Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

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Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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Fill: Every hour God sends, part 10a

[(Anonymous)]

a/n: Nice long chapter today. Shit just got real ;). Auth anon apologizes in advance for evil cliffie.



One time, Enoch is caught by one of Menrva's people before he reaches her. The man who grabs him is tall and slender, with golden eyes and a head full of golden curls.

“You are Abel's nephew,” the man says knowingly, his hands strong and hard on Enoch's shoulders. Enoch struggles, but the man only tightens his hold.

“Calm down boy, lest you alert the guards. I am not going to hurt you,” the man says. Enoch slowly allows himself to relax, and the man lets go of his shoulders. “But there are others who would. You must not keep coming to the city looking as you do,” the man says.

The tall man offers him the white robes of a slave. “To blend in,” the man says. Enoch looks at them with disgust, but puts them on anyway and pulls the hood up to cover his face before he leaves in search of Menrva.



~ ~ ~ ~


Connor is not surprised when Myriam takes flight, and he can even sympathise a bit, although he does feel bad for his friend Norris. Myriam is much like the cougars that she hunts; smart, fiercely independent and proud. Not to mention quick – were it not for the water's edge, Connor is sure that Myriam would have evaded him entirely. When he finally catches up to her, he is actually out of breath.

“I am no housewife,” Myriam says. “I don't know what he expects from me, I don't --”

Her concerns are groundless though, and Connor interrupts her to tell her so.

“Norris loves you for who you are,” Connor reminds her, brushing a stray hair out of her face. “Not this person you think you must become.”

Myriam's once pristine dress is a little stained by earth and bark from the chase, most of the flowers that had been set in her hair are gone, her cheeks are flushed and her hair is falling out of place. Connor gathers some wildflowers to replace the ones that have fallen out of Myriam's hair, and she smiles at him, gathering a few flowers herself. She sorts them into a little bouquet to replace the one she destroyed, and Connor thinks that she looks a little wild, and absolutely perfect. She is ready to be married, he thinks. Now he only had to retrieve the old man, and they could join the others at the chapel. Connor is sure that Norris is probably getting a little concerned.

When they return to the manor house to find Achilles, the old man is nowhere in sight. Connor checks upstairs (where he leaves Myriam in the guest room to re-adjust her hair, and makes her promise on her honor that she will not run again) and on the balcony, before resigning himself to the fact that Achilles is most likely in the hidden assassin's headquarters. Sure enough, the gas lamp is not quite in the same position as it was this morning when he checks it. Connor tilts the gas lamp a little further, just enough to open the secret door, and closes it most of the way behind him, just in case Myriam does not take his words to heart and decides to do a little exploring.

Achilles is bent over the desk, an old book sitting unopened in front of him. The book is fairly large, bound with artfully tooled calfskin, and has what appears to be brass clasps holding it closed.

“Connor,” Achilles says, turning around to regard him. He runs a critical eye over Connor's attire, pronounces it 'acceptable', and then turns his attention back to the book in front of him.

Connor thinks he looks better than 'acceptable', but says nothing. He had picked out his darkest Continental army pants and jacket, his hair was pulled back with a red tie, and he wore a white linen shirt with a silk cravat instead of his normal military shirt. It was about as dressed up as he has ever been, and he thought he looked pretty good. His various instruments of death were all still in their right places, the only exception being his bow and quiver, as they were rather awkward to carry. Plus, he expected that Myriam might not appreciate being poked with it as he escorted her down the aisle.

Considering Myriam and the wedding just reminds him how late they already were.

“We need to go to the church. Norris is probably getting concerned,” Connor reminds Achilles gently.

“Humor an old man for a minute, Connor. Weddings are always late in starting," Achilles huffs, "Come here, I would like to show you something,” the old man continues, motioning with his hand to the book before him.

Annoyed, but curious – Achilles rarely shows him anything new anymore – Connor approaches the desk. He runs a finger down the spine of the book before him, the cover of which is artfully tooled with geometric shapes. There looks as if there might have been some gold leaf applied to some of the designs at some point, but most of it has worn away with time. The book smells of old leather, and the pages are yellowed with age.

Connor carefully releases the clasps, and allows the book to fall open. On the first page, there are a few simple sketches of people – mostly young men – and some notes in a language that Connor does not understand. He turns the page, a little confused as to why Achilles insisted that he see this book at this particular moment in time. There is another sketch, but this one is more interesting, as it appears to depict the inner workings of an assassin's hidden blade.

“Be careful when turning the pages,” Achilles warns him, “this book is very old and one of the greatest treasures held by the brotherhood.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You are looking at the personal journal of Leonardo DaVinci,” Achilles responds, a quiet reverence to his voice that is unexpected.

“Was this DaVinci an assassin?” Connor asks as he turns another page and sees yet another design for a hidden blade, one with an attached barrel that could be nothing other than a pistol. Fascinating.

“No, but he was a great friend to the order," Achilles answers him. "DaVinci was an artist, an inventor, and a powerful ally to one of your ancestors. His mind was unparalleled at the time, and remains so, even to this day.”

Connor turns another page. Each page contains an elaborate design for an invention. When he reaches the page with the flying machine, he pauses for a moment, wondering to himself if this DaVinci was quite as smart as Achilles thought he was. After all, Lance did build the flying machine based off of this DaVinci's design, and Connor had had the dubious honors of testing it over the lake. All it had gotten him was wet.

“This DaVinci was a friend to one of my ancestors?” Connor asks curiously, turning the page again. And that is where he completely halts, one hand rested against the table, the other carefully tracing the lines of the sketch in front of him. The sketch is of a man in his mid to late forties, with dark eyes, strong features, and a short salt and pepper beard. The man is wearing what looks like assassin's robes. It appears to be a candid sketch, as the man is not posing. Instead, the man just seems to be sitting casually on a bench, one gloved hand folded over the other. The man's expression is unguarded; his eyes and mouth lined with more frowns than smiles, dark eyes deeply contemplative. Connor brushes a finger tip against the man's upper lip where he has a scar in the exact same place as...

...”Mario,” Connor says aloud. “This man looks as if he could be Mario's father... or perhaps even Desmond's father,” Connor continues, pointing the sketch out to Achilles.

Achilles offers him a rare smile.

“That is your ancestor, Connor. His name was Ezio Auditore, and he was one of the finest assassins the brotherhood has ever produced.”

Connor backs away from the book with a frown. There was purpose to Achilles showing him this, there is always purpose in everything his mentor does.

“Why are you showing me this now?” Connor asks.

Achilles sighs, rests one hand on his cane, the other on Connor's shoulder, and gives the younger assassin a disappointed look. Somehow, Connor has let his mentor down and he doesn't even know how.

“I just thought you might be... curious.”

“I am curious!” Connor insists. “ You will have to tell me stories of his deeds when we are not extremely late for something else.”

Achilles shakes his head and walks away.

~ ~ ~ ~

The wedding is late in getting started, of which Desmond completely expects, but he nevertheless feels a bit bad for Norris, standing in front of Father Timothy, his hat off and hair combed and wearing his absolutely best and cleanest clothing, and fidgeting with his neck cravat.

Desmond subconsciously tugs at his own. He always thought that neck-ties were nothing but nooses probably invented by templars (along with women's bras – although that was more Rebecca's theory) as a subtle way of subjugating by way of strangulation the whole middle class. But neck-ties had nothing on the overly feminine and puffy silk cravats that all of the men present at the wedding (including Desmond) were wearing. Between the thigh high stockings, the silly hat, the cravat, the knee length breeches and the shiny buckles on his shoes, Desmond feels like he's having an out of body experience. All he needed was a goofy powdered wig, and he'd be all set to be a tour guide on Boston's Freedom Trail.

He wondered briefly if there was a different version of himself in a different future sitting in an animus, reliving this wedding, and if so what future Desmond thought of it all before deciding that the whole train of thought was too fucked up and meta and thinking about that shit was a good way to give oneself an aneurism.

Ezio sits besides him, at the edge of the pew, easily inhabiting his 18th century clothing as if he has worn such clothing all his life. It's amazing how relaxed he is, how much he blends in without even trying, whereas Desmond feels that no matter what he wears or what he says, all he does is stand out.

“The bride is late to her own wedding,” Benjamin Tallmadge mutters from behind them, stating the obvious, and yeah, poor Norris is starting to pace back and forth, and is looking more than a bit panicked. Even Father Timothy is shaking his head. The low whisper going through the assembled homesteaders certainly doesn't help the situation at all.

Lyle is sifting through his man purse of medieval torture devices, probably looking for something toxic to tranquilize poor Norris with, when the door to the church finally opens. Achilles enters first and takes a seat in the back pew, and then Connor enters with Myriam on his arm. Myriam looks beautiful, if a little nervous, and then everyone is on their feet. Desmond is actually looking forward to the wedding, since the wedding itself was not part of the memory sequence in the animus; just Myriam's little moment of cold-feet, and the reception afterwards.

He enthusiasm drains about 40 minutes later when Father Timothy is still talking, and no vows have been exchanged. Desmond is in hell, and hell is a 18th century stuffy Catholic church with poor ventilation and a lot of people who need deodorant like one needs air to breath. Desmond is uncomfortable and twitching, in stark contrast to Ezio, who stands, sits, and kneels at all the correct times without prompting. Ezio even repeats the word to every Latin prayer, and is bizarrely one of the first in line to receive communion when it is offered.

“Dude, you don't actually believe in this shit, do you?” Desmond questions in Ezio's ear when the Italian returns from communion. Ezio kneels beside him in prayer, and doesn't answer Desmond's question until he's done, blessing himself with the sign of the cross before scooting back in the pew. The whole sight is surreal to Desmond. It's just... for someone who was the bane of the Vatican for decades, Desmond didn't really think that the man had much use for religion, or the politics involved.

“Jesus was a great and wise teacher, and a good man,” Ezio answers eventually. “His words were sound and noble. It is the men who came after who twisted his message for profit and evil.”

It sounds too much like the alternate future that Minerva showed him, if he had just walked away from the tree, and Desmond does not quite repress the shudder that travels through him. Freaking hell, how many times has this story been played out? Was Jesus just another pawn, just like them?

“But do you believe in God?” Desmond presses quietly after a moment. The question is important, but he has no idea why. It isn't as if he himself is a believer. He's seen way too much shit for that.

“I don't know what I believe,” Ezio finally admits with a sigh. “I know that I have been witness to a number of both beautiful and terrible things. I have to have faith that there is meaning to all of this, to every life that I have taken and to the others I have saved.”

Ezio grabs his hand, squeezes it once before letting it drop. “I have faith in the creed, in our mission and in you, Desmond Miles. I think, for now, that is enough.”

On that, Desmond agrees.