Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

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Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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FILL ---------13 (part 1) of ? -------Enthralled

[(Anonymous)]

In a flurry, father and son are chained about the neck once more and hurried down the long hall. No breakfast for either of them, such is Hickey's haste to get them to the throne room. Haytham feels wretched; his knees bruised once again, the muscles of his legs smarting and aching, some of the cuts that his son had doctored bleeding anew beneath his shirt. He staggers like a drunk, legs trembling, skin still aflame where he had been touched. The boy had been made to clean him before their departure. Haytham would have rather stumbled into the throne room with his pants around his ankles, still soiled, then to have had the boy forced to touch him in such an embarrassingly intimate way. But no one asked his opinion, of course.

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)]

There's a silence punctuated only by Connor and Duncan's scuffling. “I don't get it,” Putnam says, breaking the quiet between the men. “I thought they hated us. They're still aiding the rebel scum in Philadelphia.”

“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.