asscreedkinkmeme | Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

AU after sequence 10. Connor runs off to save his village and basically tells Haytham to fuck off, their alliance is done, ect.

What he doesn't expect to find out a few months later is that his father has apparently quit the templars and is dying a slow, mortal death at the hands of a disease (smallpox? cancer? the flu? pnemonia? anything could have killed you in those days), and wishes to spend the last of his days with his son, who isn't quite sure how he feels about this recent development...

No incest, please.

(I changed the circumstances of Connor finding out a bit, hope that's okay with you OP!)
Lightning cracked across the sky, briefly illuminating the forms of six red-coated men and a lone assassin. Thunder rumbled and the rains poured down, running in rivulets off the men's hats and down their faces. The road had been reduced to a swamp of mud, and Connor's robes were more brown than white.

One of the redcoats charged forward, and Connor hooked the soldier's rifle with his tomahawk, twisting the intended blow aside before stabbing the man in the neck with the hidden blade he extended from his other wrist. The man fell, his dying groans drowned out by the thunder and cracks of lightning.

Connor had been on his way home to Davenport, after a trip to Boston to restock his armory with the latest weaponry and try to recruit more for the Brotherhood. The first mission had been successful, though the second had not. He had heard some odd rumors from various Assassin sympathizers, rumors that the leadership of the Templar Order had switched hands. He dismissed these as misinformation. His father would not give up the position to a rival so easily. The bastard was perhaps as stubborn as Connor himself, and twice as scheming. It had threatened rain all day, and as night drew close he had spurred his horse faster, eager to be home and out of the weather.

He had had the misfortune of running into a unit of redcoats whose leader had clearly recognized Connor, as he had tried to ride subtly by them. One of the had, by sheer luck or skill, managed to hook his arm around Connor's leg and yank him to the ground before he could gallop off. The ensuing fight had dragged on, though the leader of the redcoats was now dead, along with several of the others.

The storm had only energized him, filling him with a wild sort of energy. He had felt in tune with the world, with each strike of lightning and each strike of his blades. He was a force of nature all on his own, unforgiving and brutal.

But he was tiring. The redcoats fared worse, but the fight had dragged on far too long. His horse had fled, frightened by the storm and the clash of weapons, and his attempts to run away on foot had been routed.
Another redcoat down, but his comrade got a blow in on Connor's shoulder, the sharp bayonet slicing through the thick fabric of Connor's uniform, to meet the flesh beneath. Connor bared his teeth and swung at the man, slashed him across the chest with his tomahawk. The redcoat staggered, but did not fall.

The sounds of hoofbeats on the road was muffled by the rain and thunder, but still audible in Connor's sharp senses. He tensed, long before the redcoats became aware of the sound, fearing reinforcements, but not turning his attention from the fight.

A horse materialized out of the downpour, galloping past the redcoats. There was a flash of metal, and there were only three redcoats for Connor to contend with. The fourth was lying on the road, his throat slashed by a blade. The horse and its dark-cloaked rider wheeled, riding back to run into the soldiers. The rider jumped off, easily finishing off another redcoat.

The remaining two froze, staring at the man who had appeared to help the assassin. Seemingly without any communication between them, they turned and fled. The familiar dark-cloaked man jumped back onto his horse, and went in pursuit. A few minutes later he returned, and Connor had no doubt that the soldiers would never make it home.

"Haytham," he called, having to shout above the thunder. "I said I have nothing more to say to you. I did not need your assistance."

"I suppose gratitude is too much to answer," the Templar grandmaster said, swinging himself down from the saddle. He leaned down to wipe his sword and hidden blades on the coat of a dead redcoat. "You didn't seem to be faring well in that fight."

"I have nothing to thank you for, and far more reason to kill you," Connor replied, half of him wishing his father would ride back off. As much as he loathed the man, he didn't want to kill him. Achilles had accused him of naïve attachment, much the sentiment that rung in Haytham's accusations as well, but he could kill him if it was needed. He knew that now.

It would merely not be the most pleasant mission.

"What is your purpose for coming here?" he continued. They were only a few miles from Davenport, and it made him uneasy a Templar would appear so close to the last safe harbor remaining to him. After the misunderstanding, his village only seemed to echo accusations and betrayal, even if many of his people had forgiven him. He would never forgive himself.

He had expected his father to have a quick answer, but instead there was only silence. He heard his father draw a breath, in the silence between a clap of thunder and a strike of lightning, and seem to struggle over his answer.

"I have come to... discuss things," Haytham said stiffly, clasping his hands behind his back. "Perhaps we can get out of this rain, and speak properly." His father's tone was crisp, but beneath his characteristic smug confidence there was something... hesitant almost.

"As I said, there is nothing more to discuss. I suggest you return to your associates," Connor's tone was cold. "You have made it evident that no unity can exist between the Assassins and the Templars."

Again, Haytham seemed to pause before answering. Finally he said, so softly that if it weren't for Connor's keen senses it would have been drowned by the rain "I am not longer the leader of the Order, nor a Templar."

For a minute the silence was filled only by the distant claps of thunder and the steady rainfall. Connor stared at Haytham, at first not even considering believing the man's outrageous statement. Did Haytham think he was stupid? When they had worked together he had often accused him of being naïve... but not so naïve as to expect that Haytham would ever see the error of his ways. Haytham was the one who had tried to sway Connor to his side.

The rumors he had heard, mere whispers, appeared at the front of his mind. He had dismissed those just as easily as his father's claims, but combined... No.

"Do you really think me stupid enough to believe that?" Connor said, his temper flaring. Haytham did nothing but lie to him, but this... This wasn't even clever.

Haytham regarded him contemptuously. "Do you think I am so bereft of wits to use a ploy so unconvincingly? You may lack in reason, but I would never stroll into enemy grounds with so flimsy an excuse."

"You expect me to take that as the truth, then?" Connor's hand moved to the hilt of his sword. "That you turned against the Templars?" His words were bitter. Perhaps... perhaps he had half harbored that hope, when he had been working with Haytham. He had wanted the two organizations to at least have a temporary truce for the duration of the war, and some glimmer of hope had told him perhaps they would find common ground from that, and the Templars and Assassins could cease this conflict and work together. It had been hopelessly, brutally naïve. His father's actions and ideology had shown him clearly why there could never be such and alliance, just as Achilles had said it would.

"No," Haytham replied. The word was flat. "I still believe that the Assassins are misguided anarchists, and that the Templars must and will prevail, to bring peace and prosperity to the world." He hesitated, seeming to find the next words distasteful. "I... merely... cannot help further their cause. So I have resigned."

"Resigned? Willingly?" Connor said, suspicious. Perhaps Charles Lee had made a bid for power within the Templar Order, now that his hopes of power over the Continental army had been dashed. As much as he hated that man, he would never help his father regain power. Working with him only gave Haytham more chance to try to bend Connor to his will.

"Yes," Again, Haytham seemed to have difficulty saying the word.

"Why should I believe you?" Connor demanded. "You have done nothing but manipulate me. It's a poor time to expect me to trust you. And if you are truly no longer a Templar, then why have you come here?" His expression dared his father to lie, to say he hoped for some reconciliation between them. Whatever hope he had held of that Haytham had effectively disillusioned.

Haytham tried to answer, but his words were broken off by coughing. It was a painful, wracking sound that made Connor flinch. He watched, confused, as Haytham bent almost double, coughing into a white cloth he had produced from his coat. When the spasm finished and he straightened, Connor caught a glimpse of crimson red staining the cloth.

Haytham was sick. Suddenly Connor could see what he hadn't noticed before, the cracks in the Templar's impervious facade. The slight unsteadiness in his stance, and the slight raspy edge to his voice. Could it really be so severe as to force his father to resign? He had killed the redcoats with ease.

"Explain," Connor said harshly, his eyes narrowing.

Haytham took a step forward, to make some point or perhaps see Connor's expression more clearly through the rain, but stumbled. He quickly found his balance against, straightening and folders his hands behind his back in that posture of perfectly composed arrogance that ground on Connor's nerves, but nothing was lost to Connor's observation. His ability to see every detail of what happened around him was crucial to survival, and had been honed all his life.

Haytham was sick and unsteady. He was still dangerous, but Connor felt confident he could win in a fight. Then what reason would his father have for coming out here, out to enemy territory in a weakened condition?

"As I said," Haytham held up his hands. "I wish only to talk." He glanced up the road. "As this road becomes less hospitable by the minute, I suggest we do so in more pleasant location."

A location such as the Davenport estate. Connor bristled at the thought of exposing his last sanctuary to this man, but then considered. If his judgment was sound, Haytham was at a disadvantage if they fought. And as much as he would deny it to his last breath, a small part of him still clung to the notion that perhaps, perhaps his father was redeemable. It was a shameful, idealistic notion that should have been thoroughly crushed, but still contained a spark of life.

"I will not harm you or any of those under your protection," Haytham said, his tone steady. "For as long as you extend your hospitality to me."

"How am I to trust the word of a Templar?" Connor said, holding Haytham's gaze.

"Maybe you can't. But... perhaps," Haytham looked away. There was a strange note to his voice. "Perhaps you can trust the word of your father."
(Sorry this is moving so slowly. I hope you like it!)

I am loving this! Can't wait for more.

This is nice Anon, i can't wait to read the rest.

Whoa, love this. More please?

Connor's suspicions guttered at these words, like a candle in the wind. He cursed himself for how easily he could be baited and manipulated with these rare words that indicated affection for this father, but... He wanted to hear what he had to say. He didn't trust him, but he didn't believe Haytham was there to kill him, or he would have made his move.

Achilles had gone to stay in Boston for a week or two, saying tha he had some business to attend to before... but he was just being pessimistic. That had to be it. Achilles was a strong old man, with years left to him yet. His recruits were scattered around the colonies, on missions or on leave in their home cities. There was no one at the homestead that Haytham had reason to threaten, and Connor didn't think it would be characteristic of him to kill the other tenants, who had nothing to do with the Assassins and their goals.

Connor wanted answers to the questions that his father's arrival brought.

And perhaps he could manuever some information on the whereabouts of Charles Lee out of his father. Templar or not, he knew the men were friends.

"I will allow you to come to my homestead to talk," Connor said. "But only if you are unarmed." He held out a hand for Haytham's weapons.

Haytham looked like he was going to protest, but thought better of it. He bowed his head in acquiescence and started to unbuckle his sword sheathe from his belt. He handed over the sheathed sword, then his pistol, and finally his hidden blade. The contraptions took time to unbuckle from his wrists. When Connor took them he noticed one still bore the rusted and broken insignia of an assassin- loot taken from the dead, no doubt. He ignored the chill this brought, and shoved the weapons into a pocket on the inside of his coat. The sword and pistol he tucked into his belt.

"You know I could have many more weapons hidden, which you wouldn't find even if you searched," Haytham's lips curled up into a small, mockingly contemptuous smile. "If you are trusting me on the basis of helplessness, you're an idiot."

"You're in no condition to fight me and win," Connor growled.

His father was an expert at getting under his skin, provoking him at every turn. Yet he had only gotten Haytham truly angry once- that night, hunting Benjamin Church, when they had paused on a rooftop and discussed the Templars and their motives. Now again Haytham's calm, arrogant demeanor slipped, and an expression of undiluted anger took its place.

"If you tested that," Haytham snarled. "I would kill you."

Connor shifted instinctively into a fighting stance, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. "You would try," he replied. "Try and fail."

He met Haytham's steely gaze, unwavering. There was a small part of him that wanted to concede, the same part that wanted to follow Haytham's orders when they had been hunting together. Perhaps it was merely how commanding his father could be, or some predisposition towards heeding the words of one's father. It wasn't an intelligent part of him, and he steadfastly ignored it.

After a moment Haytham broke the stare, his expression turning to weariness. "There is no point in fighting now."

Connor spun around, stalking back towards the Davenport lands. He through over his shoulder "Meet me at the homestead." The small victory of leaving Haytham behind would quickly be drown by the long walk in the rain to Davenport, without a horse and weighed down by extra weapons, but he had no doubt his horse was either dead or back in Achilles's stables already.

Behind him he heard footsteps and the squeak of stirrups as his father swung himself into the saddle. Connor heard the horse snort, then the steady beat of its hooves started down towards him. He expected Haytham and his mount to gallop past him, leaving him too struggle along in the mud, but Haytham reined his horse in beside Connor.

"This is foolish, boy," he called, holding out his hand. "If you walk, it'll take at least an hour to reach the homestead, and time neither of us wants to spend in the rain."

Connor stared at him for a minute, then shook his head and started off at again.

A minute later Haytham's horse galloped past him, splattering his already thoroughly soaked uniform with mud. He muttered curses under his breath and trudged on. It was a miserable trek up to the house, though the thunder died away to be replaced with winds that buffeted their way through the trees, blowing water into his face. He could be thankful he hadn't taken a ship back to Davenport, and be stuck in the storm.

But if he had taken a ship he would have been there already, and avoided it altogether most likely.

When finally he made it to the path leading up to the front steps of the Davenport estate, he was far too tired and hungry to want anything to do with his father. There was a lamp lit in the stables, and he could see Haytham's horse stabled beside the one that had fled in the storm.

Connor loped over to the stables. Haytham was waiting inside, where once Connor had spent two fitful nights, before the fight that had put him in Achilles's good graces and started him in his training under the man. He was leaning against the wall, his arms folded across his chest, looking cross.

"Good. I feared you had drowned," Haytham said when he saw Connor, straightening. The dim light of the lantern illuminated Haytham's features, and Connor noticed he was several shades too pale to be healthy, his skin almost the color of paper. His dark eyes glinted feverishly. All of this he himself seemed oblivious too, acting as caustic and irritating as usual once again.

"I don't need to horse just to navigate through mud," Connor said flatly, going over to unsaddle his errant horse. To his surprise his horse had already been unsaddled, and brushed, as had Haytham's. He glanced over at his father, but didn't draw attention to the odd action.

Haytham had resumed his former position, leaning against the stable wall.

"Let's go inside, then," Connor beckoned his father, walking back out into the storm.

Haytham looked up at the dark windows of the house as they approached it. "So your master is gone then, I presume."

"Yes," Connor said. "There are no other Assassins here for you to hunt."

"I have no intention of doing so," Haytham said, exasperation tinging his tone. Connor ignored the claim, unlocking the front door and pushing it open. Despite the refurbishment of the house, it was still drafty, and a week without anyone to light the hearth had left the house almost as cold as outside. He was surprised when Haytham didn't make some condescending remark somehow linking this to a failing of Connor's.

He turned to demand Haytham explain, but caught himself. As was infuriatingly characteristic, he barely looked muddied despite the ride through the storm, but as Connor had noted earlier he looked... worn. Ill.

It wasn't out of sympathy Connor said "We can talk in the morning. There are guest rooms upstairs." It was because he was tired as well, and not up to his father trying to turn him to the Templar cause, or trying to decipher which of Haytham's claims were truth.

Haytham looked startled, but then nodded. He didn't say anything, but for a moment Connor thought he saw gratitude reflected in his eyes.

So when does Haytham get to meet the people of the Homestead :D?

I'd love to see how they react to Connor's father, if you plan on including any of those characters.

I do! They'll be introduced soon.

As exhausted as he was, Haytham couldn't sleep.

There was constricting pain in his chest, like coil of sharp wire that seemed to tighten whenever he moved, whenever he breathed. He lay in the bed in the room Connor had shown him to, staring at the ceiling, willing sleep to come and steal him away from the pain, if only for a short time.

He had become complacent in his illness. Before this, he wouldn't have wanted to sleep. He would have kept his guard up, refused to sleep in the home territory of the enemy he had been fighting for so long. Now... now that enemy was his son, and his days were not so likely to end at an Assassin's blade, but a far more shameful, tortured death.

It was really rather tiresome.

Finally he gave up on any hope of sleep, sitting up and getting off of the bed. He had at least been wary enough to sleep in his clothes, minus the sodden cloaks and coat that hung downstairs to dry. He crept to the door, and slowly eased it open. After surveying the hall to make sure there was no one about, he padded out into the hallway.

The Davenport manor showed careful care, in every aspect of its furnishing. In a brief moment of foolish sentimentality he thought it rather reminded him of all things his son controlled. Whatever the boy's flaws, Haytham would not begrudge the fact that he put his utmost effort into whatever project came along. Be that repairing the tumbledown old manor that the Davenport homestead had once been, or hunting down every single on of Haytham's associates.

He really should have killed Davenport a long time ago. Perhaps if he had- but no, there was no time to bother with perhaps and recollections. He did not have the luxury of second-guessing his course, when now he had no time nor strength to alter it.

Haytham walked down the staircase, wary of every creak of the stairs. He reached for that sixth sense that had aided him since childhood, scanning the foyer below. There was a faint glow from a room to the right. He reached the base of the stairs and peered in for the source of the glow. Connor was slumped at the desk that stood in the center of the room, asleep over what looked like a trade ledger. Edging closer, Haytham could make out sums and stores recorded, as well as the goods sent.

A flicker of pride ignited in his chest, over this small symbol of sophistication. Ziio, or perhaps Davenport, had educated his son well. He preferred to think the former.

It was obvious Connor had tried to stay up to make sure Haytham didn't get into any important information. Haytham smiled wryly, and noted Connor was still in the soaked, mudstained clothes he had trudged all the way from Boston in. He shook his head, scanning the room before his eyes alighted on an old blanket, draped over a chair. He picked it up and tucked it lightly around Connor's shoulders, so the boy wouldn't take ill and die before Haytham. That would rather defeat his purpose to coming to the manor.

Still wide awake, Haytham explored the rest of the house. He found a candlebra that was affixed to the wall rather oddly, and was about to fiddle with it to try to ascertain its purpose, but when he reached up his fingers were trembling too hard to examine the fixture. The coils of iron around his chest seemed to pull tight, and he started to cough. He muffled the sound with his sleeve, but the coughing didn't cease.

He had to lean against the wall to support himself, his legs suddenly having failed their simple tasks of keeping him upright. Still he coughed, barely able to get a breath in, until he could taste the tang of iron in his mouth, and blood dripped from his lips.

For a delirious second he thought someone must have come up behind him and stabbed him in the back, for the agonizing pain that pulsed from his chest. How many time had he inflicted such injuries without a second thought, watching the blood bubble from his victims' mouths as they spoke their last? He had overcome the fear of that end long before. But this...

Suddenly someone was at his side. He could hear the questions in that harsh, demanding tone, even pick up the worry buried deep beneath the outwards spite, but understanding the words was beyond him. A fact which was deeply irritating, as he had always had a good grasp of linguistics...

He realized he was on his knees on the floor, still gasping, gasping like a man whose throat had been slit in two, and that familiar figure had a hold of his shoulders, shaking him, trying to ask him something. He stared into the boy's wide, dark eyes, and they reminded him of someone else, a long time ago. She had always chided him for foolishness, overconfidence. Arrogance... ruthlessness...

Lost in these thoughts he barely noticed the boy, flickering red and blue against the darkness closing in.

Ahh, that last sentence! Perfection.

I love this so much, even though it sometimes hurts to read it. Poor Haytham. :'(

Thank you! I'm glad you like it enough to be emotionally invested :D

This is lovely, anon! I can't wait to see more of it. :)

Thanks, I'll put more up soon!

i'll just
wait here then

Anon has me hooked.

Oh my goodness this is wonderful, more to come I hope?

nooooo!!! this should be continue. don't leave us hanging T_T

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

AU -- Haytham is dying of a disease

all that which I cannot say (should be clear to you) 1/?

all that which I cannot say (should be clear to you) 2/?

Re: all that which I cannot say (should be clear to you) 2/?

Re: all that which I cannot say (should be clear to you) 2/?

Re: all that which I cannot say (should be clear to you) 2/?

all that which I cannot say (should be clear to you) 3/?

Re: all that which I cannot say (should be clear to you) 3/?

Re: all that which I cannot say (should be clear to you) 3/?

all that which I cannot say (should be clear to you) 4/?

Re: all that which I cannot say (should be clear to you) 4/?

Re: all that which I cannot say (should be clear to you) 4/?

Re: all that which I cannot say (should be clear to you) 4/?

Re: all that which I cannot say (should be clear to you) 4/?

Re: all that which I cannot say (should be clear to you) 4/?

Re: all that which I cannot say (should be clear to you) 4/?

Re: all that which I cannot say (should be clear to you) 4/?

Re: all that which I cannot say (should be clear to you) 4/?