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asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5
Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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Part 1
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Part 4
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Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [12/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-08-14 10:54 pm (UTC)(link)It had been a week before an aggressively-mothering Abigail was convinced to let her injured ward so much as leave his bed, another has almost passed now and he has yet to be permitted further than the stairs. Even the smallest sign of disobedience or protest from him has the effect of producing much unamused muttering about the sheer foolishness of teenagers travelling long distances on a sprain and needless exacerbation of damage. An implicit threat always lurks behind these lectures; while Achilles's wife may not be a trained Assassin, she is perfectly capable of resorting to force if necessary. There is a reason she has always drawn, and warranted, affectionate comparisons with a grizzly. So, despite itching to get up or attempt escape through the nearest window, Connor has little choice but to submit to the well-intentioned sentence. That the binding around his ankle feels rather more bulky than necessary seems like an extra, subtle precaution to make sure he rests as instructed.
This torture of being confined to such a limited space is only exacerbated by a persistent lack of any attempt by Achilles to continue their previous conversation, the promised 'later' still hovering over him at some unspecified distance. Forcibly bedridden as he was, those first few days had been spent doing little more than waiting for the inevitable, his anticipation making him keenly feel the suffocating oppression of the brick walls in a way that he hadn't in years. There was simply no distraction to be found, his nights being spent near-sleeplessly with only his thoughts and Duncan's loud snoring for company. A progressive staleness of the air and the ever-increasing weight of expectation every time the door opened had started to wear on his nerves. Thankfully daily doses of valerian began making their way into his meals once the increasing shadows under his eyes were noted, after that his nights were a lot shorter and confinement became a little more bearable.
However, with so little to otherwise occupy and satisfactorily divert himself, the novice finds himself repeatedly meditating on his situation. As frustrating and worrying as it may be the subject does help eat away at the hours, if he's particularly lucky it can take almost a day just to go in a circle. None of this however has left him any closer to resolving anything, or to determining if his mentor had meant anything by that last comment. Until he sees the old man again he can't be sure either way. Nevertheless, as each successive day draws to an end this continued silence begins to feel more and more like a punishment.
Hearing the stairs creak with a tread that has become all-too familiar, he doesn't feel the need to immediately look up when the door opens enters, this particular routine being so set. As always Abigail is bustling with efficiency, her day already planned out into any number of tasks. Bandages in one hand, she retrieves an old stool from its resting place against the wall in order to set it ready by the foot of the bed. Only then does she turn to give him a cursory once-over, as if to gauge by sight alone whether he'd broken any rules last night and moved around too much. 'So, how are you feeling this morning?'
They go through this every time; no matter how well he insists he feels it makes no difference. His judgement, in this area at least, isn't especially trusted, but he still tries. 'Better, thank you.'
'Still bored out of your skull then, hmm?' She tuts, absently moving a hand to arrest any movement of the injury in question as the teenager sits up further. 'You should just be glad you're something of a quick healer.'
Admonishment delivered, she wastes no time in setting about her re-examination. Letting the leg in question go limp Connor waits patiently in hope of a more positive verdict this time. Silent cooperation can only really improve his chances. It is a relief when the bandage comes off, even if it will only be for a short while. The extra swelling that had resulted from his trek is gone although the area around the sprain remains discoloured in its intermediary stage of healing. Some slight pain comes from her firm, doctorly prodding, but it isn't enough to make him flinch. Humming to herself the woman gently flexes the joint, gauging, testing. She comes to a decision quickly enough, wrapping the ankle back up with rather less material than before, still giving the sprain support but not obviously impairing his ability to use it.
Tying the dressing off, she briefly checks her handiwork over before straightening up to deliver a stern look. 'The worst of the damage has cleared up but the muscles are going to be a bit weak from disuse. Some exercise should do you good, come down and you can help Deborah see to the pigeons.'
It's only to be expected that she wants someone to keep an eye on him, prone to push himself as he is, but that doesn't mean it dampens his initial excitement of finally getting outside again any less. As much as the solitude of this room has oppressed him, he would have rather avoided the company of that particular novice for a little while longer. Nobody has been watching him closer than her, whenever she gets the chance to visit the room she always seems to be waiting for some sign in his body language or slip in his words. Dobby has clearly not forgotten Lexington. Her opinions however are less obvious. Regardless, he has little doubt that she will take full advantage of this exercise to properly broach the subject, and drag as much as she can out of him about it, persistent as she is.
'Don't tell me you've grown a liking for staying in that bed all day.' Supplies gathered up, ready to depart for the next job on her mental list, Abigail gives the foot of the bed a quick kick; 'Daylight's wasting.'
Connor has been all too aware of that these last weeks, how fast time is passing and wasting away, another source of anxiety on top of everything else. He may not know how patient Haytham is but he's sure that much more of a delay is a bad idea. That and he wants to be doing something useful again. It isn't that he finds himself missing the man's company, or worrying that he might be forgotten, not at all. Of course, the fact remains that he might not be permitted to continue with the plan, dangerous as it is. If he carries on one wrong move could quite easily get him killed, or worse. This choice is not his to make however. Already he has accomplished what he was sent to do and brought back good, usable information, there is no need to risk going further. Not to mention that his mentor might have seen and heard enough that first day to have decided against letting him anywhere near the grandmaster again. It's an unpleasant prospect.
Stretching, he gingerly swings first one leg, then the other, over the side of the mattress, testing each with a little weight as he perches there. Only once he has counted Abigail's descent of the stairs does he try actually standing. It's a nice change, not to have someone hovering over his every movement, both his pride and his modesty are thankful for the returned privacy. Naturally he's initially a little unsteady on getting up, having to readjust his balance, whilst some of his muscles ache after too many long hours without proper exercise. Glad there are no witnesses, the teenager manages to keep himself upright and after a few steps feels confident that his ability to walk hasn't abandoned him. With any luck this could be the end of this tedious recuperation period, and then he can start doing something with himself again. Vaguely he wonders how soon will be considered too soon for him to start climbing or tree-running again.
Urge to stall warring with his need to get out of the house, he doesn't take long to slip into his waiting Assassin robes, providing him with both warmth and comfort. Privately this simple gesture reaffirms his allegiance to and his identity within the Brotherhood, helping to drive away any of those small lingering doubts momentarily at least. His weapons, which have all been cleaned repeatedly, he leaves set carefully to one side, it being mostly pointless and also rather suspicious to arm himself for this simple enough task. As he limps for the door the drag in his step starts to grow less pronounced, muscles waking up. The bandages still somewhat hinders him though, ensuring that the staircase takes two, if not three, times as long as normal to navigate.
Routines unchanged, the rest of the manor's inhabitants had risen to go about their business hours ago. At the crack of dawn he had heard Duncan leave, no doubt having gone to rouse his youngest charges and shepherding them off either to hunt or train for the day. Presumably Achilles is ensconced in his study, dealing with all manner of Brotherhood matters, or perhaps has decided to take advantage of the good weather to survey the property. Unable to avoid the infamous creaking step the teenager winces. Now that he is deemed capable of walking he anticipates a further interrogation from his mentor more than ever but, as much as he would like to get it over and done with, he'd prefer his fresh air first.
Upon passing the mentor's study without incident he is relieved, moving without delay into the warm sanctuary of the kitchen. With the exception of the dark basement, it is the most earthy of the manor's chambers, with its unclad stone walls, bare brick floor, and the various bunches of herbs and cuts of meat hanging from the ceiling. A large wooden table dominates the space, long benches presently tucked underneath it; most of their meals taking place in here. Its sizeable fireplace keeps the flames set back from the room and partially obscured by the metal grill, which itself is usually covered with an assortment of pots, pans or kettles. Unintentionally this makes it the least offensive to Connor's senses, to the extent that he barely notices it anymore, despite the fire being lit near constantly. This is the one room in which the teenager has always felt most at home, the closest any brick or stone colonial house comes to reminding him of his village.
Currently taking pride of place at this end of the kitchen table is a substantial metal bucket of bird-feed. Dobby lounges next to it, with her legs leisurely splayed out and elbows resting comfortably on the surface. Her mouth twitches up into a playfully sly smile as he enters. 'Morning, invalid. I'm getting the feeling that you might be wanting to skip breakfast in favour of a little fresh air today.'
'You know me too well.' Connor smiles back, leaning on the doorframe, supporting himself in what he hopes is a subtle manner. His enthusiasm for freedom is fast returning.
Springing up, in an entirely unladylike manner, she comes forward to formally present him with a long wooden stick in the same way as if she's offering a sword. 'Here; it'll keep you from putting too much weight on that foot of yours, and it'd make an excellent improvised weapon in a pinch.'
Not entirely convinced by her assurances Connor nevertheless accepts the proffered crutch, well aware that objection is futile and that he does need the extra support for the time being. During the brief struggle to readjust his balance yet again he hears the scrape of metal against wood as his companion retrieves the bucket from its resting place. Even if he wasn't currently handicapped she would have insisted on carrying it anyway. Without any further ado Dobby proceeds to lead the way to the back door. Both novices move slightly quicker than necessary, even though Abigail doesn't seem to be in any particular hurry to re-materialise from wherever she has disappeared off to in order to insist on his eating something before leaving.
Cold air blasts them as soon as the door opens, prompting the pair to cross the threshold quickly to keep from chilling the house. Duty to those still indoors discharged, Connor is quite content to pause right there on the steps for a while and drink it in. Everything feels fresher, clearer, out here as the horizon stretches back off into the far distance and the world expands around him once more. He is unspeakably glad to be liberated at last from the confines of that claustrophobic bedroom and back where he really belongs. No matter how accustomed he is to living here on the homestead, inside a brick building, or how much he has grown over the years to better appreciate the colonial way of life, he just can't cope with being deprived of the wide expanse of land, sea and sky.
Gull cries, the rustle of wind through the vegetation, distant sounds of the water in the bay below; every noise pure and unmuffled by a restricting pane of glass, soothing. A few thin patches of snow linger on the ground, presumably where the drifts had once been deepest, although the sky is now quite clear of clouds. Winter has not yet set in properly, but it will not hold off much longer. It will be some months before Braddock and his troops will be at all capable of launching their so-called expedition to the north, the weather of the coming season too unpredictable and temperamental to be conductive to a successful campaign. Fortunately for the pair of young Assassins the well-worn dirt track at their feet, which leads back towards the base of the valley, is quite clear and relatively dry. No trace of ice to twist another ankle on.
Breathing deep, the nervous tension in his stomach beginning to unknot, Connor takes the opportunity to look out towards the bay. He is disappointed to note the absence of a familiar tall mast that should be visible between the trees. Nothing particular had been mentioned to him of Faulkner or the Brotherhood's naval pursuits, indeed most subjects were summarily banned from his hearing in the name of letting him rest properly.
'The Aquila is at sea?'
'They're off having another look for any traces of that ship we lost when pursuing the Providence from England. Among other things.' With a shrug Dobby goes to take the steps down, only to find that there is a turkey all but standing on her feet. Caught off guard but not at all surprised by the overly friendly apparition she angles the bucket behind herself, trying to shoo him away with her free hand; 'No, Yusuf, not for you.'
Completely undeterred, the bird waddles closer, cosying up to her on the vague chance that a handful of the feed mixture might come his way. Infrequently indulged by some, he is always ready to try his lot with anyone, much to the bemusement of visitors. Several rounds of shooing are required before Yusuf is convinced to give up, wandering off begrudgingly in search of more generous company, possibly plotting revenge. On previous occasions the bird has rushed bucket-bearers, causing them to dump whole loads of feed onto the floor, much to the delight of the nearby wildlife. Well aware of that risk, Dobby watches until the last of his tail-feathers has disappeared around the corner of the building before finally descending the steps.
Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [12.5/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-08-14 10:58 pm (UTC)(link)'A week ago, maybe two?' She shrugs. 'They were going to head down the coast to New York, taking some extra supplies to Tallmadge and the other local Assassins.'
'Oh?' He has a bad feeling that those supplies will be more weapon than food.
'Everyone's already preparing for the worst, getting things in place and digging in as best they can before Spring comes.' Her expression noticeably darkens as she speaks, the implications of what the warmer months of the new year will bring already obvious to them both. Glancing sideways at him, something else creeps into her tone. 'Do you think it'll come to that?'
Instinctively he goes a little rigid at the question, this sudden tension causing stiff muscles to lock up and forcing him to halt in his step. Whilst it is an innocent enough speculation, this feels rather like the opening shot of a new bout of interrogation. Besides that it strikes a nerve, this same question something he has been asking himself in darker hours of the night. Because sooner or later there will have to be a fight, the Templar threat will have to be dealt with. Any influence or presence in the colony is something they simply cannot allow. Regardless of what he may or may not feel about Haytham, the fact remains that their ideologies and goals are essentially incompatible. Really it is just a matter of who goes on the offensive first.
Gritting his teeth and getting back into stride, Connor avoids looking at the other novice as he quickly paces past her. He doesn't want to think about this, his quick reply honest but exasperated. 'I do not know.'
'The mission didn't go too well then?' She catches up without too much effort, able to keep pace with him at the best of times as she is.
'Yes. And no.' Sensing that this isn't a good enough answer he elaborates further for the sake of peace. 'More questions were raised than were answered.'
'That's to be expected, you spent a fair amount of time with the man after all. And, transparent as some of those lower level Templar footsoldiers can be, this is a grandmaster you were dealing with. You got the information you were sent for?'
He nods slowly; that, and more.
'Then I'd call that pretty successful.' She smiles, giving him a clap on the back. 'We're still learning, remember.'
On that note their destination comes into view. Pushing his luck, assuming his friend won't feel the need to trip and stop him, Connor puts on a slight burst of speed in order to hobble ahead, aiming for just a few seconds to himself. Situated downhill from the main manor and set amidst a thickish clump of trees, the spot is meant to go unnoticed by any unfriendly eyes. Many important notes pass to and from the coop, with about as much of their mentor's correspondence arriving with the birds as it does by horse or sea. It's a tall, hexagonal structure of durable wood that is both bleached from years of sun and stained from years of pigeon droppings. Raised off the ground, the birds are kept out of reach of predators and prying young novices alike.
A number of the pigeons are already out, hopping about on the bare branches, basking in the sunlight, or pecking hopefully away at the hard ground. Others are doubtlessly tucked away in the warmth of the coop, content to rest in their pigeonholes until their feed arrives. Those nearest as the teenager moves into the little clearing hop away a little, making way, somewhat nervous of his strange gait and stick. They nevertheless recognise him, one of the perched birds flapping over in order to fulfil its commission. Removing the tight roll of paper from the thin leg is tricky enough at the best of times, but when the bucket sets down with a clang the little messenger starts getting rather impatient. Eventually the exchange is completed and another pigeon happily sets about eating its fill of corn.
Together they carefully check the remaining birds for anything else, aware of how vital it is not to miss any messages that could well be of an urgent nature. Only one more note turns up in the small flock, which Dobby gets the pleasure of having to retrieve from a particularly stubborn pigeon. After triple-checking, once certain there isn't anything they've missed, the older novice collects the bucket and holds out a hand for the other roll of paper.
Barely five steps into the walk back however she sighs loudly, a brief warning that puts him quickly on guard. Here comes what he's been waiting for. 'Don't think I don't know something's wrong Connor.'
Knowing full well exactly what she's getting at he decides to try feigning ignorance, in the vague hope of stalling the conversation out until they get inside and he can possibly put a door between them. 'I have disliked being shut in for so long, that is all. It has been suffocating me, day after day of staring at the same four walls.'
'Have you tried staring at the ceiling?' Her face stays entirely straight, tone deadpanning. For a moment it almost seems to have worked, that she's indulging him at the very least, and then the clear look of concern returns as she shakes her head. 'Look, none of us are blind. You've been edgy since Southgate, and now you're worse, almost as if you expect someone to jump out and knife you in the back any second. But I saw how you were in Lexington, with him-'
'I slept on the floor.'
It's out before he thinks, panicking, lying, reacting to an accusation she hasn't even made yet and no doubt condemning himself with it. After all this time, having built this scenario up in his head so much and having thought it over again and again, he's instinctively gone straight on the defensive, and gone much too far. Of the various ways the teenager had pictured this conversation going premature denial hadn't been quite what he'd been expecting to end up coming out with. One inquiry from Dobby and he's exposed himself; suddenly all those days of silence and anticipation make sense, Achilles could probably have cracked him with just a look.
His immediate instinct is to bolt, or at least do the best he can to that effect, but the other novice has already stopped dead in her tracks, latching onto his nearest sleeve and pulling him back. It's probably better to deal with it now, he guesses, to do his best to correct the slip before she can tell their mentor. Tight hold unloosening she moves round, blocking his path and levelling a long, piercing look at him. Able to hold eye-contact at least, Connor braces himself for the inevitable.
'So,' she breathes deeply, 'you didn't spend the entire night awake in order to watch the Templar, on the off chance he might give you the slip or just try and kill you?'
This apparent calmness is disquieting, not least because he has a good feel for the explosive rage that could well be simmering beneath her surface right now. Wary of saying almost anything, overly conscious of making further slips, he opts just to answer the question. 'I... No.'
'Shit.' Quiet but vehement, the word sums up both their current feelings pretty well. She runs a hand over her face, letting the tense moments drag by before making the accusation; 'He's started to win you over, hasn't he?'
Connor objects forcefully. 'He needs to trust me for this to work, and to think that I trust him-'
'But you're trying so hard to convince him that you're beginning to convince yourself.' Cutting him off she accurately fills in the blanks, looking about as happy as he feels. 'I knew it was a bad idea to let you get involved like this. Infiltrating a fort is one thing, but trying to out-manipulate an experienced Templar...'
'It is not like that, I know what I am doing-'
'Really? Then why are you so guilty?' It's practically snarled at him, as she finally puts her finger on the word she's been missing all this time. They both know he doesn't have a good answer to that, or at least suspect it. After a moment though the older novice seems to reconsider things, her expression and tone softening but carrying the same decisiveness as before; 'He's playing games with you.'
'No.' The strength and speed of his denial do not weigh well in his favour. Seeing this he quickly back-pedals, to pull together some sort of reasonable justification for such a reaction. 'He does not know what I am, and there is no reason for him to suspect it.'
Pulling in a deep breath Dobby reaches forward, grabbing his shoulders as if to shake him. 'Listen to me Connor; he's a Templar, a grandmaster to boot. They manipulate people; it's what they do, it's what they've always done. If he's anywhere near the sort of threat the old man and the Brotherhood back in England all think he is then he could well have figured it out already. And even if he hasn't, he is still trying to use you. Think about it; everything he's doing is to further his own cause, the Templar cause. You can't trust him.'
'I know!' He wrenches himself from her grasp, the burst of anger directed as much at himself as it is at her. While he knows he can't, mustn't, trust Haytham at all there is an increasing part of him that truly wants to do just that.
And yet... what she says strikes a nerve, exposing an idea he hasn't even considered before. Haytham wants information, that was the whole reasoning behind the Templar raid on Southgate; freeing the captives in an effort to earn their trust, gaining the right to answers that would otherwise be denied to outsiders. Yes, the man had sought him out specifically, but he was the obvious choice. They had spoken, the initial connected was already forged. When he had shown reluctance to offer all that he knew with regards to the artefact and the location of the temple the grandmaster had been keen to do whatever he could to earn his full trust. Proposing the removal of General Braddock was the obvious course of action, one that could only improve the opinions of the rest of Connor's people as well, something tangible that benefitted all involved. However, there was always another, faster and potentially easier way to establish a deep level of trust between them; the very same tactic that the teenager has ostensibly been using himself.
Nothing breeds trust like intimacy; be it emotional, physical, or, preferably, both.
A sick feeling is growing within him. Of course it was convincing, a grandmaster is going to be experienced with deceiving people. Of course a Templar would go so far in the pursuit of power and those damned remnants of Eden, if there was some extra gratification or pleasure to be gained in the process, then so much the better. Of course the man's aura had changed to a reassuring blue, that sixth sense draws as much on his own personal perceptions as it does on an extra instinct. Everything makes a disturbing amount of sense this way, he was just too caught up in his guilt, his desire and his efforts to be convincing to simply stop and think it through. Even if Haytham doesn't know he's an Assassin everything could easily have been an act, part of his plan and nothing more.
He doesn't want to believe that, any of it. But if his justification for his own actions comes down to the same thing then how can he dismiss the possibility?
'Connor?' He becomes aware of a hand rubbing his back in a reassuring motion, Dobby having drawn closer when his frustration transitioned to dejection. Quietly but urgently she talks; 'It's all right. You're remembering now, that the important thing.'
'It was just confusing, trying to gain his confidence and pretending not to know what he was all the time.' Managing to pick his way delicately around the subject, he explains himself yet still withholds the real sources of his recent confusion and concern. That doesn't stop him saying a little more than strictly wise though. 'He does not seem evil, Dobby. Dangerous, but not evil.'
'Be that as it may, he's still the enemy. You just need to un-confuse yourself a bit more and it'll all be back in perspective.' Giving him one last, solid pat on the shoulder she starts off towards the house, purposefully walking backwards in an effort to dispel the remaining tension in the air. 'Come on, I'm sure your breakfast is already waiting.'
Appreciating the effort Connor pushes his turmoil of thoughts to one side, getting easily back into stride and pursuing his friend up the hill at a pace that wouldn't be deemed especially beneficial. What with her unfair advantage, and having switched to running forwards halfway, she beats him. To add insult to injury she also takes the steps in a single bound. Holding open the door in an exaggerated demonstration of chivalry the woman offers him a sympathetic smile, one last acknowledgement of the rather stressful conversation. Once he's through she dumps the bucket and theatrically shoos him in the direction of the kitchen, pulling out the messages by way of explanation when she turns towards the study instead.
Whilst Abigail is still elsewhere some water and a plate of food has appeared on the table in their absence. Not remotely hungry anymore, he nevertheless gratefully sinks onto the inviting stool that has been placed out for him. Exercise has convinced him that he's in need of some more rest now, in spite of all those days begrudging it. Muscles ache again, as does his heart. Just because he has been developing feelings for Haytham doesn't mean that the man has been doing the same. So his state of relative compromise might ultimately have proven a worse error than he'd feared, it still might. Going to Boston suddenly seems a serious risk again. He is torn.
Returning pretty quickly, his fellow novice smoothly swipes a chunk of his breakfast before settling down opposite him, elbows up on the table. Despite all of Abigail's best efforts the finer points of dining etiquette are still as lost on her as they had been the day she came off the streets of New York. As soon as that first morsel is finished she starts eyeing his plate with renewed interest, grinning when he gives up any pretence of wanting it and pushing it across to her. She is never one to let good food go to waste. Together they sit in a mostly companionable silence, her preoccupied with disposing of the evidence of their transfer and him sipping at the water, consumed by his thoughts. However their ears soon prick up at the sound of heavy footsteps traversing the hallway. The plate is back in front of Connor in a second, whilst his stomach twists with a familiar feeling of anticipation and expectation.
Achilles holds an unfolded letter in one hand, the writing indistinct from this distance, and with the other he beckons, his expression impassive. 'I believe it is time we continued our talk.'
Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [12.5/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-08-14 11:56 pm (UTC)(link)Believe it or not, the relative quietness of this chapter really works and you've done a great job of expressing Connor's anxiety, and it makes me super nervous because Achilles must have guessed that Connor did *something* he wasn't supposed to. I love Dobby's reactions and the tensions arising with the rest of the Brotherhood, even though we don't see them we get a good taste of how everybody is being affected.
*crosses fingers and hopes that Connor can somehow use his relationship with Haytham to make the conflict between order and brotherhood less bloody, and that Achilles won't be really really mad at Connor*
Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [12.5/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-08-15 01:10 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [12.5/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-08-15 02:23 pm (UTC)(link)So happy to see you still updating this amazing story!
Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [12.5/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-08-15 11:00 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [12.5/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-08-25 05:55 pm (UTC)(link)Lots of kudos to you, writer!anon - we really appreciate your efforts <3