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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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✩ Comment anonymously with a character/pairing and a kink/prompt.
✩ Comment is filled by another anonymous with fanfiction/art/or any other appropriate medium.
✩ One request per post, but fill the request as much as you want.
✩ The fill/request doesn't necessarily need to be smut.
✩ Don't flame, if you have nothing good to say, don't say anything.
✩ Have a question? Feel free to PM me.
✩ Last, but not least: HAVE FUN!
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Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Fills Only
Discussion
FILL ---------10 (part 1) of ? -------Enthralled
(Anonymous) 2013-05-23 12:58 pm (UTC)(link)Haytham's protégé sounds dismayed and more than a little concerned, as if his Grandmaster had just presented him with a lean-to piled with rags and straw in some dirty London back-alley and pronounced it his home. The tone plays on Haytham's nerves, but he doesn't comment. Haytham had built the structure himself, armed with nothing more than raw wood, sweat, and stubborn determination. He couldn't risk bringing in carpenters, so Ziio had suggested that the house be built in the fashion of her people, to better throw off snow and suspicion. Haytham's wooded retreat is a far cry from Benjamin Church's splendid manse but it's warm and snug and he's immensely proud of it.
Ziio sits cross legged in front of the cook fire. There are rabbits roasting on a spit and a freshly eviscerated deer hanging in a nearby tree, the contents of its chest cavity draining into a bucket. Even with her hair a mess from hunting and skin bloody up to the elbows, she's still beautiful.
She looks up at the sound of approaching hoof beats and the rattle of packs. Her smile is sphinx-like, mysterious, says so many things that words cannot convey. Even though he has spent months at her side, shared her bed and even had a child with her, his heart still skips a beat. Every fiber of his being wants to go to her. He wants to envelop her in his arms and kiss her until she either pokes him in the ribs and laughs at him for being so foolishly romantic, or moans into his mouth and sinks under his welcome weight.
He can't, though. Not with Charles there. Haytham hadn't expected her back for at least another week, hence Charles' presence. Haytham and Charles had decided that the best way to waste Charles' furlough was to spend it hunting and fishing around Haytham's homestead, something that the younger man had been keen to explore. Now Haytham sees that his subterfuge was pointless; there's no way he would have been able to hide his secret double life.
Ziio's eyes turn cool as they fall on Captain Charles Lee. She knows that the man is Haytham's closest friend, but she does not trust him. She has her reasons. Young George Washington had been granted the rank of Colonel after General Braddock's assassination, as well as the dead man's command. Why, Haytham wasn't entirely sure. Probably because it had been deemed appropriate that a son of Virginia should lead a Virginian regiment of militiamen, and also he was one of the few officers to survive the disastrous ambush at the Monongahela River. Lieutenant Charles Lee had been a member of Braddock's regiment and thus placed under Colonel Washington's command. That association alone would have been enough to color Ziio's opinion of Charles, but her wariness and distaste for him would be compounded by yet more events beyond Charles' control.
Earlier that year Colonel Washington had arrived at Ziio's village, soldiers in tow, irrefutably with hostile intentions. Haytham had been there that day, visiting Ziio and their son. It had been only himself and Ziio's people (mostly farmers and a few hunters) against more than a hundred seasoned soldiers. Ziio had been furious. He could tell that she'd wanted to take the fight to them, but she was more concerned about their child. Talented as she and Haytham were, it would have been suicide to attempt to fight them in the open. He bid her and her people to get into their long boats and paddle out as far as they could into the lake; he did not go with them. Outnumbered and out-maneuvered, he implemented a different plan of attack—the truth.
Charles was there beside Washington, arguing against razing the village to the ground when Haytham had stomped out into the snow from beyond the palisade, alone and unarmed. Washington had looked startled; perhaps he recognized Haytham as the man who had killed his predecessor, but equally it could have been the fact that an Englishman had just materialized out of an Indian village leagues from anywhere that could have been called civilization. Charles looked just as surprised, and more than a little alarmed.
Haytham, without preamble, proceeded to berate Washington, loudly and scathingly, in front of the colonel's entire company. He made sure that every man heard how this man, all six-foot-two of him, had been beaten down and brought low by a woman—a savage woman, at that, and less than half his size—who had wanted to do nothing but avenge the indiscriminate slaughter and enslavement of her people. And for that unseemly humiliation Washington was willing to murder a village of innocent women and children that had resided peaceably in their little valley since time began. And, he pointed out, they had not participated in the war in the slightest.
Washington had stammered, made some excuse that he was there to avenge the death of his former commander. The colonel flinched at Haytham's harsh laughter. Washington's men shifted uncomfortably behind their commander; the ones that had been present the day of Braddock's death no doubt recalled how the general had shot one of his own men in the face for the high crime of asking questions. For the soldiers that were not there that day, Haytham summarized as well as recited a litany of General Braddock's other crimes both in the colonies and abroad. Haytham named Washington a fool for trying to defend the legacy of such a man, and for squandering precious resources and man-power on a pointless personal vendetta to avenge a scoundrel of the lowest caliber.
For a moment, Haytham thought that the ploy wouldn't work, but Washington had looked back at the men under his command and blanched; most of the men appeared uncertain and there were some that met Washington's gaze with outright contempt. Americans made fickle soldiers. There was no love lost between the colonists and the natives, certainly, but outright slaughter of non-combatants was still frowned upon, heathens or no. There were tensions stirring between the colonists and their less-than-benevolent British overlords as the war stretched into its sixth year with no end in sight; doubtless the tales of Braddock's cruelties inflicted upon both Indians and Americans still rankled.
Unexpectedly, it was Charles that had come to Washington's rescue, suggesting that perhaps if Master Kenway could assure them of the tribe's continued neutrality, there would be no need to put the village to the torch. “Besides, there have been reports that the French are attempting to establish a fort to the North of here; surely victory over a more certain enemy would bring more lasting commendation and glory than slaughtering a bunch of godless dirt-worshipers, would it not?”
Washington had stared at the two of them for a moment, ashen-faced, not speaking, and then had flushed, abruptly turned his horse around, and gave the orders to march. His normally ram-rod posture had been bowed by the weight of his humiliation. Haytham almost felt sorry for Washington. Almost. Browbeating him into retreating had been child's play. Gentlemen did not belittle and criticize each other in public, especially not in front of their subordinates. It was simply not done. The young colonel had been completely unprepared for such a spontaneous and vicious attack on his character.
If Haytham and Charles hadn't been there that day... Haytham shuddered at the thought. He knew that Ziio's village was far from safe so long as Washington held even the slightest modicum of power. He would need to be dealt with as well. He could kill him, Haytham supposes, but that could be messy and all too easily draw attention to their Order, which is the last thing he wants. A character assassination, though, that was another thing entirely. A botched engagement or two and a few strategically placed words in the right ears and Colonel Washington's reputation could be ruined. If Washington was painted as incapable, indecisive and reckless, they would have no choice but to assign the command of the regiment to the next most senior officer—and that would be Captain, soon to be Major Charles Lee.
Ziio rises to wash her hands in a bucket. Charles halts, doffs his soldier's tricorne and bows slightly at the waist.
“Madam, a pleasure,” he says. He sounds as if he has recovered himself somewhat and his words sound sincere.
She nods in turn. “Lee.”
“I hadn't expected you back so soon, my dear,” Haytham admits, turning to his horse and fiddling with the straps to release the animal from her burden. In a few short strides Ziio is at his side. Neither one of them are people that show their affection publicly; rather than making any move to embrace him she starts helping him with the packages. Their hands brush against each other whilst undoing a knot and her touch is agonizing after so many weeks apart.
“There is a fever in the village. I did not want to expose Ratonhnhaké:ton.” In case Charles has missed her meaning, she elaborates, “Our son.”
“Rah... Radon...” Charles frowns. Like Haytham, his tongue can't seem to form the words.
“Don't bother.” Haytham grins. “I just call him Hayden.”
Ziio rolls her eyes but smiles indulgently. “That is because you are lazy and can only pronounce the last parts. And not even that well.”
Just as Haytham was unable to articulate Ziio's true name, he had been equally unable to pronounce his son's. He would have preferred to name the boy something else, but Ziio would have none of it. She wanted the boy to have a native upbringing, at least for the first few years. Haytham had to call the boy something, though, and Hayden had been the closest name in English that the last two syllables—“ké:ton”—had resembled, at least to his British ears. He also liked how the name closely mirrored his own exotic Arabic name. Thus the colloquialism stuck; the boy was Ratonhnhaké:ton in his mother's world and Hayden in his father's.
“Speak of the little devil, where is he?”
“Behind you,” A child's sing-song voice announces. Haytham turns. The boy grins up at him. There are crab apple petals in his tangled, shoulder-length hair. The knees of his deerskin pants are caked with dirt and his face is similarly smudged. Charles stares at the boy as if coming upon a species previously unknown to man. Inwardly, Haytham cringes; he hadn't wanted Charles' opinion of the boy to be colored by the boy's dirty clothing and bird's nest hair, but he reminds himself that his boy is indeed that, a boy, and male children in particular seek dirt like camels to water no matter their upbringing, culture or class.
When Haytham had first been presented with the squalling, wrinkled babe, he'd been rather shocked at the resemblance to Edward, his own father. Now, though, he only resembles Haytham about the set of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, and his lighter skin. It's in the nature of children's faces to change as they grow older, but for now he is decidedly his mother's creature. His apparent stealthiness is something the lad inherited from both parents.
“C'mere, you,” Haytham growls, seizes the four-year-old about the waist and hoists him into the air. Hayden squeals in delight. He sets the boy back down before him, facing a decidedly ill-at-ease Charles. “I've someone I want you to meet, Hayden.”
Charles squats down so that he's eye-level with the boy. The two stare at each other, their faces equally mystified.
“Hello,” Charles says, smile tentative, and presents his large right hand to the boy. “I'm Charles. I'm a friend of your father's.”
The boy does not take the proffered hand. He continues to stare at Charles full in the face with those large, dark, piercing eyes. Hayden says something incomprehensible.
“English, please,” Haytham commands gently.
“You have grass eyes,” the boy declares with utmost solemnity.
Charles looks up at Haytham, brow beetled.
“Green, Hayden,” Haytham says.
“Green,” the boy agrees.
“We're working on his English vocabulary,” Haytham says, mussing his son's hair affectionately. “And his manners, apparently. Hayden, take his hand.” The boy's hand all but disappears in Charles' gloved one. “You're the first white man he's encountered aside from myself, I suppose.”
“Firm grip,” Charles notes, releasing the boy's hand. “Very good. You'll be as strong as your father one day.”
Hayden beams at him. Charles grins bemusedly back.
“Ratonhnhaké:ton,” says Ziio.
“Hen, ista?”
She says something in Mohawk to the boy. Haytham makes out the words for potato, onion, and carrot. The boy sheepishly replies, makes some word of protest, but Ziio gives him that look, the face that all women learn the instant they become mothers and the boy submits. Hayden gives Charles another searching look, and then scampers off to the house, vanishing behind the bearskin that serves for a door.
“I sent him to gather the makings for a stew,” Ziio explains, “It will be ready shortly.”
“Will there be enough for four?”
“Of course,” she says.
“Oh, no. I wouldn't want to be a bother,” Charles says quickly, straightening, donning his hat once more. “I should probably be on my way.”
“Don't be ridiculous, you only just got here!” Haytham objects merrily. “It's nearly evening; it'll be full dark sooner than you think. There's room enough for all of us.”
“I think not,” Charles says, frowning and shifting uneasily, his hand already on the pommel of his saddle. “I have business in the city.”
Ziio looks at Charles and manages a small smile. “Please, stay. Any friend of the Brotherhood is a friend of mine.”
Haytham's blood turns to ice in his veins. He looks at Charles. A muscle in his cheek spasms, a twitch so slight that had Haytham not been watching for it he might have missed it entirely.
“A hot meal would be delightful, madam,” He says, his voice carefully neutral, “But I'm afraid duty calls.”
“At least let me walk you back to the path,” Haytham offers. Charles' nod is reluctant. Haytham hesitates, looking at the packs, but Ziio tells him to go; she'll take care of it.
FILL ---------10 (part 2) of ? -------Enthralled
(Anonymous) 2013-05-23 12:59 pm (UTC)(link)“Which 'Brotherhood' is she referring to?” Charles asks, voice bow-string tight.
“The wrong one,” Is Haytham's soft reply.
“She thinks we're Assassins,” Charles growls, grimacing in disgust, “My God, Haytham, this is—I don't have words to describe what this is. It's depraved. What were you thinking?”
Haytham's gut roils. “I wasn't thinking, Charles, is that what you wish to hear?” He hisses back. “I never told her I was an Assassin.”
“No. You just let her see that damned hidden blade of yours and let her think—”
“To get access to the site, yes,” He said sharply. Ziio had noticed the broken symbol on his bracer when he had tracked her down in the wilderness. She had seemed to respond rather more warmly to him after that, confirming his suspicions that there were Assassins active nearby. So he had never lied, not technically, but letting her make her own assumptions about his affiliations... Well. That had perhaps been worse.
“And when were you going to correct her misconception?” He demands, eyes flashing.
“I never intended to,” Says Haytham, stammering, “She was just supposed to be a means to an end. I never intended to love her, it just sort of... happened. I thought about telling her, but... it just...”
“No, I rather suppose telling her the truth would ruin your delusional portrait of domestic bliss,” Charles growls back. “I stand corrected. She won't leave you, when she finds out—she's more like to slit your throat.”
And this gives Haytham pause. She wouldn't. No. No. Of course not. Because—
“She loves me,” Haytham reminds Charles, reminds himself.
“She can't love you, Haytham, she doesn't even know you!” Charles snaps loudly enough that his words reverberate in the trees and cause the birds to pause in their song.
“And I suppose you do?” Haytham responds, just as vitriolic. Charles' mouth thins and Haytham watches the blood rise in his cheeks but it's not enough to cow him.
“I do know you, sir. Sometimes I think I know you better than you know yourself,” Charles says more quietly. “You're so blinded by sentiment that you cannot see that you've built yourself a life on a powder keg. It's only a matter of time before it explodes and takes you with it.”
“Then in the mean time I'll put out as many fires as I can,” Haytham replies curtly.
Charles stares at him, frowning. There's that sympathy in his eyes again, mingled with regret. He then shakes his head, looks at Haytham again, and his eyes are cold. He's no longer Charles; he's Captain Lee, the soldier, the tactician. He mounts his horse. The poor beast looks half exhausted already; he'll probably need to make camp before nightfall.
“I've assigned men in Lexington and Concord, should you have need to get me a message.”
“Very well,” He replies. “Safe travels, Charles.” His protégé nods stiffly and then gives the horse a nudge with his spurs.
Haytham watches the man's retreating back for quite some time and then continues to stare long after he disappears from view. It was a good decision, naming Charles his second-in-command; the man was devoted to Haytham, but he was equally devoted to the Order and didn't shirk from speaking his mind. Charles was right. Damn it, he was always right. Charles managed to put into words all the disjointed feelings and pessimistic notions that have been plaguing Haytham for—well, years now. Part of him knew all along that this was a foolish endeavor; that he was letting sentimentality and weakness cloud his unerring judgment, but he had never wanted to believe—to even consider—that he was making the wrong decisions.
For one of the few times in his strange, driven life, Haytham Edward Kenway doesn't know what to do. He stands there, idly stroking the Precursor artifact at his neck. He can't live between two worlds; he has to pick one before the other forces his hand and makes his choice for him. Birds sing and chirp, squirrels flit after one another in the trees. There is the slap of water in the distance, maybe a trout, maybe a beaver. He wants a distraction from his own thoughts but cannot find one. He grinds through scenarios and courses of action in his head, but each one is more grim and abhorrent than the last and his stomach clenches at the idea of all of the potential loss.
Something touches his elbow and he flinches, instantly on guard, but it's Ziio.
“Ah! You startled me.”
“Not an easy thing to do,” she says. She's smiling in that enigmatic way of hers. Charles is right, but this is right too, the way she fits so well against his body, the way she instinctively tilts her face just so to meet his when he leans down for a kiss. He enfolds her in his arms, smiling back, and Charles' recriminations and admonishments melt away, a vague and disquieting dream only remembered in fragments after waking. Even just the smell of her is intoxicating—earthy, dark and exotic. “You must have been far away.”
“I suppose so,” he says. She cannot know how true her statement is.
“Are you and Lee fighting?”
“Not exactly,” he says, and smooths a hand over her ebony hair. “Just a difference of opinion.”
“Mmm.” Her hand rests on the small of his back. “Sounded like you were arguing.”
He wonders how much she had heard. Not much, he supposes, otherwise she wouldn't be smiling at him. “Charles is having some troubles, that's all.”
“Anything I need to concern myself with?”
“If you're asking if I need to leave, then no. I'm sure he can handle it.”
“Good,” She says, grinning slyly, and gives him a playful swat to the ass.
“Madam! Contain yourself!” He gasps in mock outrage.
“I will not,” Ziio laughs, grinning like a girl half her age, and pinches the back of his thigh through the fabric of his breeches.
“Then I will have to restrain you,” He purrs in her ear.
“You can try,” She says provocatively, and grabs him about the waist.
Somehow they end up on the ground, gasping, breathless from laughter, Haytham's back wet from moss and leaves and Ziio is straddling him, her knees to either side of his waist. His groin is pressed tantalizingly beneath her and he can feel the want stirring in his gut.
“Ah, it appears you win, my darling.”
“Only because you let me,” She teases. Then her smile fades and her face becomes more solemn, her dark brown eyes searching the steel gray of his. “Haytham?”
“What is it?” He replies cautiously.
“You would not...” This time she frowns outright. “I do not ask about the nature of your work because I do not think I want to know, but... You would not keep something from me, would you?”
“Never,” He whispers without a moment's hesitation. He reaches a hand up to stroke the side of her face. She leans into his touch.
He's appalled by the way the lie falls so easily from his lips, hates himself for how convincing it sounds. It shouldn't be this easy to mislead her; she should have been able to see right through it. He can see it in her face that she's turning the word over in her head, considering. And just like that, she smiles again. The storm passes gently by. She's shrugged off whatever suspicions she might have because she wants to believe him, doesn't want to think of the alternative and all that implies. Ziio bends down; her hair falling around him, her lips brushing the shell of his ear in a way that she knows makes him shiver in delight.
“I am a terrible mother,” She says.
“You are no such thing,” He counters, not letting his relief show on his face. His hands find her firm, slim waist under her loose-fitting garment.
“I am,” Ziio insists, “I told Ratonhnhaké:ton to gather carrots from the larder for the stew.”
“So?”
“There are none. But he is stubborn, like you. He will search for a quarter of an hour before thinking of looking for help.”
Haytham stares up into her mischievous eyes, puzzled. “But why would you—” She rolls her hips against his and he grunts, blood immediately rushing to the area. “Oh,” He gasps.
“'Oh,'” She agrees, smirking.
In two months it will be summer. The expert that Haytham had requested, Mr. Thompson, will arrive in the Colonies and Haytham will show him the site. The Templar scholar will tell him yes, that the diameter of the hole in the cave is indeed similar to the dimensions of an Apple, the most powerful of the Pieces of Eden. Later, Ziio will find Mr. Thompson at the Precursor site making rubbings of the hieroglyphic-like markings. Thompson'll put up a fight, but in the end she'll pin him to the ground with a knife to his throat and he'll tell her everything—about the Templars, their ambitions to buy the land upon which the cave sits, and how Haytham had been the one to mastermind it all.
Tears streaming down her cheeks, she'll slit the man's throat right there in the cave. Ziio will come back to their little homestead, screaming and raging, her hands still covered in blood. She'll take their sobbing and terrified son into the forest, deaf to all of Haytham's pleas and excuses, and whirl on him when he tries to follow. She’ll slash his arm with a blade so keen that he won't realize he's cut until his arm is hot and slick with his own blood.
Haytham will abandon the homestead. He'll turn up at Charles' quarters in Boston, weeping and insensate with drink, and Charles won't even comment about how right he had been, he'll just welcome his broken friend with open arms. He'll let Haytham's grief run its course and he'll be there to put the pieces back together. He'll admit to Charles that the younger man had been right all along, that he'd been a fool to even try to pursue anything outside of the Order. Charles will merely nod, and then he will tell Haytham about some interesting rumors that Hickey had heard from smugglers passing through Boston. Stories about strange lights in the ruins of an ancient temple in the heart of the deepest, densest jungle.
But Haytham doesn't know any of this, of course. Couldn't even be persuaded to give a damn. Not now, not with her body so close to his, not after so long apart. Her body is lithe and strong beneath his hands, her skin silky and soft over hard, supple muscle. He kisses her and she melts, spreading her body over his. Even through the layers of fabric he can feel the heat of her core near his straining flesh. He pushes aside her tunic and eases a hand into her loose-fitting trousers and Ziio knows what he's about immediately because she moans, pushing up her hips so that he can sink his fingers inside. He marvels at the wet, silky heat of her, delights in how the muscles tremble and flutter around his fingers and he groans to think what she'll feel like when he's sheathed himself inside her.
“Haytham,” She hisses, breathy, ever impatient, but there's something... off about it. Her voice is too deep, bears an edge of irritation. His hand stills and he opens his eyes. Ziio is still staring down at him, long dark hair framing her face, lips parted and flushed, pupils blown with lust.
“Is something wrong?” He murmurs.
“Don't stop,” She gasps, clenching down on his fingers, so he adds a third, his thumb caressing her clit and she shudders. Her moan is pure aphrodisiac. Then she snaps, “Stop that!” and this time it's clearly not her voice, it's a man's voice, sharp and aggravated. Before he can ask what in hell is going on her hand snakes inside his breeches, finds his cock, strokes him until he's rolling his hips to meet her, gasping and completely at her mercy.
And then he really is gasping, because someone drives a sharp elbow into his guts.
Haytham's eyes fly open and it's not Ziio. It's Connor. And he looks none too pleased.
Re: FILL ---------10 (part 2) of ? -------Enthralled
(Anonymous) 2013-05-23 10:26 pm (UTC)(link)Wow, this was a great peek into Haytham's past. I like that ToKW Haytham managed to spend some time raising Ratonhnhaké:ton with Ziio. And Charles is utterly amazing - cold, but loyal, and perhaps a bit jealous? He doesn't seem too upset that Haytham returned to his home.
And the twist at the end? Fantastic!
Re: FILL ---------10 (part 2) of ? -------Enthralled
(Anonymous) 2013-05-28 01:45 am (UTC)(link)FILL ---------11 (part 1) of ? -------Enthralled
(Anonymous) 2013-05-31 04:18 pm (UTC)(link)As Haytham struggles, his son maneuvers himself away, sitting up and leaning against the brick wall at his back. Connor surveys him as if he were some bit of trash or dog shit caked to the bottom of a boot after an arduous journey, something to be scraped off and discarded. Chest and diaphragm heaving like a broken-winded horse, Haytham manages to gasp, “Why?”
Connor's eyes are weary, cold and pitiless; he tilts his head, the corners of his mouth turn down and he squints at him as if to say, Do you really have to ask?
But what...? Oh. That. His cock is so ridiculously, stupidly hard that it feels like he could pound nails into wood with it, the offending extremity tenting out his trousers in a sickeningly lewd way.
“I didn't—It—I was dreaming!” He pants, red in the face, trying and failing to come up with a reasonable excuse for what's just happened.
“I had hoped,” Says Connor, voice sleep-rough and irritated, “That when you had been brought back to your senses I could get one—just one—decent night of rest without you humping my leg.”
Oh dear god. Haytham rubs his hands over his face. “This has happened before?” He can't help but ask, dreading the answer. His guts churn and he feels like throwing up.
“Almost every night,” Connor sneers. “You were like an animal when I found you. You threw yourself at me scarcely a minute after they put me in the cell with you.”
No. No, no, NO, He thinks, horrified, That wasn't me, “That was the bloody aphrodisiacs—” He begins.
“That you insist on drinking!” Connor snaps, interrupting him.
Right. The tea. Perhaps that was why he had been thinking of Ziio, and it certainly explains why his skin and extremities are so painfully sensitive. “I'm not attracted to men, Connor,” He insists.
“Obviously,” Connor says darkly with a pointed flick of the eye downwards. Haytham is still erect, the offending flesh oblivious to the mortification it had just caused, impervious to Connor's icy stare and Haytham's deep, desperate shame.
Haytham sees this for what it is. Connor can't think that his father is actually attracted to him... can he? Surely he can't think me that monstrous. No, He tells himself. The boy just is reacting the same way Haytham had to Connor's persistent entreaties hours before, fueling the fire of his anger and frustration with the most convenient offense available. Haytham had used the information about the upcoming siege of Philadelphia to beat Connor with, and Connor is using Haytham's treacherous body to do the same. Not that Haytham can really blame him; god knows how he would have reacted if he'd been woken by Connor in a similar fashion.
Haytham flushes even redder than before. “Have you convinced yourself that your conception was immaculate, you arrogant little imbecile?”
Connor, who is ‘little’ in no way, blushes and crosses his heavily muscled arms over his chest, the chords tense and rippling beneath his tanned skin. “Oh, so it's my mother you think of when you start to—”
“I am not a sodomite, boy,” Haytham snarls. “And if I was, what makes you think I'd want to bugger my own son? What makes you think you're such an irresistible catch?”
“Perhaps the raging erection pressed against my backside almost every night?” Connor sneers, eyes hard and malicious. “Perhaps because of my mother? You were always telling me aboard the Aquila that I so reminded you of her.”
And Haytham actually laughs. It's a hoarse croak and sounds almost pained, but it's a laugh just the same. This is, by leaps and bounds, the most absurd argument he's ever had. He even feels a smirk tug at the corners of his lips.
“Take my word for it, lad; you aren't even half the woman your mother was.”
Connor stares at him, mouth hanging open, obviously trying to work out just what the hell Haytham had meant by his words, and his befuddled expression elicits an involuntary chuckle. And then Connor realizes that it was meant to be a joke. A joke from his hateful, scarred and battered father who, before that, had hardly said a word to him that wasn't tinged with acid. Connor's brow softens, his eyes losing their accusatory glare. The boy gives him a small, sad smile.
"There will never be another woman like her,” Connor says quietly. Haytham realizes that he had said ‘was’ out of habit. Past tense. And Connor had not corrected him. Haytham's heart clenches in his chest. This is a pain he's all too familiar with. What's that French term for it? Déjà vu. Only it really has happened before, in his other life, and this time he knows he will not be surprised by Connor's words.
“She's gone, isn't she?” Haytham asks, although from the expression on Connor's face he knows the answer. The boy's mouth tightens and his chin dimples but his eyes do not mist. Connor gives a slight nod.
“It is my fault,” Connor says. Haytham frowns. Of course the boy would think that. Connor was accustomed to bearing huge and unreasonable burdens; of course he would assume another one and heave it onto his shoulders along with all the others.
“I'm sure that's not true,” Haytham says, and means it, because it's not true. He knows that for a fact. “How did it happen?”
“Washington.” Connor spits the name like a curse. Haytham sighs. This world was so damnably strange and yet so familiar at the same time. “I could not save her. I can never save anyone, it seems.” Connor gives him a strange look that he's unsure how to interpret.
“Did he burn down the village?” Haytham asks.
Connor gives him a strange look. “How did you know?”
“I prevented him from burning it before, years ago. In this—whatever the hell it is. This life.”
Connor frowns, brow beetling, “I can remember...” He struggles for a moment. “There was a house in the woods. You were there.”
“I was.”
“And then we left. Ista and I,” he elaborates. “But not you.”
Haytham shifts uncomfortably. “So you can remember both lives?”
“Not well,” Connor says, and then, “Almost not at all. It's indistinct, like parts of a dream. Can you?”
Like it was only minutes ago, Haytham thinks ruefully, but instead says, “Very clearly.”
It's the boy's turn to look uncomfortable. His eyes settle on the window where there is light beginning to seep into the fragment of visible sky. “What was it like, when I killed you?” He asks tentatively.
Haytham frowns. That was one hell of a question... What exactly was he asking? How had it felt when Connor had goaded and fought him to the point of near madness with childish notions of freedom and all too well-placed blows, enraged his father to the point where Haytham had honestly considered murder? How it was to have one's only child—more than that, his only family, his only hope of reconciliation between Templar and Assassin—stab him in the neck? How it was to gamble his life to protect the friend that had howled for the boy's blood?
He can't answer any of that. Doesn't have any answers to give, so Haytham tells him about the more physical effects.
“Honestly? I'm not sure. I remember your blade and then... And then I think I babbled something, I don't remember what, and then there was just...” How could he describe it? “And then there was nothing.”
He had never really expected anything to happen when he died. He knew what he was supposed to believe, what that charlatan Jesus and all the others that had possessed certain Pieces of Eden had wanted the world to think, but Haytham was armed with far more information than the average man. He didn't despise Christianity. Rather the opposite in fact; the religion had treated his Order well, the Roman Catholic Church being a particularly useful tool, but it had been Haytham's experience that Heaven and Hell were places on earth that men made themselves. He expected that after he was dead he would just cease to exist and that would be the end of it.
And then there really had been nothing. That was the only way he could describe it, really. Just... Nothing. A total absence of being. Terrifying, absolute in its non-existence, a void that had lasted for millennia or perhaps only fractions of a second, and then suddenly—
“And then I was at Fort George. Still there, like I'd never left, and Charles—”
There's a clang at the far end of the hall, followed by the stomp of several sets of boots. Haytham and Connor bear identical grimaces.
Connor is quickly on his feet. Haytham lies back down on the bed, facing the wall, praying that the men are just bringing food, hoping that they won't see what state he's in. There's five of them, though, far too many just be carrying breakfast. The guards might be coming to take one or perhaps both of them. Haytham quickly covers himself with a blanket.
“How's the whore and the dog this fine mornin?” One of them asks. He recognizes the voice. It's the same guard from last night, the one that had brought the means to dress Haytham's wounds. Connor doesn't immediately answer. Haytham can feel the tension thrumming in the air.
“Hungry,” Connor decides, his tone forced but carefully neutral. So, he was going to try the diplomatic route. Perhaps he thought that treating the guard with more civility and respect than he himself was afforded would curry some sort of favor.
“Good,” the guard says, “Maybe you'll actually be entertainin' to watch today.”
“Another fight.” It's not a question. Haytham can hear the tinge of despair in Connor's voice.
“That's right. You win, you eat.” There's the clang of the door being unlocked, a squeak of rusting hinges, the scrape of something across the stone floor. “This tray is for him. Get him up and fed. Then you're comin' with us.”
Haytham feels the boy step close to him. “Wake up, Haytham,” He says quietly.
And then the boy grasps the bare skin of his shoulder and, good lord, his skin—it feels suddenly hot, like a sunburn where Connor touches him, only that particular sensation never made his toes curl, his cock ache or wrung a half-strangled moan from his throat. Connor withdraws like he's been burnt but the touch still lingers.
Shit. Goddamned bloody-fuck aphrodisiac—
“Oh ho ho, looks like we interrupted something,” A second guard chuckles.
“That right?” The first guard comments as Haytham forces himself to sit upright, making his condition woefully apparent. “Ah, looks like the bitch is in heat this morning!” Several of them laugh. Haytham's face burns. He keeps his eyes to the floor.
“Hey, Whitney, weren’t you complainin' that little wife of yours won't polish your knob?” A third asks.
One of the guards towards the back of the corridor shifts uncomfortably. “Well—I—I don't—”
“Step right up; this one 'ere's a champion cocksucker—”
Connor cuts him off with a growl, “You are not to touch him!”
The collective group of them pauses for a moment, some of them apparently startled that the boy would dare presume to tell them what to do.
“No?” One of them inquires, smirking darkly at the boy's insolence, “How you gonna stop us, monkey?”
“He's still hurt,” Connor snarls at the man.
“Not a surprise. His Majesty was set on fuckin' the defiance out o' him.” Haytham hears Connor's sharp intake of breath through his nose, can feel the angry heat radiating off of him.
No, He silently screams at the boy, Calm yourself, I'll be alright, just stand down! Have a little goddamned self-preservation for once; it's nothing I haven't done before, apparently—
“He is—” Connor hesitates, stammers, tries to come up with a verbal defense. “He is the king's slave. Washington will be furious if—”
“He'll be right irritated if the slave dies,” The first guard interrupts, “But short of killin' him, I can do whatever I like. In this corridor, boyo, I'm the one who's king.”
It's the older one that had answered, the one that Haytham recognizes as the man from last night. His blue uniform is of a slightly better cut than the other guards, has more embellishment. The warden, maybe? Is that why he seems so familiar? No, it's more than that. There's something else... and then Haytham realizes that the man was once a Templar. Minor, low-ranking. One of Church's subordinates. In his previous life, the man had been the one to bust Haytham's lip out in the frontier, when father and son had briefly been allies in the cause of hunting down and eradicating that twice-over traitor. Here, he is apparently the mercurial despot of this sad little kingdom.
“I will not let you do that,” Connor says, his voice the low rumble of an approaching storm, and there's a finality to it that makes the hair rise on the backs of his father's arms.
FILL ---------11 (part 2) of ? -------Enthralled
(Anonymous) 2013-05-31 04:18 pm (UTC)(link)For an instant, Connor does nothing, and Haytham for one awful instant he thinks he's going to see the boy's scalp split open at the temple but, no, the boy was just waiting, ever so patient, and then at the very last instant he moves. He sidesteps easily, almost lazily, the guard overextending himself to compensate at the last minute but his club misses its target by inches but what may as well been miles. This isn't Connor—the boy with the sad eyes and the reserved, ever-so-elusive smile. This is the peerless Mohawk warrior, the unflinching Captain of the Aquila, the grim Assassin that had brought Grandmaster Haytham Kenway's precious Order to its ever-loving knees. Connor seizes the man by the wrist and for a ludicrous instant it looks like the two are going to dance a minuet, and then Connor uses the man's momentum against him, slamming the man face first into the brick wall with enough force that the sickening snap of cartilage and bone can be heard over someone's warning shout—“Men! I need more men!”—and the guard slides bonelessly to the floor.
Connor's father watches him, marveling—had Haytham ever been so fast, moved so fluidly? It'd been a long time since he'd had a young man's body, moved with such an effortless, natural grace, unhindered by old wounds and aching joints. Another guard instantly follows, this time aiming low, poised to hit the Assassin in the gut with the butt of a musket but Connor deftly turns the blow with his forearm and then uses the same hand to grab at the offending weapon, turning it, sending the bayonet to slash blood across the howling guard's face as he staggers back.
The Assassin's eyes catch his for an instant, and he's just a boy again, looking at his father pleadingly—Fight with me, They say, We can do this. And he wants to—he does, more than anything—wants to feel the hot blood lust sing in his veins again, wants to hold a man's life in his hands and then reap the pleasure of snuffing it out like a candle—but he can't, doesn't the boy know that? Can't he see what his father has been reduced to? How weak he's become?
There's the ominous click of metal and both father and son know what that sound means, both of them looking at once for the source—It's the warden, Church's flunkey, and his pistol is out, hammer ready to fall. He isn't aiming at Connor, though; he's got his sights on Haytham.
“Stop!” He shouts, “Nobody move a fuckin' muscle or I'll blow his bloody brains out!”
Connor hesitates and Haytham wants to scream at the boy, tell him to keep moving, to keep fighting. It's a bluff, they won't shoot me. And even if the warden did shoot him—well, no great loss, he was supposed to be dead, anyway, and then they wouldn't be able to use him against the boy, he'd be free to slaughter his way right out the front door—
But Connor freezes on the spot. Idiot child, Haytham despairs.
In an instant, they're on him. Haytham just sits there like a mute, stupid doll, his hands clenching in the fabric of his pants; never before has he felt so helpless to stop what's happening. With the exception of the warden and the guard that's trying to hold his gaping and bleeding face together, the guards descend with fists and clubs, moving to viciously subdue the now unresisting Assassin. He forces himself not to flinch when he hears Connor grunt in pain, lets nothing pass over his face as the boy is hauled bodily to his feet, hands wrenched behind his back.
“Goddamn bloody savage,” The warden huffs, replacing his pistol in its holster and striding forward, punching Connor in the gut. Coward, Haytham thinks. Didn't want to get in close while the boy had a fighting chance, it's only when his enemy can do nothing to help himself that the man strikes. Connor doubles over with a hiss, his teeth bared.
“What now, sir?” One of the guards asks, the youngest of the group, “Do we kill him?”
“No,” The warden snaps, “Now we're gonna have our fun.”
“But sir, he's wanted in the throne room, the fight—”
“Can wait,” the warden growls, and his hands are working at the buttons at the front of his breeches. “If he's willin' to fight so hard for this slut's virtue, then he's gonna watch me fuck him into the floor.”
Re: FILL ---------11 (part 2) of ? -------Enthralled
(Anonymous) 2013-06-01 02:37 pm (UTC)(link)Damnit Connor. Damnit all. You've only made the situation worse now. I don't know what else to say without sounding like a broken record, but thank you for continuing to produce such a perfect fill. Haytham's embarrassment and consequent fluster was spot on. But it was his resignation to his own death - how he's "supposed" to be dead - was what really got me.
Re: FILL ---------11 (part 2) of ? -------Enthralled
(Anonymous) 2013-06-03 01:14 pm (UTC)(link)FILL ---------12 of ? -------Enthralled
(Anonymous) 2013-06-18 06:09 pm (UTC)(link)“What in the world happened?”
“Indian got uppity,” Answers the warden, pushing Haytham face down on the pallet, the man's eager hands working at the drawstring of his prisoner's trousers. When rough hands touch Haytham's bare skin he moans into the mattress, hips bucking of their own accord against the friction and cruel laughter erupts from the knot of guards.
Someone is less than amused, however. “Sir, we have our orders,” Someone says, the young one that the others had called Whitney.
“His Majesty will understand,” The warden says. Well, that was new; those under control of the Apple thinking for themselves, defying orders. Perhaps—just perhaps—Washington's power isn't as all-encompassing as previously supposed. The two wounded men are assessed. The one is still unconscious, eyes rolled back in his head even as blood pours from his broken nose at an alarming rate. The other grimaces and hisses as a third man prods the wound at his cheek, making worried sounds.
“Get them out of here,” The warden orders.
“Stop this!” Connor gasps, and Haytham can't bear to look his way, his skin crawling despite the fire that's raging beneath his skin. He knows what he'll see; Connor's bloodied face contorted in horror and rage, chest heaving. He can't do this, he can't, not with so many watching, not with his own son in the same room. But yet again he doesn't have a choice in the matter. His body wants it, even if his guts are roiling with disgust and hatred, and he is in no position to argue. His cock is still stupidly, absurdly hard, against all reason. I asked for this, brought this on myself, He thinks, dizzily, I wouldn't let him throw out that damned tea...
“What's wrong, sweetheart? You can have him back when we're done, we're just borrowin' him for a spell.” One of them says, laughing.
“Jealous,” Another says, “Probably thought 'e was gonna keep the slut all to hisself.” Of course they would think that. They probably assume Connor is as vile and lecherous as the rest of them.
“Not even an animal would stoop so low.” Connor seethes and he jerks as one of the men strikes him in the ribs.
“I've had enough of his lip. Gag him,” The warden says and Haytham can hear the rustle of fabric as the man undoes the front of his breeches. The man grabs Haytham's ass like he's checking the ripeness of a melon and the sensation shoots heat up his spine. He hikes back his hips and moans like a whore when the guard fingers him open. His hand is slick with something cold, oil or grease perhaps—obviously the man had intended to fuck him all along, perhaps considering it recompense for the small gift of alcohol and bandages the night before.
Haytham trembles. Not from fear, though. He has no fear. Not even when he feels the warden press against him, feels the slickness of the man's cock against his ass, the hand stinging the barely-healed wounds of his tender back. There's no room for fear, not with the disgust and rage that fill him. Quickly, far too quickly to be anything close to comfortable, the man positions himself, presses in, and Haytham gasps and writhes beneath him, focusing on the blunt ache in his guts that is too strong to be called pleasure. The warden seats himself to the hilt with a satisfied grunt and Haytham twists his head, lets his tangled mess of hair fall over his face the better to obscure the tight set of his jaws and the murder in his eyes. How dare they? How dare they do this to him, to his son? What gives them the right to humiliate him like this?
If only he were not so weak. If there's one thing that Haytham despises most of all, it's weakness... No. No, he was not weak, he tells himself. Damn it, stop. It's too easy to be the victim. What in the hell had he become? He wasn't some cringing, broken slave, wasn't a wanton whore—those were merely the projections of his enemies, circumstances beyond his control. He's Grandmaster Haytham Kenway, son of one of the most feared and respected pirates to have ever sailed the Caribbean, father to one of the deadliest Assassins ever produced.
These men, they were the weak ones. They are nothing. Small, petty cowards who try to compensate for their own powerlessness by preying on those who were even more defenseless than themselves, violating him because they knew there would be no consequences. He thinks on this, grips his hate tight to him as the man behind him pulls back and then plunges forward again, establishing a quick rhythm, his hands burning Haytham's hips, his hold lining up with the dark purple bruises left by Hickey's fingers.
He groans in response, giving them what they want to hear, his hips churning, all the while thinking, letting his mind wander, trying to distract himself from the pleasure that is even more vile and insistent than the pain. His mind. That was what Washington wanted. The man had only achieved victory through the intelligence and ambitions of other men.
He'd been able to resist Washington's power by sheer force of will. It was that stubbornness and will that had forced Washington's insidious power out of his soul, his resistance that had enraged the man to striking him again and again until Haytham had collapsed on the throne room floor in a bloody heap. His body may have atrophied, had been maimed and mistreated, but his mind is as keen as ever. Reginald Birch had not seen fit to elevate Haytham to Grandmaster of the Colonial Rite because he could leap across rooftops or wield a blade—It was Haytham Kenway's cold, calculating intelligence that set him apart from other men and made him truly dangerous. Was that the point of all this? To torture, abuse, and humiliate him until he breaks? To crack open Haytham's mind so that Washington can peruse it at leisure like a book in a library?
Well, he can't have it, Haytham thinks feverishly, gritting his teeth, That bastard can take everything else from me: my freedom, my strength, my dignity, but he can never have my mind—
But he can hear Connor's sharp, furious breathing between the slap of flesh on flesh, and suddenly he's not so sure.
“Get over there, lad,” The warden growls and for one improbable and horrified moment he thinks that the man means Connor, but Haytham peeks out through his curtain of hair and sees the youngest guard shift uncomfortably from side to side.
“I-I don't think it wise,” He stutters, unsure, but definitely tempted.
“No? Why not? Look at him, he's practically begging for it,” Another guard says. “Go on with ya.”
The lad wavers, debates with himself, but in the end he steps forward and unbuttons his breeches with shaking fingers, quickly pumping at his half-hard cock. He seizes Haytham by the hair with forced bravado and pulls him up to eye level with the boy's flesh.
“Suck me,” He commands loudly, the force of his words diminished by the way his voice cracks on the first syllable. Haytham takes him into his mouth, trying not to cringe at the acrid taste of piss or the way the flesh feels like a firebrand against his lips. The boy's moan is high and girlish when Haytham lathes at the underside of the head with his tongue and his hips buck helplessly into Haytham's mouth. Pathetic.
Well, go right ahead, lad, He thinks, delirious with sensation, Help yourself. Have your pleasure while you can. Your cock will be the first thing I take from you, when I get you alone. I'll shove it down your throat before I spill your guts to the floor like swine in an abattoir.
He had taught Charles that there was more than one way to kill a man. The obvious courses of action were to target the brain or the heart, of course, or slit the throat or slash at the soft underbelly. Men such as Haytham and Charles are much more acquainted with the workings of the body than the average man. Few are aware of just how comparatively little pressure it takes to snap a spine, how delicate the kidneys are, how much blood runs under the arm pits. Or how much blood runs through the groin, for that matter. He still has his teeth—men are such fragile things, no one knows this better than he, it would only take a few pounds of pressure—
The warden hits that something inside him that makes his limbs tremble and forces a startled gasp from his throat. Again, and he hikes his hips, pushing back—again and he moans, embarrassingly loud around the flesh in his mouth, pleasure and pain washing together and overlapping until he's not sure which is which. The man's breathing has become erratic, labored, fingers embedded in Haytham's skin. Haytham is close himself, cock hard and weeping with precome, bobbing obscenely with every thrust, throbbing with the beat of his heart. The warden's hips still and Haytham recoils at the awful sensation of the man's release.
The warden sighs contentedly, patting Haytham on the ass almost fondly, as if he were a horse or a dog that had pleased him. “Atta boy,” He croons and pulls out. Haytham feels a fresh hot mess slide down the insides of his thighs but before he can even process how disgusting he feels there's another man taking the warden's place, seating himself in one cruel thrust that makes him cry out and clench his fists in the fabric of the mattress. The boy before him sputters and groans, his fingers tangled in Haytham's hair, forcing Haytham's head to and fro. The others laugh, make vulgar jokes or, worse, trade small-talk as if there isn't a man being speared at both ends before them. As if they aren't waiting their turn to do the same. All of them making meaningless noise. Except for Connor, of course. Somehow his silence is the worst of all. He can't even begin to imagine what the boy must be feeling. Hopefully the boy has shut his eyes. Not that it helps, he's sure. Doubtless the boy is helpless to block out the slap and squelch of flesh on flesh, flesh in flesh Haytham's moans and the sighs and grunts of the two men using him—
Haytham comes with a surprised grunt, spraying the mattress below him. It's the least satisfying orgasm he's ever had, more like the spasm of a cramping muscle than the glorious release that he requires. He's still frustratingly hard, his skin is still aflame, balls aching and he moans plaintively around the cock in his mouth. The boy gasps at the sensation and spills. Haytham gags, sputters, and coughs, some of the mess ending up down his chin and stains the buff fabric of the boy's breeches. One of the guards notices and guffaws. If Haytham's face wasn't flushed before it most certainly is now. As soon as the boy removes himself, cursing at the state of his clothes, another man comes to take his place, pumping his thick member, grinning. Haytham inwardly grimaces.
“Wot th' 'ell is going 'ere?” A man shouts. Hickey. It must be. Haytham'd know that absurd cockney accent anywhere.
The man approaching Haytham suddenly looks bashful, like a child caught stealing a cooling pie from a window sill. Equally, the man at his backside pauses.
“What business is it of yours, Hickey?” Someone challenges him.
“It's the fuckin' King's business—an' that's Captain to you, gobshite.” A pause. “Well. Now I see why it's taking so long to feed 'im 'is food,” Hickey says, his words droll but his tone serious.
“We was just havin' a spot of fun,” One of them says.
“You got any idea what 'appens to little worker bees that disobey?” Hickey growls menacingly, “They get squashed. Get 'em to the throne room. Now.”
FILL ---------13 (part 1) of ? -------Enthralled
(Anonymous) 2013-08-09 07:37 pm (UTC)(link)Connor walks ahead of Haytham, head down, shoulders hunched, arms bound behind his back, hands clenched so tight that it's a wonder that they do not bleed. He can't even begin to imagine what the boy must be feeling. Disgust, probably. Hatred, for a certainty. Despair... He hopes not.
When they enter the throne room, Washington and some of his commanders are seated at a large table overflowing with charts, correspondence, and food. Food. Oh, God, the food—there's bacon and honeyed ham, sausage, freshly baked bread, fried eggs, cider. It's been so long since he's had anything but gray slop, stale bread and those damned herbs—it's almost enough to make Haytham forget about the man consuming it. Almost, but not quite. Washington's eyes flick up at their approach, chips of ice, and there's that old, familiar fear again; muscles in his throat and chest constrict, his blood turn cold in his veins, all his previous feelings of rebelliousness evaporating.
“Why such a delay?” Washington asks, annoyed.
“The savage attacked us,” one of the guards sneers.
“Unprovoked?”
The guard hesitates. “Not—entirely.”
Washington's attention turns to Haytham. He can feel his face burning from embarrassment, hot as a sunburn. “And him?”
“Took the brunt of the punishment.”
“Fine,” Washington says, apparently uninterested, and points his fork behind Haytham and Connor to where the banquette tables have been arranged into a circle again, legs facing out. “Leave the bindings on, I think. And the gag.”
The blood in Haytham's veins turns to ice.
One of the guards snorts. “So much for entertainment,” he hears the warden mutter.
They're going to kill him. They're going to kill his only son. His mind races. There's too many of them. Haytham is unarmed, weakened, he can't—but there's the Apple. It's there on an ornate stand next to the throne. If he can get to it, perhaps—but, no, the guard that holds his chain reaches under the table, secures the end of it around a leg of heavy oak. They're forcing the struggling Connor into the ring; he's growling past the rag stuffed into his mouth, doing his best to yank free, to stomp on the toes of the guards that man-handle him, but they're yanking his head back by his collar, cutting off his air.
Haytham watches, frozen. What does he do? What can he do? One of the guards grasps Haytham by the shoulders, forcing him down on his knees next to Washington's place at the table. Should he give himself away? Reveal that he's aware? Grovel and beg for the monster to spare his son? Would Washington even do it? He has only one bargaining chip left to him, the thing that Washington wants the most out of him—his mind. Would the monster let the boy go if he... if he submitted?
A ringing voice gives him pause.
“You're sick bloody bastards, every last one of ya!”
Haytham can't help the quick snap of his head towards the impromptu ring. There's another slave standing there, an iron collar about his scrawny neck, his tall, lean frame drowning in rags that may have once been black. There's something about the man that's familiar. Something about the eyes. It's hard to determine who he is, though; his face is so gaunt, so emaciated, every line of his face etched in grit and fury. He could be thirty, he could be sixty.
“Mind yourself, peasant,” a guard snaps.
“Or what? You'll beat me? Turn me into that?” He jabs a finger in Haytham's direction and the Templar fights the urge to recoil. “Go ahead. Try. I fuckin' dare ya.” His accent is unmistakeably Irish, low-country, working class.
Duncan Little, the Assassin. Haytham's surprised he hadn't recognized him sooner. Haytham's guts twist. Duncan's face likewise contorts in disgust as Connor is shoved forward over the barrier of tables, landing in an ungainly, struggling heap on the flagstones.
“What in the hell is this?” the Irish Assassin demands, lips pulled back in a snarl. Half of his front teeth are missing or broken.
“Your latest challenge,” one of the guards replies.
“Do you mean to have me kill an unarmed, bound chap?” He sounds incredulous and unnerved. When the guards back off, leaving Connor to the man's mercy, he scoffs, “Well, that's a new low...”
He reaches down—not to strangle the boy, but to grasp him under the arms, “C'mon, lad, up with ya,” he grunts. He winces from the exertion; Duncan may be taller, but Connor outweighs him by a good margin. Connor staggers to his feet, tries to say something, eyes wide and frantic, but the gag muffles his words. The Irishman tugs the fabric from his mouth. “There y'are, lad; never say I never did anything for ya.”
“Duncan!” Connor gasps, “you're alive!”
So, the boy knows the Irishman as well. Had the man been an Assassin in both lives?
Duncan's brow beetles. “Do I know ya, lad?”
The look on Connor's face is agonized. Of course Duncan doesn't know him. That would be far too convenient. Connor is the only person Haytham has found in this strange place to be aware of the true reality, the only one aside from himself to know that that this world is part of some insane fantasy.
“I...Well...” Haytham can see the boy's mind working, trying to come up with something that doesn't sound completely and utterly mad. “No, but I know of you, sir. From before,” he says finally as Duncan side-steps to remove the lashings from his wrists.
Connor is about to go on but somewhere there's the sound of screaming, followed by an agonized, distant wail that echos from down an anterior hall. Elsewhere in the building there's some other ungodly form of torture taking place. Both men look up at the sound, their faces troubled—and then the sound abruptly ceases. The implications of the silence is even more unnerving than the screaming.
“I know you as a Brother,” Connor says shakily, softly, when the two turn their attention back to each other. Had Haytham not been straining to hear, he would have missed it.
Duncan stares at Connor, face anxious. He seizes Connor about the shoulders, his face drawn, whispers something urgent that sounds like a question or a plea. Connor shakes his head slightly, dark eyes full of sympathy and concern, whispers something in kind that is likewise too soft for anyone but the two of them to hear. There's a brief, intense exchange. Whatever the discourse, it seems to bring peace to neither of them. Duncan lets out a deep breath, shoulders collapsing, brow beetled. He releases Connor and shakes his head.
“I suppose it doesn't matter what we used to be; only what we've become,” Duncan says with a glance to Washington and his men, voice rough. He steps away from Connor, never once presenting his back. He squares his shoulders and balls his large hands into sharp fists, bringing them up before his chest, every muscle in his body tensing.
“What is this?” Connor asks, clearly confused.
“Survival of the fittest, lad,” Duncan responds, and then pulls his right fist back, launches it, goes right for the face. Connor sees the strike coming, eyes wide and shocked—perhaps he can't believe that the Irishman would ever seek to strike him—and he just barely manages to knock the blow aside with his forearm.
“What are you doing?” Connor hisses. “We fight for the same cause!”
“Sorry, lad,” Duncan huffs, drawing his fists back in a defensive posture. “It's you or me. thought I'd give ya a fighting chance, but that's all the quarter I can afford to give ya.”
“I don't want to fight you!” Connor shouts.
“Well, good on you, lad, but I've not had any food for two days—and if beating you means I get to eat—“ He lunges at Connor, aiming high again, but Connor artfully dodges, landing the man a blow to the gut in retaliation, “—Ah, good right hook,” Duncan gasps.
He'll be fine, Haytham tries to tell himself. He's young. Healthy. He has a good thirty pounds of muscle on the man. But fear claws at his chest. If it were a pure contest of skill and strength, Haytham would have had every confidence that Connor would have been the victor, but he's uncertain. The boy's soft heart will be the death of him, he thinks, maybe not today, but soon. These chaotic bouts have a sort of system to them. Food is the prize. If a man wins a fight by killing his opponent, he receives full meals for two days. If he merely lets his opponent yield, he gets about half, just enough to keep his stomach from eating itself, but not much more than that. If he loses and the victor is merciful enough to let him live, he gets nothing. It drives even good men into desperate, half-starved, violent rages. More than that, it saps their willpower, makes them more susceptible to the Apple's influence.
Duncan's fist connects. Connor gasps, staggers back, hand pressed to his ribs, wincing, eyes flashing in fear and betrayal. There's nothing Haytham can do for his son. Haytham can't even beg on his son's behalf; they would know that Connor had helped him regain his mind and the boy's punishment would be all the worse. Haytham watches helplessly, all of his righteous anger and indignation replaced by concern and anxiety.
Connor could probably kill the man easily, but he's deflecting, on the defensive, pleading with Duncan—“We have to stop this, we are playing right into his hands!”—but it's no use. Duncan's blows are fast and brutal, meant for maximum damage, face set in grim determination—if he'd had any reservations about killing the stranger set before him, they're gone now, pushed aside in favor of a hot meal and living another day. Haytham wonders if there's something else driving the Irishman. Was Washington hanging something over him? Did the man have any family to exploit? Were there any other Assassins in the holding cells, their lives hanging on the outcome of the match?
They come together, grappling, Connor trying to restrain the other man, Duncan doing his very best to pound Connor's ribs and stomp toes before Connor lurches them to the ground, the two of them struggling for dominance.
Something moist and warm hits Haytham on the cheek. He looks down at the ground, puzzled. It's a bit of bacon, mostly white with fat, glistening with grease. Haytham looks up, narrowly avoiding locking eyes with Washington. The monster's lip curls and his eyes twinkle in evident delight. He raises his eyebrows expectantly and gives a curt nod as if to say well go on, then.
Haytham has never hated anyone so much in his entire life, wants to send his hidden blade right through one of the man's mocking blue eyes and straight into that sick, delusional brain—but he has no blade of course. Just his hands. And any attempt at murder at this point would be suicide. So, he plays the role that he has been forced to take. Haytham reaches for the bit of meat with his hand but he hesitates noting how crooked his fingers are. Reluctantly, he places his hand flat on the floor, does the same with the other, and picks up the morsel with his lips. The piece of meat is delectable after going so long without but his treatment is so revolting, so abhorrent that he has a hard time swallowing.
Haytham realizes that he's paying his son and Duncan more far too much attention for a supposedly drug-addled slave. He stares down at the floor beneath his aching knees, trying to affect an air of indifference, but his hands twitch in his lap every time he hears a pained grunt or gasp, his own hands tightening into fists, bunching into the fabric of his filthy trousers when he hears the sound of a connecting impact. But Washington's interference brings him back to the matter at hand, to the real conflict and the larger concern.
“...And we've gotten a letter from a Frenchie,” someone says. General Putnam, he thinks—his face is blocked by the table, Haytham can't see more than the man's booted legs under the table. There's a whiff of cigar smoke; it must be him. He's seated near Washington, facing the two men battling for their lives.
“Oh?” asks Washington, sounding bored. From the projection of his voice Haytham can tell that he's looking at the fight, not at his general. “What does it say, sir?”
Putnam's laugh is a harsh bark. “How the hell should I know, y'Grace? It's in French!”
“Arrogant, insufferable...” A rustle of parchment. “What was the messenger’s explanation?”
“Couldn't say,” Putnam says, sounding like he's trying and failing to keep the glee from his voice, “My boys'd riddled him with shot on first sight. By the time we figured out who he was, he was babbling away in French and couldn't make himself understood.”
“Dead now, I presume?” A Pause. “Lord Franklin, you know a bit of the language, do you not?” A rustle of parchment being passed from one hand to another.
Lord Franklin? Of course; Haytham had been scrutinizing the legs of the man seated next to Putnam, wondering who they belonged to. He's wearing slippers rather than shoes, and the fabric of his socks are pulled tight over grotesquely swollen and lumpy ankles. Gout, most like. He wonders what sort of hideous thing the man had done to earn the title of 'Lord.'
“I do, I can try to translate—Oh. Oh, yes, this is rather significant.” Franklin sounds excited, which probably bodes ill. “It appears that the addressee rightfully recognizes you as the—“
There's a howl of pain; Connor's—Haytham looks up, he can't help it—Duncan has a hold of his son's left arm, twisting it backwards at an unnatural angle. Haytham's heart rises in his chest, but he looks away again, has to keep listening, it's the only thing he can do that's useful now—
“As I was saying,” Franklin says irritably, ahem-ing and clearing his throat, “This document is addressed to the rightful king, sovereign of Massachusetts, New York, Connecticut—all of the colonies, in fact—and that he wishes to extend his hand in friendship and welcome his Majesty in—oh my.”
“What, Ben? Don't keep us in suspense,” Putnam chides.
“It's—this is signed by Louis himself. This is the King of France acknowledging your claim on the Americas.”
FILL ---------13 (part 2) of ? -------Enthralled
(Anonymous) 2013-08-09 07:38 pm (UTC)(link)“I've heard reports,” Franklin says, “that the French peasantry are growing increasingly unhappy with their situation. Some are aggitating for a revolution of their own. Perhaps by recognizing a fellow monarch over the absurdity and chaos of a democratic system—”
“There's still a goddamned armada at the mouth of the Hudson. Plainly no one's told them their boy-king is on our side,” Putnam rumbles, interrupting, his voice dark and mistrustful.
“Perhaps you're mistaken, Lord Franklin,” suggests Washington, sounding disappointed.
“No, this signature is genuine, I'm certain of it,” Franklin insists. “And this paper is from his Majesty's personal stationary—notice the crest? And perhaps they have sent word to Philadelphia and New York but it has yet to reach them; crossing the Atlantic is quite perilous in winter.”
“Well, then,” Washington says, “perhaps we should take this missive at face value, gentleman.”
He sounds inordinately pleased. Clearly his ego had been stroked by the affirmation that his actions have been just. Perhaps he feels that he is finally receiving the acknowledgment, recognition, and respect that he deserves.
“There's another page in a different hand, some emissary, apparently. The bearer of the letter—” Another shout from the ring, this time Duncan, accompanied by the snap of bone and the cheer of bloodlust from the spectators that have gathered—Haytham wills himself to keep his eyes to the floor, heart pounding in his ears.
“I really wish they would get that over with,” Franklin grumbles, probably annoyed at the second interruption.
“Loosin' your taste for battle, old man?” Putnam ribs him.
“The quick bouts are more interesting.”
“If his Majesty still had that'un in the ring, the wolf-boy'd probably be dead by now,” Putnam comments. Washington's hand descends and it takes every fiber of control in Haytham's being not to jerk away as Washington pats him on the head.
“It had become apparent that he wasn't going to be broken in by fighting,” Washington says. No. That was certainly true. Had Haytham had reservations about killing those who least deserved it? Yes, of course, but he put his survival ahead of theirs, compartmentalized their suffering and distanced it from himself. Fighting had been his entire life, he wasn't about to allow it to be the death of him. In the days that he had been a pit fighter and not a pet he had never once gone hungry and the killings didn't have the demoralizing effect that Washington had hoped for; he'd been as violent and resistant as the day he had been presented to the madman's court.
“How's that working out?” asks Putnam.
“He's certainly more pliable. But, no, he still resists my influence,” Washington admits sourly.
“His knowledge and skills would be a boon to our cause, your Highness,” Franklin reminds Washington.
“He's been behaving strangely ever since I put that savage in the same cell with him,” Washington notes. “Perhaps the stress of a constant companion will break him.”
“Not that savage there?” Putnam asks, incredulous. “That thing is an animal. Killed Benedict in cold blood 'fore he was able to raise the alarm. Massacred a score of men out in the wilderness.” Haytham feels a glow of pride, despite his deep unease.
“And yet he seemed to be quite distressed upon first seeing our little pet,” Washington remarks, tossing a bit of sausage to the floor. This time, Haytham doesn't hesitate. “I cannot begin to fathom the implications of such a thing.”
“Perhaps they knew each other, once,” Franklin suggests. His legs straighten and he lifts himself off his chair with a groan. Haytham catches the flash of spectacles and a bald pate over the edge of the table.
“You know,” Franklin muses, “there is a sort of resemblance between the two.”
Oh, no. No, he can't think that. God only knows what will happen if Washington figures out that the two men are father and son—he'll pit them against each other, he'll divide and conquer—
He hears the scrape of Putnam's chair. “Yes,” he remarks dryly, “their dirt gives them almost the same coloring.”
Franklin sighs impatiently, plopping himself back down. “No, you dolt. The set of the chin, the shape of the brow—“
“Your Majesty,” someone's anxious voice cuts him off. There's the click of rapidly approaching shoes on the flagstone. “So sorry to trouble you.”
It's Benjamin Church. Haytham has never been so glad to hear that scheming, treacherous bastard's voice.
“My dear Doctor Church,” Washington says, not unkindly, “what brings you by this morning?”
“A problem, unfortunately,” Church replies. “There is a man that would improve under your benevolent influence.”
“Oh?”
“The savage wounded two men; one will be scarred for life, but he should recover fully. The other man's fate is less certain. The force of the impact—I suspect there is some swelling in the brain. He may not survive the night, if his condition is not addressed.”
“I've always appreciated your attentiveness towards our men, Doctor,” Washington says with a touch of irritation, “but we were discussing matters of more import than one wounded soldier. You have always had my blessing to treat my men however you see fit.”
“My sincerest apologies, your Grace. I'm aware that you have many matters that require your attention,” Church says, “but the man is being most uncooperative. A simple trephination may alleviate his suffering, but he refuses to allow us to preform the procedure. He's also sobbing in a most unseemly way; he blames you for burning his family to death or some such nonsense. Screams it at the top of his lungs. Delusion due to the swelling, most like—he's not to be blamed for it—but he's making the other men most agitated. Some are threatening to kill him for slandering His Majesty's royal person.”
The screaming from earlier; that must have been the guard. Haytham puzzles over what he's just heard, unable to keep the frown from his face, and then understanding dawns. Yes! Of course, he'd nearly forgotten—Haytham had only seen the phenomenon once before. Sometimes, when someone that is controlled by the Apple is brought very near to death, the control over them is severed and they come back to themselves. Whether or not they lived long enough to enjoy their renewed freedom is left up to chance, however.
Another shout breaks him from his revery, and this time he can't help the snap of his head towards the ring. It's Connor. He has Duncan on the ground, pinned—but the man isn't about to yield. He's snarling, trying to buck Connor off, his fingers gnarled into claws. He's going for Connor's face, for his eyes. Connor tries to slap his hands away, tries to grab a hold of the man's wrists to restrain him, but Connor's left arm isn't cooperating and Duncan is too fast and far too desperate; his hands find purchase around Connor's thick neck.
Haytham can see the rising panic in Connor's eyes, the terror, his right hand clawing at the hands that constrict, vice-like, around his windpipe, left slapping uselessly and clumsily at Duncan's snarling face. Haytham watches, frozen, as his son's face begins to purple, reminiscent of that awful night at Fort George when everything had fallen apart. Washington and the others continue to talk amongst themselves but Haytham can't hear them, can't hear anything over the heart pounding in his ears and his son's rattling, desperate gasp.
Connor's right hand is a blur as it whips out to cover Duncan's face and the boy slams the back of the man's head into the stone floor. There's a little pop, like a pine knot in a fire, and Haytham knows what that sound means even before Duncan's hands loosen and fall, out-flung, as if he is set to be crucified, the strength leaving those wiry arms all at once. His mouth goes slack and his eyes open wide, as if shocked, but there's a vacant look to them. Haytham knows that expression, has seen it himself countless times before—Duncan is dead. His body will take a little time to get the message, but the Assassin is already gone.
There's some clapping, some hooting, as Connor gasps for air, chest heaving, eyes wide. “Duncan?” he asks tentatively, voice a rasping croak. He shakes the man, touches his cheek. No response. “Duncan?” he asks again, louder, this time with an edge of panic.
It's over. The relief Haytham feels is so overwhelming that there is no room for pity. Not for Duncan, anyway. People start to go about their business now that the grim show is over. Guards close in on the ring, blocking Haytham's view just as he hears an ugly, agonized sob.
Something catches Haytham's attention—a rock in an otherwise bustling stream of activity. It's a negro man, of average height, average build. Just a servant. Haytham almost dismisses him, but, no, something's off—it's the tension in his limbs, the way he's clutching the pitcher he carries so hard that it's a wonder the porcelain hasn't shattered in his hands. His face is stoic, unreadable—but those eyes are hot and furious, glaring murder at the center of the ring.
The negro must have felt Haytham's gaze because his eyes flick towards the high table and then the servant and the slave are staring right at each other.
It's Connor, Haytham realizes, the shock so acute that he's unable to keep it from his face.
Not his son, but Davenport's.
The dead boy that Haytham's son had replaced, in another place, another time. He's here, at court, and very obviously in his own right mind. But perhaps that's only obvious to Haytham. Those dark eyes look him over, widening in something like panic, studying the Templar's face, and Haytham can tell that Davenport knows as well, sees that Haytham is aware, cognizant, and the realization turns the man's eyes into chips of ice.
And then, just as quickly as it was brought on, the moment passes. Davenport's face relaxes, makes him look lazy and distant, his eyes all at once flat and disinterested, his posture slumped. He looks past Haytham as if not seeing him at all and then strides languorously away.
Haytham stares at the spot the Assassin had occupied, stunned, oblivious to what's going on behind him, around him. His mind whirls, wondering at the implications. At least he has enough presence of mind not to smirk.
Well, Haytham thinks, This should be interesting.