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asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5
Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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l'aigle et le révolutionnaire
(Anonymous) 2013-02-20 06:14 am (UTC)(link)Connor watched suspiciously as the doctor flitted around Lafayette. The marquis was unconscious, though he had roused a few minutes after passing out earlier. He had stayed awake during the carriage ride to the Hotel de Lafayette, though he had been ill and disorientated, and fallen back into unconsciousness once they were inside. A doctor had been sent for, and Connor had told Adrienne what had happened while they waited at Lafayette’s bedside.
Once the doctor arrived he had sent Adrienne out. She had left only after extracting a promise of vigilance from Connor. The doctor didn’t seem likely to be an assassin, though no one was beneath suspicion. Nonetheless he watched the man carefully as he fiddled with his tools, ignoring Connor’s presence entirely. Connor folded his arms and leaned against the wall.
The doctor took a small sharp implement and a porcelain basin from his case of tools, and ran his fingers along Lafayette’s forehead, finding the vein that pulsed under the skin of his left temple. He opened the vein with an expert jab of the sharp tool, and caught the blood that flowed from the wound in the small basin.
Connor watched these proceedings with displeasure. Blood did not bother him, and had not since he had first learned how to hunt and skin his kills. But the idea of spilling someone’s blood to benefit them was strange to him. It was common among doctors of the United Sates and the healers of his own tribe alike, and he had seen it done many times, but still remained uncertain of its plausibility. Doctors would bleed someone to cure anything, from headaches to infections to apoplexy.
He pushed away these thoughts. Though he knew more perhaps than any man should about methods of killing, he knew little about healing, and would leave medical opinions to people who knew more on the subject. Nonetheless, he watched Lafayette carefully, assuring himself that the marquis was still alive by the rise and fall of his chest.
The doctor fiddled about for an hour more, but ended up doing very little. At least he departed, leaving instructions to call for him if Lafayette’s condition worsened. He was confident it was only a minor injury, and that Lafayette would wake soon and recover quickly.
“Connor,” Adrienne said, coming back into the room now that the doctor was gone.
Connor looked up at her, tearing his gaze away from Lafayette.
“The… The Brotherhood has summoned me,” Adrienne said. “They wish to hear a full report of what happened today.” Her voice shook slightly. Adrienne had not flinched in the presence of Robespierre, but it seemed seeing her husband affected her much more deeply than a threat to her own life.
“I will go,” Connor said immediately. “I can make the report.”
She shook her head wearily. “No, they don’t trust you yet. The Grandmaster had specifically forbade me bringing you to them before they are satisfied you can be trusted. Perhaps this will convince them.” She sighed. “Protect him. Please, Monsieur Davenport.” The intensity of her gaze seemed to burn into him, and it was all he could do to remember the French words for “Yes, of course” before she swept from the room.
Connor resumed his post by the door. He waited, the hours ticking by on the clock outside in the hall, his mind drifting over the events of the day. He kept remembering the strange hooded man. Was it a coincidence the Connor had spotted him mere seconds before they had been attacked? And had the attacker’s goal been to kill Lafayette? It seemed it had, unless his aim was very poor. And who had sent him?
There were too many questions, and to little information. He itched to have paper and a pen, to write out the possibilities, but was reluctant to leave the room for even long enough to search for them. A smile tugged on the edge of his lips at the memory of Achilles’ exasperation over Connor’s scribblings on the walls of the cellar of the Davenport manor, as he pieced together the function of each of the Templars. But he didn’t have even enough information to know the major players in this game yet, save the Duc d’Orleans and Monsieur Robespierre.
A faint sound broke him out of his thoughts. Lafayette was stirring. His eyes opened, clouded with pain and confusion, and he attempted to sit up. Connor came to his side. “Marquis?”
“Connor,” Lafayette murmured, blinking up at him. He raised a hand to his head. “… I feel as if… as if a whole battalion is inside my head, using the sides of my skulls for target practice.” He tried to sit up again, only to sink back with a groan. “Is Adrienne alright?” he asked a minute later, realizing she was absent.
“Yes, she is fine. The attack was on you alone. She is at a meeting of the Brotherhood,” Connor replied. “Do you remember what happened?”
“Yes, all too well,” Lafayette said. “It seems I owe you my life, my friend. Once again.” He smiled wanly.
Connor returned the smile. “The incident with General Cornwallis does not count. Do not bother yourself with keeping a tally.”
“You are far too humble,” Lafayette said. “It won’t…” he trailed off, and sighed.
“Marquis?” Connor asked, alarmed.
“I’m fine. Mostly,” Lafayette touched his head gingerly and winced. “If you had not intervened today, I would be dead.” He turned to look at Connor. “However did you see that man in time?”
Connor shrugged uneasily. He had never told anybody, save Achilles, about the sixth sense that aided him in the chase and warned him of adversaries. “Instincts, and years of training.”
“Can you train me?” Lafayette said. Connor was so startled by this he didn’t say anything, merely staring at Lafayette. Lafayette returned his gaze, that familiar glint of enthusiasm in his eyes. Lafayette’s passion for knowledge was insatiable.
“You wish to be an Assassin?” Connor said.
“No. No, I don’t wish to intrude upon Adrienne’s affairs, nor do anything to disrupt the fragile Order in France,” Lafayette said. “But you will not always be around to protect me, and nor will Adrienne.”
“You already know how to fight,” Connor pointed out warily.
“I know. Not the way you and Adrienne can though… I’m not… I can’t…” his voice was fading, his eyes beginning to close again. He shook his head, and then let out a low hiss when the movement aggravated the wound on his head. “I…” He reached up, and tapped the mechanism for the hidden blade on Connor’s left wrist lightly. Connor flinched away, on instinct. “Could I…?” Try as he might, Lafayette could not vocalize the question, too exhausted and disoriented.
“We can discuss things when you wake,” Connor assured him. He hesitated, then lightly reached out to brush the Marquis’s fingers with his own, unsure if the gesture would convey the intended message. But Lafayette was already asleep.
~*~*~
Over the next few days, Connor had the distinct feeling he was being watched. It was more than paranoia. His instincts, honed over years of watching for threats, both human and animal, were screaming at him. But whenever he reached for that sixth sense he found no one, no figure standing out in red in the darkness. Not even a familiar face in the crowd.
He hadn’t told Adrienne or Lafayette. Lafayette was still recovering from the blow to the head, and bridled at being stuck in bed. He used every conversation as an excuse to try to convince Connor to start teaching him Assassin techniques, preferably right then. Connor could hold his own in an argument, but no man should make the assumption that they could easily brush off Lafayette. He was the man who had convinced the impoverished Continental Congress to grant an inexperienced French teenager to commission of Major General in their starving army, and later persuaded them that invading Canada would be a good idea. Bedridden Lafayette was even worse. With no other outlet for his energy, he could spend hours debating.
Friendly debate had never been a strong point of Connor’s, and after a while Lafayette’s endless ability to find loopholes in Connor’s logic grated on his nerves, so he escaped often. Adrienne was embroiled in some internal issues in the Brotherhood of Assassins that she wouldn’t elaborate on, so for the most part Connor was left to his own devices.
He roamed the streets of Paris, familiarizing himself further with the layout of each street, the places where revolutionary thoughts were brewed in cafes, the places so steeped in poverty and misery that the people wouldn’t even raise their head to regard a stranger warily, the neighborhoods of the nobles and bourgeoisie, thin opulence over fraying finances and betrayal.
It was on one of these walks his suspicions were finally confirmed.
He had ducked into a bakery to purchase a baguette for lunch, when he caught a glimpse of a eyes staring out from underneath a dark hood.
He feigned ignorance, paying the baker before departing with his baguette. Now that he had spotted his pursuer, he could see it was the same man he had seen that day when the attempt on Lafayette’s life had been made. It made it easy to pick him out in the crowd, despite his attempts to blend with the crowd, just as Connor would have if he had been the pursuer.
That gave him an idea. Connor waited until he was approaching a streetcorner, and then bumped into an irate-looking workman. When the man turned to snap at him it gave Connor and excuse to quicken his pace and duck around the corner. As quickly as he could, he scrambled up the wall and took refuge behind a chimney just as his pursuer, the hooded man, rounded the corner.
The hooded man paused at a bench, pretending to look at a street sign, presumably to hide his confusion at the disappearance of his target. Connor saw him scanning the crowd, and used it as an opportunity to switch to his sixth sense.
The world darkened, the passerby fading into a dull gray. He looked at the man, expecting the malevolent red glow that surrounded all of his enemies.
It wasn’t present. The hooded man merely glowed gray, like the passerby.
Connor blinked, letting the natural colors of the world show in his visions, and the bright auras fade away.
Who was this man?
After a minute or two longer the man shook his head and started to walk away. Connor followed him, over the rooftops. The hooded man led him on a winding route, through the streets and alleyways of Paris, for half an hour or so. He was clearly on edge, not so foolish as to be throwing glances over his shoulders, but tense and jumping at every unexpected sound. He stopped frequently, under the pretense of examining some wares from a peddler or giving a beggar some coins.
Yet he failed to notice Connor, and seemed completely oblivious to his actual pursuer as opposed to the ones in his mind. This emboldened Connor, and when the hooded men ventured into a particularly dense crowd, Connor slipped down the wall of an alley and pursued him on the road. He caught sight of him again, and jostled through the crowd towards him.
To Connor’s luck, the hooded back knocked into a worker carrying a crate of produce, making the man drop his burden and begin cursing rapidly. The hooded man tried to duck around this obstacle, but the man with the crate caught him by the arm, to spit obscenities in his face.
This gave Connor an opening to slip around and reach into the pocket of the hooded man’s coat. He delicately withdrew the piece of paper there, before retreating through the crowd and back to his vantage point on the rooftops.
He examined the piece of paper from his perch, leaning against the chimney of a bar. It was a folded letter. It was sealed with an unbroken seal of gray wax, bearing the unmistakable seal of the Templars.
He stared at it for a moment, and when he looked up the hooded man was nowhere to be seen. He dropped back down to the streets and continued in the direction the man had been taking, but did not see him again.
Connor cursed himself on the way back to the Hotel de Lafayette for his carelessness. He had let momentary excitement blind him, and lost who he knew must be a Templar, or a Templar informant. However, his mind kept stumbling over the man’s appearance in his six sense.
He would have to wait and see what the letter contained. He entered the Hotel de Lafayette through his window, as usual, to avoid the curious servants and general formality of returning to the house through a normal door. He set the letter on the desk in the room, and withdrew a small knife from his equipment.
Connor lit one of the candles sitting on the desk and heated the blade over the small flame, before using it to pry the seal off the letter, intact.
He put the seal down carefully on another piece of paper, and opened the letter. The script was careful, bearing only the barest flourish, very unlike the writing of anyone educated in a fine French school. This was a detail that was lost on Connor, as he was absorbed in the content of the letter.
JT
Complete your assignment within a fortnight. The Marquis de Lafayette must be dead within that period of time. Failure will not be tolerated on a second occasion.
Robespierre
Connor stared down at the paper for a second. So it was the Templars after all. That made things simple.
Still, thoughts nagged in the corners of his mind. Why had the man carrying this letter, presumably either a messenger or the recipient himself, JT, not appeared hostile in Connor’s sixth sense? Why would the Templars, with their professed goal to bring down the nobility, target Lafayette now when he was furthering the same goals as they were? Merely because of his wife?
It was easy to jump to the conclusion it was the Templars.
Perhaps the truth was not so clean.
^ is 6/?
(Anonymous) 2013-02-20 06:15 am (UTC)(link)Re: l'aigle et le révolutionnaire
(Anonymous) 2013-03-31 07:49 am (UTC)(link)