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 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.