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

Entry tags:

assassin's creed

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
Fill Only

Join or Die

✩ Comment anonymously with a character/pairing and a kink/prompt.

✩ Comment is filled by another anonymous with fanfiction/art/or any other appropriate medium.

✩ One request per post, but fill the request as much as you want.

✩ The fill/request doesn't necessarily need to be smut.

✩ Don't flame, if you have nothing good to say, don't say anything.

✩ Have a question? Feel free to PM me.

✩ Last, but not least: HAVE FUN!

List of Kinks
Kink Meme Masterlist
New Kink Meme Masterlist
(Livejorunal) Archive
(Delicious.com) Archive
#2 (Livejournal) Archive
#2 (Delicious.com) Archive
(Dreamwidth) Archive <- Currently active
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Fills Only
Discussion

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Slender is a known legend during the colonial times (I know it's a meme, but let's just pretend? :D). Both the Assassins and the Templars find out he really exist and decide that supernatural bogey man who steals children and does who knows what with them are bad for both their respective ideals.

So they enter into a brief and grudging alliance to get rid of the creep who is going after helpless children. Except...well, Connor's still a teenager. Something nobody really thinks about because he acts and looks so mature. And everything goes to shit when he becomes the next victim.

I'm claiming! I've been wanting a slendy/creed crossover for ages. :D

Awesome! :D Bonus if you make me scared (slender has always scared the ever living daylights out of me).

Omg I need this so bad XD and having Slenderman as a known legend during that time is not as far fetched as you might think, considering the hessian mercenaries that came from Germany and Poland around that time, they would probably use said mythological creature as a scare tactic. (In Germany in the 1600's there were apparent sightings of a Slenderman like figure and the tales of him were used to keep children in line :P)

I thought that was the Pied Piper? Although...come to think of it, the Piper and the modern Slenderman share quite a few similarities. :) And totally creep me out, lol.

Uh, so I don't know how long this is going to be or how frequently I can update (I have several fills on the go), but here's the very first part.

I hope you guys are ready for all the Marble Hornets and EverymanHYBRID references that are coming up in later parts.

It had started as rumours, of a thing, a monster. It was a shadow, stalking children. Something that looked like a person but wasn't. A thing tied to trees and the rain and the darkness that lurks in every corner.

It was a myth, a bogeyman. A tale told to scare children into behaving. It wasn't really real. A mere story. A fable.

At least, that was how it had started.

Haytham stood still in the shadows, trying to get a good look at the thing in the corner of the alley. He had his hand on his pistol, ready to whip it up the second it tried to touch the child standing before it. He hated the thought of even a street urchin being in danger, but it was the only way he was going to get to examine the creature.

It looked to be perhaps eight or even nine foot tall, slim in figure. It wore black, with a white collar showing. He couldn't see the details of its outfit, but it appeared to be wearing a black tricorn and a white lace cravat. It was, like Haytham, shrouded in shadow, and he could not see whether it held a weapon, but there were black vines on the floor, suggesting some kind of cat o' nine tails.

In his second sight, the thing was did not glow red, nor blue, white or even gold. It looked exactly the same as in his normal sight, something he had never known to happen before. It was terrifying, but he steeled himself and forced himself to move his fingers. He could not let the child die due to his cowardice. He let his gaze wander upwards to the head, vainly hoping for a clue as to what it was and where it came from.

The worst thing about the creature was its face. It did not have one. Its skin was paler than even the whitest alabaster. Where the face ought to be was shaped in such a way that it may have been a statue whose nose, eyes and mouth had been carefully filed away. It did not even appear to have ears.

It cocked its head oh-so-slightly to one side, and took a step toward the terrified child.

He could not wait any longer. It did not look like some sort of First Civilisation survivor, though there were little other things it could be. In less than a second, his gun was aimed, and he pulled the trigger.

In that less than a second, the thing's attention was turned to him, and even as his finger drew back to spark the gunpowder, it lashed out at him with impossibly long appendages. Those vines on the floor had been its fingers. Arms. Tentacles.

Bollocks.

His neck was squeezed impossibly tightly and he was pulled forward, the tentacles smashing his head into the cobblestones and his vision blurred.

Somebody leapt from the rooftops, and took the child from the grasp of those unholy tentacles. He tried to tear the tendrils from his throat, but his fingers were clumsy from air deprivation, and his vision was starting to darken.

Panic took over, and as he struggled to breathe, his vision started darkening.

He was going to die.

This is SO awesome! *_* And creepy. I love it!

No worries about update schedule. Do as much as you feel comfortable with and at your own pace. :)

Hat's off to you anon. OP is looking forward to reading the next part whenever you are able to put it up.

Heee I know who this is, and I have to say your writing skills never cease to amaze me. I'm not brave enough to play Slender Man, and reading this sent a chill up my spine. I take it this story takes place before or after the tea party?

OP, I forgot to ask earlier...

But would you be all right if I snuck a little bit of light Haytham/Charles in here? I have a subplot bunny that's sunk it's claws in deep.

It's totally cool if you'd rather I didn't, I just thought I ought to ask first. I don't want to write a fill that's totally the opposite of what you wanted.

A little bit of Haytham/Charles sounds great (and is practically cannon, lol). :)

I apologise for the lack of horror and copious amounts of exposition here, but the story has to start somewhere.

Haytham opened his eyes. The room he was in was not his own, though he did feel a faint twinge of recognition. It was spacious, with pale walls and large, pretty windows. There was a door that appeared to lead onto a balcony on one side of the room, and another door which probably had more mundane purposes. There was a second bed on the other side of the room, and most of the furniture looked brand-new.

Haytham did the what any rightfully paranoid individual would do upon waking up in an unfamiliar location: take note of his inventory and check himself for injury. There were a few tender-feeling places on his head, arms and knees, where fresh bruises seemed to be; otherwise he was unharmed. He was almost fully-dressed, only missing his hat, boots and cloak.

Perhaps he had been sick? Surely he would remember that, besides, he did not feel ill at all.

He got up slowly and silently, to observe his surroundings. The room was strewn with objects he knew he owned- a jacket thrown over the back of an armchair, a pair of boots by the balcony door, a few weapons on the table in the corner. He glanced out of the windows, to see a familiar-looking bay, surrounded by cliffs and greenery. A ship was currently docked there, one he was sure he had seen before.

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Last Haytham remembered, it was late November in London. How could he possibly be in the Colonies? In early summer, no less?

He took a deep breath to calm himself. It would do no good to panic. Then, he gave the room another glance. Where had he seen it before?

…Oh.

It had been rather red, last time he had been here. And slightly more full of corpses.

The old Assassin Headquarters couldn't possibly be a Templar stronghold, could it? Granted, it had been… oh, fifteen years since the massacre of the Brotherhood, but he had thought that the Mentor- Achilles Davenport, wasn't it?- was still alive and well.

So how, then, had he been unconscious in the room Davenport's wife and child died in? How was it that his belongings were strewn around as though he'd lived there some time? Had he suffered amnesia of some kind?

The door opened, behind him, and he cursed himself for being so distracted by the questions raised by his surroundings. He whirled around, ready to grab one of the daggers lying on a table only metres away, only to see Charles standing in the doorway, steaming tray of tea in hand.

"Charles?" he managed. 'Surprised' was an understatement. What the devil was going on?

"Yes, Haytham?" Charles asked, taking a few steps forward, setting the tray on a dresser beside the door. "Are you all right?"

"No, I'm not," Haytham snapped. "I trust there's a damn good explanation for all of this?"

Charles stiffened slightly, and glanced up at him.

"For all of what?" he asked, clearly confused. How on earth could Charles be confused? If anybody here had the right to be confused, it was Haytham!

"Charles, the last thing I remember is being in London, in November," he said, urgently. "And now I seem to be in the old Colonial Assassin headquarters, in early summer, no less. Explain. Now."

Charles looked dumbstruck for a moment. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, and then closed it. Eventually he closed his eyes briefly, and met Haytham's gaze again.

"Before I can explain anything, I need to know how much you remember. How old are you?"

What kind of a question was that? Exactly how much time had elapsed between his last memory and now? What on earth had happened?

"I'm forty-six," Haytham said, after a moment. He studied Charles' expression intently. There was a flicker of sadness, and something that was either horror or panic, but as usual, the man was calm and collected in moments.

"You're forty-eight, sir," Charles said, carefully. "It's June, seventeen-seventy-three."

"What? That's impossible!" Haytham exclaimed. "A year and a half? How on earth did I lose so much of my memory?"

"I don't know how best to explain, sir." Charles poured two cups of tea, and handed one to Haytham. "I'll fill you in on the basics, and the others can explain the rest."

"The others? Johnson and Hickey?"

"We're in a temporary alliance with the Assassins, sir. The enemy of the enemy is a friend, I believe the saying goes."

An alliance? With the Brotherhood? This new enemy must be terribly powerful, then. Surely there would have been some sign of them before he'd left the Colonies? Haytham sipped at the tea gingerly. Perhaps this was some kind of trap.

"What enemy?"

"I…" Charles began. He paused, rubbed his eyes, and took a long draught of tea. "I can't explain it thoroughly enough. I've never seen it. Your son would know more than I do."

Haytham gritted his teeth. This was getting ridiculous.

"Charles, I have no children."

Charles looked surprised a moment, then poured himself a second cupful of tea.

"That you know of," he said. "Do you remember that Native woman?"

"Ziio? Of course," Haytham replied. Realisation dawned. "…You aren't telling me that she…?"

"You only met the boy face-to-face a little under a year ago, when this mess began."

Haytham banged his cup back onto the saucer, and tea slopped over the side as he all but threw the china onto the tea tray. How dare she?

"Clearly I need to have a chat with Ziio," he hissed.

"You can't. She's dead," Charles said.

Haytham's stomach dropped, and his heart sank. The fury that had burnt so savagely mere moments ago was instantly quelled, replaced instead by disbelief and horror.

"How?" he managed. "When?"

"Your son will be able to explain much more thoroughly than I. All I know is this: while you were gallivanting around the Middle East, we tried to find Ziio's village, to speak with the elders. Unfortunately, things did not go as planned, and Washington's men got there before we did. They burnt the place to the ground, and less than half the village survived."

"Washington? That idiotic fop who followed Braddock around like a lost puppy?"

"The very same, sir. If you'll stay here a moment, I shall inform the others of your predicament."

Charles was gone before Haytham could demand that he stay and explain. What on earth could have happened to turn everything upside-down so quickly? What could possibly be so dangerous that they were working with half-a-dozen barely-trained, hopelessly optimistic fools?

Have I mentioned how you have an absolute talent in making people salivate for your extremely beautifully written plots during your 'expositions?'

:D

I just adore your writing, and I'm loving the fact that you gave a slight teaser to the horror in the prologue, but will now slowly rebuild it in the beginning chapters.

You whet our appetites with a nice appetizer, good chef, and like an expert, you now build up to the main course.

fill anon

(Anonymous) - 2013-02-07 21:47 (UTC) - Expand

Poor amnesiac!Haytham, at least he's only missing a little more than two years and not twenty. I wonder how his 'first' meeting with Connor will go. So it's only 1773, which means all of the Colonial Templar inner circle are still alive (I love those guys). So the Templars know it was Washington who burned Connor's village, and with the truce it seems Connor must know as well if he's willing to work alongside the men who attacked him as a child.

fill anon

(Anonymous) - 2013-02-07 20:34 (UTC) - Expand

Re: fill anon

(Anonymous) - 2013-02-07 20:44 (UTC) - Expand

fill anon

(Anonymous) - 2013-02-07 21:36 (UTC) - Expand

Useful slenderblogs/vlogs to look at, most important to least in terms of this fic: Marble Hornets, Tutorial, Tribe Twelve, EverymanHYBRID, Can You See The Words, Whispering Faith (which is a rakeblog but pretty good ok)

He waited for Charles' footsteps to reach the floor below before quietly leaving the bedroom. He was not so naive to believe he could just trust the word of assassins. Charles might well have turned against the order- he'd need to use his second sight to make sure.

He crept into the room across the hall- it was another bedroom, with suspiciously new furniture and piles of rugs and blankets on the floor. Presumably, this was where the other members of the Brotherhood were staying. On the far side of the room lay a second door, and if Haytham's memory served him correctly, then there was a small storage room beyond that door, with a staircase leading up to the attic. There would probably be nothing of use up there, but he would certainly investigate later.

He closed the door, and moved on. The doors beyond the stairs were a small library and a large bedroom. He squinted at some of the decorations on the walls. Was that Mohawk handiwork, or another tribe? He didn't know. Presumably, this was his son's room. A son he hadn't even known he'd had.

He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in the scent of the room. Clean, with notes of something earthy and of herbal concoctions, just like Ziio. He stepped away from the room with difficulty, closing the door.

Charles still hadn't come back upstairs. Nine minutes was ample time for a brief explanation, wasn't it? Had there been a complication? He didn't particularly want to go to the cellar room that had been the hub of the headquarters last time he'd been here. It would probably spell certain death.

Haytham resisted the urge to curse rather loudly, and made his way to the room that had been the study the last time he had been here. Luckily for him, the same desk stood in the room, though the shelves and surfaces were more cluttered. Books and papers were scattered everywhere, ink pictures and diagrams pinned to the walls.

Haytham glanced at them- trees, rivers, cities, rain… All were dark and messy, and as he gazed at them longer, he saw a connection. Each sketch had a hastily-scrawled figure, man-shaped but impossibly tall. In some pictures he was cloaked, in others he wore a hat. In each picture he was clothed in black, and in every single one the detail did not extend to the face, which had been left blank.

A cold chill ran down his spine, and he moved on, quickly.

The books all seemed to be fables and fairy tales, most of them in German, Polish and one of the Cyrillic languages. Haytham could not make heads or tails of the stories, but they all seemed to be about forests, if the pictures were anything to go by.

He sighed. So the Brotherhood were obsessed with folk tales? What of the enemy Charles had spoken about? This alliance was obviously a waste of time.

There had to be a clue as to what was happening somewhere.

Haytham gritted his teeth, and spun around, to search a different room. At that moment, however, he heard loud footsteps in the hall, and Charles' voice.

"I'll be surprised if Haytham hasn't already wandered off," Charles muttered, and Haytham stepped back slightly, until his back touched a bookshelf. He leant forward until he could see the hall, and in his second sight Charles still glowed blue, though the glow was far brighter than he ever remembered. Still, blue was blue. The hooded man behind him was red, but it was a pale sort of red, very nearly pink, really. So the news of the alliance might well be true- last time he had looked upon an assassin with his second sight, they had been a bloody, dark red.

They went upstairs, and Haytham smirked when he heard Charles curse. He oughtn't've taken so long with explaining things to the Brotherhood, if indeed that was all he had been doing.

Haytham hastily folded his arms behind his back and leant over the desk, as though inspecting the nonsense scattered about. Footsteps thundered downstairs, and Charles' breathless voice called out in relief.

"There you are! Didn't I ask you to wait upstairs?"

Haytham turned his head slightly and smiled politely. He straightened his back, slowly.

"You know I have never been the sort of man to wait. Since you took so long, I decided to take the liberty of investigating matters for myself."

Charles understood the warning tone in his voice, and started (finally!) to explain.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, Haytham. It took longer than I thought to explain the situation, and to plan what to do next. You lost your memory while on a rather important mission, you see."

"Oh?" Haytham said. Charles looked uncomfortable and continued.

"It was reconnaissance. We had a target of the enemy, and you were watching it. Of course, before it attacked the victim, you attacked it, but it reacted to your pistol shot impossibly quickly. According to Connor-- that is, according to your son-- it reacted badly, and tried to strangle you to death. It was only when its victim was snatched away that it took its attention from you. Somehow, that incident wiped the past seventeen months or so from your memory."

Haytham frowned. Out of all the odd things in Charles' tale, one thing stood out as the most odd.

"It?"

Charles nodded, and gestured to the man who stood in the doorway behind him.

"Connor, I think it would be best if you took over at this point."

Everything stopped for a moment, in Haytham's eyes.

The man behind Lee was tall, perhaps half an inch taller than Haytham himself. He was clearly very strong, his hooded robes doing little to hide all that dense muscle. His skin, as expected, was lighter than Ziio's had been, though nobody would mistake him for a white man, not even a sun-kissed Spaniard. He wasn't sure exactly what he thought of this man, aside from that he was rather too old to be his son. After all, it had only been fifteen-- no, seventeen, damn amnesia-- years since he had last spent a night with Ziio. This man was clearly in his mid-twenties at youngest.

"I was expecting somebody younger," was all Haytham could manage. Charles rolled his eyes.

"I look old for my age," the man-- no, Connor, wasn't it?-- rumbled, his voice deep and smooth. "We have had this conversation before."

"Best not repeat it until later," Charles said. "We need to explain the enemy."

Connor nodded, and took his hood down. Haytham could now, if he concentrated, see something of himself in the man's face. A similar jaw, the set of the eyes, a little in the shape of the mouth and nose.

…Or he could see something of any other white European, the more cynical part of Haytham's mind hissed, and he ignored it. Now was not the time for such doubts.

"It is a story," Connor said, carefully enunciating each word. "Like the Pied Piper of Hamlein, it was originally told to scare children into behaving. The tall, faceless man in the rain and the forest. It is real."

Haytham blinked. Surely he couldn't've just heard what he…?

"I beg your pardon?" he asked.

"We do not know where it came from, or why it is here, but it is. The disappearances started a little over a year ago. All children, all after periods of disturbed behaviour. All found dead, with smiles on their faces and most of their internal organs gone."

"Are you being entirely serious?" Haytham demanded, when Connor paused. "This 'enemy' Charles was talking about is a shared delusion? A creature from a German storybook? It's more likely to be a serial killer, you fool."

Connor looked slightly annoyed.

"It is a monster. I have seen it, and so have you. You merely do not remember. If it were a man, we would not need an alliance."

Charles put a hand on Haytham's shoulder. He batted it away, annoyed.

"Tell me, exactly how stupid do you think I am? I am not the kind of idiot who buys into stories of monsters in the night."

"Need I remind you, Haytham, that you believe in the Ones Who Came Before?" Charles snapped.

"Well--" Haytham said, taken aback. "That's different, it's science, but--"

"But what? If this were some kind of elaborate scheme to deceive you, why would we use such a silly story? Surely we'd make up something more believable." Charles grabbed one of Haytham's wrists, and looked into his eyes, as if searching for something that was not there. "You're an intelligent man, Haytham. Probably the most intelligent I have ever met. Think about this for five bloody minutes, and then tell me I'm lying to you. Have I ever tried to deceive you like this before?"

Haytham was speechless for a moment. Admittedly, yes, Charles had some good points, but how on earth could he be expected to believe something so far-fetched? Fairy tales were fairy tales!

"If it's the same creature from folklore," Haytham said, raising the only objection he could think of at that moment in time. "Why did the killings only begin recently? Surely they'd be spread out, across time itself? Or at least there would be a history of such killings."

Charles took a step back, and released Haytham's wrist.

"Now you're starting to understand," Charles said, a relieved smile at the corner of his lips. "I'll fetch us some Scotch."

O.O

Lovely, lovely plot. OP is loving the almost detective-like storytelling at the beginning and Haytham's disbelief. Very good point about TWCB, though. If Haytham believes in them, why not Slenderman as well? :)

And oh, is Haytham one paranoid bastard. Charles betraying the Order? pish. It's such an amusing look into the Grandmaster's mind, and it shows just why he's the Grandmaster. That being said, can't wait for more Haytham and Connor interactions! OP finds Haytham's doubt incredibly amusing for some reason.

fill anon

(Anonymous) - 2013-02-14 10:57 (UTC) - Expand

*chews on fingernails anxiously* Oh gods, there was the set up for everyone forgetting how old Connor is. I'm so excited for this story! It's already really gooooood!

This is just fantastic!!!!! Please keep writing! I just love it!!! :D :D :D

There will be assassins in the next bit! Thank you for all your lovely comments! <3

"No, wait," Haytham said, following Charles as he trotted through to the dining room. "I still have no idea what's happening. Neither of you are making any sense at all!"

"That's the point, Haytham," Charles sighed, picking up a bottle from a shelf in the dining room, and setting it on the table. "This doesn't make any sense. It shouldn't be happening. But somehow it is."

Charles set a pair of glasses on the table, and sat down in a chair. Haytham took the chair opposite, and Connor took the seat at the head of the table. Charles poured a very generous amount of alcohol into one glass, pushing it toward Haytham, and poured himself a rather scant measure. Haytham hesitated before drinking. This could still be a trap, after all.

The moment of paranoia passed, and Haytham half-drained the glass, wincing as the alcohol burnt its way down his gullet. He was far too sober to be able to deal with this sort of paradigm shift. He finished the rest of the glass when the burning sensation subsided.

"Well?" Haytham demanded, when he could feel a pleasant mist descend upon his mind.

"Well what?" Charles asked.

"What I asked earlier. Why have the killings only started recently?"

"We do not know," Connor said. "We have thus far guessed two possible scenarios: firstly, that somehow it was always here, and has merely woken up. Secondly, it was somehow brought over here, or only began existing recently."

"It's hard to tell whether the first or second scenario is more likely, sir," Charles said. "There is a distinct possibility that, with the way we Colonists are treating the land, we may have woken something up. However, the attacks are extremely widespread. The first victim that we know of was found in Philadelphia, but the next was in New Orleans. One victim was of the northern French colonies. Several Native victims have been reported, but none verified. In other words--"

"--We don't know what's happening," Haytham finished. Charles nodded, solemnly. Haytham sighed. This wasn't fair, damn it! He shouldn't even be in this damned country any more. He should be…

Haytham found he could not finish that thought. In all honesty, when he had been in London, he had been unsure as to exactly what he wanted to do next. After Birch's betrayal, he had been pondering recreating the British Order, and leaving the Colonies in Charles' capable hands. However, it would incorrect to say he had any real enthusiasm for furthering the Order's ideals. Those ideals had, after all, lost him Ziio.

Ziio… To think that she was dead, had been dead all this time. It was a horrible thought, and one that reminded him too much of his own mortality.

"--m?" Charles' voice filtered into his mind. "Haytham? Are you all right?"

"Yes," he muttered, staring into his glass. "It's just a lot to think about."

Charles nodded in understanding, and leant forward over the table, giving him a steady, honest gaze.

"It's all right," he said. "I know how you're feeling. You were in something of a bad way when you returned to the Colonies. You've lost a lot, for little reward. And now, to be told such horrific tales, and asked to believe the impossible… well, it's a lot to ask of a person. But fear not, Haytham. You're a very resilient sort. It's natural for you to be so sorrowful. You overcame such sadness once, and I'm sure you will overcome it again."

Haytham wasn't entirely sure what to say to that. Charles' behaviour wasn't exactly strange, but it was certainly different. It was disconcerting, to see someone who had once been so worshipful suddenly act so familiar.

"Hmm," he said, after a moment. Then, he turned to Connor, though did not meet his gaze. "How did she die? Ziio, I mean."

Connor seemed slightly taken aback at the question, but he dutifully answered anyway.

"There was a fire," he said. "Set by Washington's men. I was out, playing hide-and-seek. I returned home, to see our longhouse all but collapsing on Mother. I tried to lift the burning logs off her, but I was four years old. I succeeded only in burning my hands severely."

The man paused for a moment, then continued.

"I very vividly remember her telling me to leave her and live. She did not sob openly, nor was her voice fearful. She told me she loved me, and I was taken away by another villager seconds before the building collapsed."

Haytham was silent for a very long minute.

"She always was very brave," he said, softly.

"Indeed," Connor replied. "That is what you said last time I told you."

For a moment, Haytham considered apologising for making the boy recount an obviously traumatic experience. He decided against it- the boy could not have minded that much, if he had been willing to speak of it in the first place. It was best to do, then, what he was always awfully good at doing: changing the subject.

"So," he said. "What do we know about this creature?"

Charles poured a second round of Scotch, and began to speak.

"We know what it looks like. You've seen the pictures. Unfortunately, that information is largely useless. It seems that the only people who can see the damn thing directly are it's victims and descendants of Those Who Came Before."

"You said just before the reconnaissance mission that you thought it might be that the creature was such an abomination that it bled through our second sight, somehow. Or that it was a relic from their civilisation," Connor said.

Haytham nodded. Those ideas certainly made some degree of sense.

"How long have we known about it?"

"Around a year," Charles replied, sipping his alcohol. "We thought it was a serial killer. We kept a close eye on reports of children with disturbed behaviour and hallucinations- which was no easy task- and eventually one of our agents witnessed something supernatural at the killing of a child. That's when I sent a letter to you, asking you to return to the Colonies. By the time you arrived, it had become clear that the Brotherhood was also investigating."

"Regarding the 'something supernatural', one of my recruits, Duncan, also witnessed one of the killings," Connor explained. "He did not see the creature, but his sight and hearing distorted. He could make out the child giggling, and he could see wounds opening in her body, but not the creature itself. It was through sheer luck that we discovered ordinary people can see it through reflections."

"Long story short, Haytham, you and I managed to pinpoint the approximate time and place another killing might occur, and it so happened that Connor and several of his recruits were also there. Both groups kept their distance from the grisly scene," Charles continued. He paused, and Haytham took this opportunity to finish his glass.

"I assume that this was when we discovered that certain people could see it?"

"Yes, sir," Charles nodded. "It happened near a lake. We could see a reflection of this terrible thing, but we couldn't see it, and there was little we could to to save the child. The reflection itself was difficult to make out, being warped and distorted beyond all recognition thanks to the terrible storm brewing. However, you could see the monster, and so could Connor. It was afterwards, when we were trying to search the scene of the murder, that we encountered the assassins and put two and two together."

"Our first meeting was somewhat… lacking," Connor said. "We both were on the verge of nervous collapse. It took almost an hour for either of us to be able to speak in complete sentences. We agreed that neither group could take on such an abomination alone, and thus our alliance was born."

Haytham could certainly believe most of the story, in a purely theoretical way. He was sure, however, that he couldn't have suffered a near mental breakdown by the mere sight of a monster. He had been a soldier in one of the most horrific wars in Europe, after all. He was a Templar, and knew the evil things human beings would do to one another for sport. A fairy-tale villain, he was sure, would not have reduced him to a gibbering wreck, no matter what Charles and Connor insisted.

"What have we been doing since then?" Haytham asked, knowing he was not going to like the answer.

"We've been trying to discover what the creature is, and how to kill it or incapacitate it," Charles answered smoothly.

"And how has that gone?" Haytham asked, mildly. He would have been back in this country for… oh, nine months or so, then. And yet, they had still not discovered very much about the creature. Evidently, little progress had been made.

"It… it has been difficult," Charles said, less smoothly.

"So we've done nothing?" Haytham snapped. "I was nearly killed and lost a year and a half for nothing?"

"Not nothing, sir!" Charles yelped. "We've been researching and following leads and--"

"--and come up with what?" Haytham gave Charles the best glare he could muster. "I shouldn't've bothered coming back to this bloody country."

The look on Charles' face once the words had left Haytham's mouth was one he had never seen on the man before. He looked utterly crushed.

Before he could dwell on Charles' curious behaviour however, Connor thumped the table with his fist, and started to speak again.

Another update so soon! I feel so privileged! :)

This update is very intriguing. Haytham makes a good point in that he's fought in horrific wars before. I do wonder if he was really so affected by Slendy or perhaps it was a different reason...

Poor Charles though. It must be devastating for him. I do hope the Assassins are somewhat nice to him at least, now that they know he's not responsible for Connor's mother's death and all.

And poor Haytham. He's so bitter and almost exudes fatigue... It will be a long and painful journey for them all.

"It is not for nothing!" Connor snarled, looking furious. "Would you rather we sat back and ignored the crisis, allowed more innocent children to die? Progress is slow, but it is being made. Why else would you have stuck around for so long? Except from the obvious, that is."

Haytham was slightly taken aback by this- he was not used to being spoken back to in such a aggressive manner, least of all by men he hardly knew.

"The obvious?" Haytham asked. There was absolutely nothing obvious about any part of this nightmare.

Connor glanced at Charles, who immediately spoke up.

"Connor. Your duties as Grand Master. That sort of thing."

Charles had that expression on his face. The one that meant he was not telling the whole truth. However, before Haytham could demand an explanation, the kitchen door opened and several men stepped entered the room.

"Are you finished yet?" one of them asked, this one perhaps forty, with a strong French accent.

"More or less," Connor said. "Everything has been explained as well as it can in the absence of any real evidence."

"Good," an old man croaked, and it was with some discomfort that Haytham realised that this old man was Achilles Davenport, and that the two decades since the raid on the Assassin Headquarters had not been kind to him.

Charles cleared his throat and started speaking again.

"Er, Haytham, the gentleman to your left is Stephane Chapeau, a chef from the province of Quebec. The young man beside him is Clipper Wilkinson, a sharpshooter from Boston, and the priest is Duncan Little, from Ireland. You've met before. And of course, you know Achilles Davenport already."

Haytham nodded, concentrating on the table before him. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at the assassins with his second sight- they were a slightly deeper red than Connor, but he supposed that was only to be expected.

"I don't recall ever having met a priest from Ireland before," Haytham said.

"We met in an opera house," Duncan said. "I was ten. You killed my uncle. It wasn't a very good first impression."

"Oh," Haytham murmured. Time to change the subject before matters could deteriorate further. "Connor said you saw the-- what are we calling it?"

"The Slender Man," Connor said.

"That I did. It was through a window during a stormy afternoon. The kind where you'd drown for opening the front door. I was holed up in a small room, crossbow at the ready, and the kid was just standing in the middle of the courtyard. At first, nothing happened, but after a moment I could see something where the water streamed down over the glass. I opened the window, quiet as could be, but the thing couldn't be seen any more. So, I half-closed the window, and watched some more."

Duncan took a deep breath and continued, sounding tired.

"It was tall, but even through the water I couldn't make it out properly. It was as though it was just an inch or so in a different direction than where I was looking. Anyway, the babe started laughing, reaching out to this thing, and it reached out for it to. Trying to concentrate on it made my head and eyes hurt. The child laughed harder, and the thing did something I couldn't make out, and these wounds started opening up on the child's body, but it kept laughing. I opened the window again, ready to shoot the thing full of arrows, but I couldn't see it any more. Well, thinking back there was a real faint shadow through the raindrops, but nothing I could aim at."

Duncan shuddered, and paused again. If he was telling the truth, it must have been a very traumatic affair.

"The child's laughter started warping. It echoed and after a minute it didn't sound like a child any more. It got louder somehow, closer, even, and I got a sharp pain in my ears. I was so terrified, I dropped the crossbow and covered my ears, and the pain in my head got so bad I couldn't do anything but curl up in a ball. It seemed like forever, but when the pain and the noise went away, I peered out the window, and there was nothing but a dead, bloody little body in the middle of the mud. It was still smiling."

Haytham shut his eyes, and thought hard. This was surely impossible? Invisible monsters did not exist. But on the other hand, it was obvious that the man truly believed that this was what had happened, and surely neither the Assassins nor his Templar comrades would believe something so far-fetched for no reason.

"Well?" Connor asked, after a few moments. "Do you believe us?"

"I don't disbelieve you," Haytham said, with gritted teeth. "I need to find my journal."

"That might not be such a good idea," Charles said, quickly. Haytham glanced up. What on earth was Charles blathering about now?

"What do you mean?"

"Er," Charles said, clearly nervous.

"Did something happen?" Haytham pressed. Charles looked uncomfortable. "Then surely it's imperative that I can read back through my version of events, isn't it? Get up to date on… this mess. How on earth could that be a bad idea?"

"You might not like what you read, sir," Charles said, quietly.

"Oh, as if I've liked anything I've heard today? Give it a rest, Charles." Haytham snapped. He stood, and glanced at the Assassins. "Pleasure to meet you fellows."

Then he left, to search the room he'd woken up in. He could hear muttering and the low babble of a discussion behind him, but he didn't care. They were idiots. Why should he care about what thought of him?

It took a mere five minutes to find the journal he'd been using in London, and a new one, bound in new brown leather. The new book was sitting on the table, next to the tea tray, and the old journal was resting in a chest at the end of what Haytham assumed was his bed. He'd woken up on it, after all.

He flipped his old journal open. He'd started it barrel month before his last memory, and he found the last entry he remembered writing with ease.

November 27th, 1771

I don't know what to do. After everything that's happened, the Order needs to be re-established in this country, but there is nothing else here for me, save a sister who resents my very existence. I miss the Colonies, but they remind me far too much of what I have lost.

The next entry was almost two months later.

January 3rd, 1772

Have looked for individuals who might further the Order's cause here, but Birch's betrayal runs deep. I am beginning to think that the corruption is too far gone, that I should leave my homeland and return to Boston. I still own that nice plot of land in Virginia, don't I?

January 4th, 1772

I was in a foul mood yesterday. All I seem to get is bad news. Still, perhaps not all is lost.

January 11th, 1772

I wonder what happened to the Piece of Eden stolen from the Crown Jewels all those months ago? There have been no reports of trouble. I expect it's in the hands of the Assassins. Idiots. At least they're not causing trouble with it, though it's only a matter of time.

February 1st, 1772

The newly-recruited Templars are almost ready to start toppling the Assassin order in this country. I wish Reginald hadn't buggered us over so thoroughly out of greed. Things would be so much easier if the British Inner Circle were still alive and well.

Ah, so there was a small British Order again. That was better than the Assassins running around, cocking things up with no opposition, like they clearly had been in the Colonies. Perhaps he could request some help from them with this Slender Man problem? Oh, but surely he had thought of that already... He would need to ask one of his allies- not Charles, he was clearly hiding something. Johnson and the others were still alive, weren't they?

So caught up in his thoughts was Haytham, he almost didn't notice Achilles entering the room.

You may me feel for Charles Lee.

o.o

Oh, Haytham...so unintentionally cruel. But that description was chilling, the way the child kept laughing more and more as he died...the smile on his face as he lay in the mud.

//shivers//

And now imagining Connor in that condition...

It's good to see Achilles again! I wonder their first interaction will go... //brings popcorn//

fill anon

(Anonymous) - 2013-02-22 21:49 (UTC) - Expand

Re: fill anon

(Anonymous) - 2013-02-22 23:07 (UTC) - Expand

fill anon

(Anonymous) - 2013-02-22 23:21 (UTC) - Expand

Not OP, but I am LOVING this fill! Slender Man and Charles/Haytham? You have tapped into my interests!

I agree with OP, you are giving me serious Charles Lee feels.

There will be some proper horror coming up soon, I swear! For now, though, have some more paranoid bastard Haytham.

Haytham pretended to continue reading the journal, ready to strike at the old man should he attempt to do anything. He may not have his hidden blade on him, but he could overpower Achilles easily with his bare fists.

"You're a cruel man, Haytham," Achilles said, after a moment. Haytham turned his head, to meet his gaze. Cruel? He would not describe himself as such. Ruthless, yes. Too practical, perhaps. He would not disagree that he was, to some extent, heartless in his actions. But he did not go out of his way to make other suffer.

"Excuse me?"

"You were like this when you first got back, too. Too caught up in your own sorrows to think about the effect you have on others."

Before Haytham could interrupt- what business was it of Achilles' if he was nice or nasty? And he wasn't being either, thank you very much- Achilles continued, a steely glare in his eyes.

"The only reason I let you stay here in the first place was because of Connor. I'd have quite happily watched you die horribly at the hands of that thing. But Connor- oh, he's naive, but his naiveté saved your life. He came back, you and Charles in tow, begged me for permission to start a truce, as if he needed that permission. He's the leader of the Brotherhood after all. But he's still also just a boy, and you're going to remember that."

"What are you--" Haytham began, only to be cut off.

"It's terribly rude to interrupt others, Haytham. You ought to know better. Now, the past few months, you've been changing. You started smiling, for one. How long has it been since you were genuinely happy, I wonder?"

Haytham glowered at the old man. It was none of his damn business whether Haytham was happy or not, and it didn't change a bloody thing if he was or wasn't smiling. This was, quite frankly, an appalling attempt at a mind-game. Achilles' expression shifted into something more neutral, and his next words were slightly less biting.

"We started to see the man you once were, beneath all the killing and the cruelty and the fanaticism to your Templar ideals. The father you could've been. The brother you once were. The lover you--" Achilles stopped here for a moment, noting the confusion on Haytham's face, and chuckled. "--Oh, you wouldn't know about that, would you?"

"Lover?" Haytham demanded. There had been someone else? Who wasn't Ziio? He couldn't imagine it- but stranger things certainly were afoot. Or, more probably, the old man was trying to goad him, this was some sort of twisted revenge.

Achilles chuckled again.

"That's for me to know and you to find out. But the point is this: the man who went to New York, to try to find a way of killing that creature, he is not the same man as the one I'm looking at. And while I'll never forgive either man for what they did to my family, the Haytham of last week was very nearly a human being in my eyes. You, on the other hand, are not. If any harm comes to Connor because of you, there will be nowhere on this earth you can hide from me. It'll take time, yes, and you might not realise it straight away, but I will hurt you."

Achilles' gaze was steady and sincere. Haytham had no doubt that the old man was still dangerous, though he was sure he could survive anything the bastard there his way. He should've killed him when he had the chance.

"Now that you understand your somewhat precarious position," Achilles finished, with an insincere smile. "I suggest you try to bond with your son. And I would also suggest you be a little nicer to Charles. That man thinks the world of you, you know."

The old man turned and left without another word- a good thing, since he'd talked far too much already.

Bastard, bastard, bastard!

Haytham turned back to the journal he had been reading. He wanted answers, and wanted them now. He'd have to go through the entries properly later.

He reached for the new journal, and flipped it open, skipping straight to the latest entries. He skimmed the text quickly, trying to extract as much information as quickly as possible.

I had forgotten how wonderful it felt to wake up with another person in my bed.

It worries me, to think of our future should this creature ever be exorcised from this world. Fear and danger drew us together, and to some extent is what holds us in place. Buggery is illegal, even in the New World, after all.

His mouth is soft and warm. It feels far too good to kiss, despite his facial hair.

I worry for him; he cannot see the monster. What if it comes after him, or myself? I cannot be constantly vigilant. I don't want to see him hurt because of my mistakes. I could not forgive myself.

I wonder how I neglected to notice the way he looked at me all these years. His eyes were always full of adoration, but I never realised.

I don't know how I feel about his moustache. I despise the way it tickles my skin, but he wouldn't look like Charles without it.

This…

This was clearly somebody's idea of a bad joke. It was elaborate, too- his handwriting perfectly replicated, the choice of words exactly the kind he would have used, had he-- but he wouldn't have even thought about… not with another man, and certainly not Charles.

This was a horrible set-up. It wasn't even slightly funny. It was probably Hickey's idea. Or perhaps Achilles was really desperate for revenge. Either way, it wasn't true. Couldn't be true.

Haytham stopped-- when had he started pacing the room?-- and glanced out of the window. It wouldn't do to lose his temper over a depraved prank, mad though it was.

"Father?" Connor's voice came, from the hall. There was a soft knocking at the door. "May I come in? I brought some food. You must be quite hungry by now."

"Yes," Haytham answered, clasping his hands behind his back. Now that someone had mentioned it, he was certainly starving. How long had it been, exactly, since he had last eaten? "The door is unlocked."

Connor entered quietly, placing a tray of what looked like bread and cheese and fruit next to the cold tea. He glanced at the desk, and coughed quietly. Perhaps he had caught a cold.

"You found your journals."

"Yes, I did."

There was a moment of silence, broken only by a soft cough, before Connor spoke again.

"In my culture, it is not taboo for two men to--"

"Don't," Haytham snapped, not turning round. "I don't want to hear it. Whose idea was it, anyway?"

"Idea? I… I am not sure which of you instigated the--" Connor stammered, sounding utterly bewildered. "Does it really matter? You two were happy, after--"

"Stop," Haytham snarled, twisting his head just enough so he could glare at the boy. "I would have thought you'd know better than to make twisted jokes at the expense of an old man. Whose idea was it, anyway? Hickey? Or Charles himself?"

"I do not--"

"Oh, please." Haytham rolled his eyes. "The Slender Man was one thing, but now this? You know sodomy's a crime, don't you? Exactly how gullible do you lot think I am?"

Connor, to his credit, was a brilliant actor. He looked genuinely dumbfounded.

"Leave," Haytham snapped. "I'm going back to New York first thing in the morning."

"But--" Connor began, coughing softly.

"Leave."

The boy looked torn, but left the room anyway.

OP

(Anonymous) - 2013-02-25 15:50 (UTC) - Expand

fill anon

(Anonymous) - 2013-02-25 22:49 (UTC) - Expand

Re: fill anon

(Anonymous) - 2013-02-25 23:13 (UTC) - Expand

Re: he lives in the woods 5/?

lelann137 - 2013-02-25 19:18 (UTC) - Expand

Sorry for the wait! RL has been very hectic with work, and I caught a horrible stomach bug. I hope you enjoy!

Haytham wasted no time in packing away his belongings. It was more difficult than he'd anticipated, considering that he could only identify about a fifth of the things in the room as his own. Either he had left his previous location in a hurry, and had to buy new clothes and equipment here, or he only stayed here occasionally, and bought new items as and when was needed.

He could hear the murmuring of voices downstairs again, and he could feel the rage building up. How dare they speak about him behind his back like that? They were probably laughing about their stupid, stupid attempt at a joke.

He was examining an expensive-looking coat, wondering if it belonged to him or not, when he heard a soft knocking at the door.

"Haytham, it seems we need to talk," Charles said, from the other side of the wood.

Bastard, bastard, bastard! No, they did not need to talk. And even if he did need to speak with anybody, at the moment Charles would be the last person he would want to talk to. Clearly he was in on this blasted joke.

He didn't answer, and threw the coat over his arm. He glanced around- ah, that was his trusty pistol, and those were his good leather gloves. Was that his holster? He didn't remember the second ammunition pouch…

"Haytham?" Charles knocked again, and opened the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Haytham could see Charles hesitate, taking in the scene before him. "Haytham, what are you doing?"

"Packing," Haytham answered. "I'm going back to New York first thing in the morning. Didn't Connor say?"

"I thought he was exaggerating. You can't leave, Haytham."

"And why not?"

"Well," Charles seemed thrown by the venom Haytham had put into that question, or possibly by the fact he'd even questioned him. "Well, for a start that thing is out there--"

"Ah, the monster you've shown me no evidence of? I don't necessarily disbelieve you, but I hardly think I'm in any dang--"

"--And we're meeting the others tomorrow," Charles interrupted Haytham's speech. "Johnson, Hickey, Pitcairn, Church. They're coming here, we agreed to meet after the reconnaissance mission. And besides, your New York residence is still being rebuilt--"

"Rebuilt? Why is it being rebuilt?" Haytham demanded.

"Because it burnt down," Charles said, as if that were obvious. "There's been a string of arson attacks in the city, we've got men working on finding the culprit."

"I'm homeless?" Haytham asked, in disbelief.

"Only temporarily," Charles replied. "Put down my coat, will you?"

Oh. He was still holding it, wasn't he? Haytham lay the garment on a nearby chair, and turned back to Charles.

"You forgot to mention that earlier," Haytham said. "And a number of other things, as well."

Charles grimaced.

"Look, we had a lot to discuss, it's been a somewhat eventful year and a half. There'd be no sense in overwhelming you with so much information at once. We thought it might be best to take things slowly. Ease you in."

"I'm not an invalid, and I detest being treated as such!" Haytham snapped.

"I'm sorry, I just didn't want to upset you," Charles said, in the kind of placating voice people reserve for lovers and family. Haytham gritted his teeth.

"Don't talk to me like that," he said. "You're my subordinate."

Charles looked like he'd just been slapped. He regained his composure remarkably quickly, and looked away. When he next spoke, his voice was quiet.

"Of course, sir. I didn't mean to offend you, sir."

Haytham nodded, and took a deep breath.

"I think I'd like to speak with Connor again."

"He's gone out hunting, sir. He'll be back in a few hours."

Haytham sighed. He was starting to feel a little guilty for being so rude to Charles. Only a little guilty, but guilty all the same. The man was obviously quite upset- and so he deserved to be, after that bloody joke he'd tried to pull. Still, Haytham could not help but feel his words were a little harsh.

"I, ah, apologise," he said, with difficulty. He did not have much practice in apologising, he was the one who tended to be apologised to. "I shouldn't've been so rude. It's been something of a bad day, you see."

He expected one of several reactions from Charles. A sombre nod, perhaps. A quiet "yes, sir". No answer at all. What he did not expect was a bitter laugh.

"A bad day? Well, that excuses everything, Haytham."

"Excuse me?" Haytham managed. Charles was not the type to snap back.

"Would you like to know how awful my day has been?" Charles demanded. He continued without waiting for an answer. "Imagine you loved someone. Adored them. Idolised them. No, don't you dare say a single word, Haytham--"

Haytham shut his mouth. He'd intended to stop Charles, argue with him, but clearly this was not an option.

"--Imagine this person was perfect. You'd die for them in a heartbeat. Do anything for them. But you can't act on your feelings, so you busy yourself with trying to make them happy in any way you can. You fool yourself into thinking that's more than enough, even though it's not. For some reason, they have to travel a lot, so for several years you hardly see them and you forget what it was like to have them there."

Charles paused for a moment, thinking about how to continue. His voice was shaky, but he spoke quickly nonetheless.

"They come back, and they're barely a shell of the person you knew, the person you loved. Even though they're snappish and moody and simply horrible, you persevere with helping them as best you can. And eventually your efforts pay off and you can start to see the person you loved in them. And, after quite some time, everything you dreamt of falls into place. Despite the horrible situation you both face, they love you right back. For the first time in a very long time, you're happy."

Haytham opened his mouth again, only to close it at the ferocious glare Charles shot at him. Surely the man couldn't be serious? Oh, but it took a more talented liar than even Charles and his silver tongue to tell such tall tales with such raw emotion.

"And then something happens. They're hurt. You stay by them every second you can until they wake up, and when you do, they're not your lover any more. They're not even the person you adored. They're just a ghost again. A shadow. Nothing. You can't let your heart break, you've got too much work to do, important work at that. So you keep calm and carry on and hope that what you had isn't gone forever. Believe me, Haytham, I've had a far worse day."

Charles stopped, finally, and took several deep breaths. Haytham, feeling some kind of contribution to the conversation, spoke.

"Charles, I… I don't know what to say--"

"There's nothing to say, Haytham!" Charles snarled, absolutely livid. "You're a ghost! You're not the real you, and it's not bloody fair!"

Haytham blinked. He'd never had the misfortune of being on the receiving end of Charles' infamous fiery temper.

Before he could open his mouth, there was a movement from the other side of the window, and a thud from the balcony outside. There was a rattling at the door before it opened, and Connor tumbled in, slamming his body against the door to shut it. The lad was hyperventilating, shaking. Before either Charles or Haytham could demand to know what was going on, Connor spoke, stuttering, sounding fearful.

"It is here!" the assassin managed. "The-- the Slender Man, it is here!"

slenderman, Achilles-Haytham cooperation

oh man

OP

Re: slenderman, Achilles-Haytham cooperation

Re: slenderman, Achilles-Haytham cooperation

he lives in the woods (prologue)

OP

Re: he lives in the woods (prologue)

fill anon

Re: fill anon

he lives in the woods (1/?)

OP

Re: he lives in the woods (1/?)

he lives in the woods 2/?

OP

Re: he lives in the woods 2/?

Re: he lives in the woods 2/?

he lives in the woods 3/?

OP

he lives in the woods 4/?

OP

Re: he lives in the woods 4/?

he lives in the woods 5/?

He Lives In The Woods 6/?

Re: slenderman, Achilles-Haytham cooperation