted him on the back.
“Good man. Now,” and the man leaned against the wall, blocking Morgan from escaping, reminding him of a panther examining it’s prey. “Now, I would like you to tell me about New York.”
“Sir?”
“New York,” repeated the prisoner.
“It went well.”
“No trails?”
“None that lead to me. Your comrades will find you.”
“Very well, you have earned your freedom,” sighed the prisoner, and he leaned back, releasing Morgan.
When the prisoner left, Morgan was filled with an immense sense of relief, like a bullet had whizzed past him, his heat beating madly. Morgan had the feeling that he’d just avoided being sent to the slaughterhouse.
***
Ratonhnhaké:ton thrashed in his bed, screaming. Charles stroked short hair with his palm, a hush slipping from his lips as he kissed the man on his temple. Catching one wildly flailing hand, Charles carded his fingers between Ratonhnhaké:ton's, rubbing his thumb over the back of Ratonhnhaké:ton's hand.
"Ah, sir, it is fine. You are fine," he breathed.
He pulled the blankets up and tucked Ratonhnhaké:ton under his chin. Ratonhnhaké:ton curled tighter and nuzzled against Lee's shoulder.
"The fire is gone. I will protect you," he said.
***
Duncan lay awake, haunted by red curtains and gold trim, an uncle slaughtered, an opera halted.
He sang the notes to himself.
Connor wasn't Connor, and his eyes may not match Haytham's in colour, but the soul-piercing gaze had been inherited.
Haytham was alive. Alive and well in the blood that coursed Connor's veins, transforming him with dark hunger. The rumours had been true. Haytham Kenway may have died, but he wasn't truly dead. The other trail, the more obvious one, the one that said Captain Connor Davenport is being held in a new camp, had also been true.
Both were alive yet dead and yet not.
The tune of the opera stuttered to a halt.
Duncan wept for the fallen.
Re: Grief's Madness 8/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-01 06:49 pm (UTC)(link)Wow, that was awesome and so creepy. Dang, Charles works really fast. I feel so bad for Connor! It's so weird reading his thoughts as Haytham now. And poor Duncan, this must be driving him crazy. I love this fic so much,I can't wait for the next bit ^_^
Re: Grief's Madness 8/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-03 09:51 pm (UTC)(link)Thank you, OP. I hope you'll love the rest as much as you loved the first parts. :) we are entering the last bits of the second act and about to hit the third.
Re: Grief's Madness 8/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-02 12:03 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Grief's Madness 8/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) - 2013-05-03 21:57 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Grief's Madness 8/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-02 10:34 pm (UTC)(link)I have hope for him ;w; And oh man Charles is still so creepy ahhhhhh
Also!! Woah can we just focus on the part about Duncan? The last part? Because holy shit that part just blew me away; it's amazing.
Keep up the great work, writeranon!
Re: Grief's Madness 8/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) - 2013-05-03 22:01 (UTC) - ExpandGrief's Madness 9/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-03 09:47 pm (UTC)(link)There was rustling and murmuring, and once or twice a corner of white fabric flicking from behind the curtains. Charles leaned forward in anticipation, careful not to crease his own blood-red robes. He picked at his gloves, trying to distract himself. A clatter caught Charles' attention and his breath hitched as the curtain was pushed aside.
Haytham stepped forward, smoothing non-existent wrinkles from his coat, adjusting the ceremonial sword at his side. The pale cream shimmered in the sunlight that poured through the windows, the delicate embroidery and trims accentuating Haytham's body. It fell to just below his knee, allowing the red silk lining to flash and ripple as he walked, shouting a warning to his lethality. The shape of the coat was similar, with a split up the back to his tailbone. Lines of a darker gold-bronze decorated the seams, drawing attention to the undisturbed planes of his chest and back. The tailor fastened a heavy cape to Haytham's shoulders in a Roman fashion, draping the fabric to dip in a sweeping curve between his shoulders. It was also lined in the same blood red as his coat. White breeches, stockings and knee-high polished black boots with a snowy shirt, cravat and red waistcoat completed the look.
There had been quite a bit of lace at one point, but Charles and Haytham had agreed that it was unflattering to the crisply cut design, and had removed all of it save for the tiniest peep on Haytham's shirt sleeves. Charles couldn't keep himself from staring. Now if they just brushed out his hair, they might be able to disguise the shorter pieces with the longer.
"Like a true knight," said the tailor, lifting Haytham's arms to check the stitches.
"Would you like me to turn for you, Charles?" asked Haytham, a amusement honeying his voice.
Without receiving an answer, for Charles seemed to have been struck dumb, Haytham slowly turned on his heel. The cape barely brushed the ground, a perfect measurement.
"You have exceeded our expectations, Mr Babbington," said Charles. "Congratulations, sir, your commission is at an end."
Babbington bowed, and checked Haytham over one last time before asking both men to remove the clothing so it would be properly stored for the time being.
"I hope you gentlemen have a nice gathering, although this seems a bit extravagant for a simple ball," said the tailor, putting his scissors and threads into his toolbox.
"I do believe we shall," said Charles.
He held Haytham's waistcoat as the man tried to get his shirt tucked in properly. For some reason it didn't want to sit right.
"Damn this," he muttered.
Charles batted away his hands, and slung the waistcoat over his shoulder, pushing Haytham's shirttails back into his trousers. He was about to protest when one of their guards threw the curtain back, eyes wide.
"What do you think you're doing?" snapped Charles, tweaking the shirt on Haytham's shoulders.
"The Assassin has escaped!" he gasped. "His comrade freed him!"
Snatching his waistcoat from Charles, Haytham threw it and his coat on, not bothering with the buttons or his cravat. The soldier ducked to the side to avoid being trampled by the two much larger men as they left the nook that had been their temporary dressing room. Babbington was startled, but he didn't seem as startled as he should have been. He was packing up with far too much eagerness rather than cowering at the intrusion.
Taking the soldier's musket, Haytham made motions to leave, then turned at the last minute.
"Your widow will be compensated," he said.
The musket was brought up, the blade slicing through the vulnerable underside of Babbington's throat, penetrating his tongue and mouth. Haytham pulled the trigger.
***
Stephane spurred his horse, Duncan clinging to his back, hands entwined in his belt. They didn't have much time to escape before the alarm was raised. As it was, Duncan was in a state of shock and hadn't spoken a single word. If they were caught, Stephane feared that he would have to fight alone.
The branches whipped past them on either side of the rough track that led to the complex. A final watchtower lay ahead. Yellow light flickered in the distance - Stephane slowed his horse to turn down the hill to where he knew a sizeable stream lay. Water splashed noisily but there was nothing they could do except travel slower.
After around a mile, they left the river and headed for New York. Stephane patted Duncan's hand as they sped further and further away from the cursed place.
"I am sorry," said Duncan, although Stephane felt rather than heard the words against his back. "I ruined it."
"Yes. You did. But everything can be fixed."
The chef wasn't cross with Duncan. Well he was, because who would go into a Templar encampment by themselves like that? (Stephane ignored the voice that said "You would") But he wasn't angry at Duncan for getting caught.
Actually, no, he was furious at Duncan for getting caught.
If only for the fact that they could have killed him. Even though Stephane had given his assassin-in-distress a cursory check over for injuries in the cell, Duncan didn't seem to respond to the manhandling. No physical injuries discovered, yet Duncan was silent.
They took shelter in a tavern on the outskirts of New York. The Templars had been lost. Duncan collapsed onto one of the two beds provided and fell asleep. He didn't even take his boots off. Stephane paused to write a message, copied it several times, and took them to the Post Office, where they trickled away to his comrades. The Templars had been busy, their forces were huge; the others couldn't go in. Not yet. They needed to consolidate.
The entire time Stephane had been in the fort, he had not seen Haytham. But he hadn't seen Connor either - Duncan wasn't so foolish as to trot into the Templar lair without saying what he was doing. Stephane would have to wait for Duncan to éveiller for the full details of what had gone wrong.
He eased Duncan's boots off and threw a blanket over him. The man did not even stir. Stephane huffed - they were trained to sleep lightly, Duncan should have woken up. Taking off his own boots, Stephane flopped onto his own bed, his weapons within easy reaching distance, a chair wedged under the door handle. He glanced at the sleeping man beside him and wondered what had happened, thoughts racing through his head until he finally drifted off as well.
Re: Grief's Madness 9/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) - 2013-05-03 22:46 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Grief's Madness 9/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) - 2013-05-04 02:39 (UTC) - ExpandGrief's Madness 9/? (TW: self harm)
(Anonymous) - 2013-05-06 00:02 (UTC) - ExpandGrief's Madness 11/? (TW: as above) also author can't count
(Anonymous) - 2013-05-06 13:52 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Grief's Madness 11/?
(Anonymous) - 2013-05-06 14:00 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Grief's Madness 11/?
(Anonymous) - 2013-05-06 14:08 (UTC) - ExpandGrief's Madness 12/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) - 2013-05-08 04:49 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Grief's Madness 12/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) - 2013-05-08 11:34 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Grief's Madness 12/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) - 2013-05-19 09:22 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Grief's Madness 12/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) - 2013-05-08 18:46 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Grief's Madness 12/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) - 2013-05-19 09:23 (UTC) - ExpandLOVE THIS!
(Anonymous) - 2013-05-08 21:44 (UTC) - ExpandRe: LOVE THIS!
(Anonymous) - 2013-05-19 09:34 (UTC) - Expand<<<< New part is being threaded off part 1
(Anonymous) - 2013-05-12 22:24 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Grief's Madness 5/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-01 08:36 am (UTC)(link)Also, daaaaaaaaaaaaaamn! Poor Conner! I'm torn between wanting someone to give him a hug and make things better, and wanting someone to come along a push him over the edge completely to see what would happen. The three personalities within him are simultaneously creepy and awesome. Seriously, I half expected Connor to start having a full-blown fight with Haytham in that last bit.
Can't wait to see where this goes! <3
Re: Grief's Madness 5/? (TW: as above)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-01 02:20 pm (UTC)(link)Thank you for reading! The conflict is precisely what I wanted to induce. This is not a soft, fluffy fic and I want it to drag some sort of intense emotion from you. I'm glad that I'm achieving this!