Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/893291.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Assassin's_Creed
  Relationship:
      Reginald_Birch/Haytham_Kenway, John_Harrison/Haytham_Kenway/Templar
      Officer_OC, Haytham_Kenway/Jim_Holden, Kaniehtí:io_|_Ziio/Haytham_Kenway,
      Ziio/Haytham_Kenway/Charles_Lee, Haytham_Kenway/Charles_Lee
  Character:
      Haytham_Kenway, Reginald_Birch, John_Harrison, Templar_Officer, Jim
      Holden, Kaniehtí:io_|_Ziio, Charles_Lee
  Additional Tags:
      Dubious_Consent, Non-Consensual, mentions_of_statutory_rape, Mentions_of
      Underage_Abuse, Anal, Double_Penetration, Blowjobs, handjobs, Violence,
      Death, Feels, Threesome, Fingering, Frotting, I'm_a_really_awful_person,
      More_Feels, More_tags_permitted_as_I_think_of_them, m/m_-_Freeform, M/M/
      M, M/F, F/M/M, Forsaken_spoilers
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-22 Completed: 2013-08-12 Chapters: 4/4 Words: 31904
****** He Who Makes a Beast Out of Himself ******
by CrimsonEnigma
Summary
     Haytham spent his life steeped in blood and deceit. It would be easy
     to lose his humanity--to become a proverbial monster. But once a man
     becomes a beast, there is no return. A companion fic to Thicker Than
     Water, regarding Haytham's struggles with his past relationships.
Notes
     Welcome readers! Although this fic is meant to divulge Haytham's past
     relationships for my other AC3 fic, Thicker Than Water, it can be
     read alone!
     But please be forewarned; this fic, particularly the first chapter,
     is very smutty and can be triggery. This first chapter is the most
     violent and explicit of the lot.
     Chapter specific pairings: Reginald Birch/Haytham Kenway; John
     Harrison/Haytham Kenway/Templar Officer OC
     Chapter specific warnings: Dub-con, Non-con, Mentions of statutory
     rape, Mentions of underage abuse, Double penetration, Blowjobs,
     Violence, Threesome, and Anal
      
     Enjoy!
***** Reginald Birch *****
“He who makes a beast out of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.”
–Hunter S. Thompson
Ch. 1
Reginald Birch
 
Haytham didn’t know exactly when it started.
He knew that he had been young and his body had been in the deepest stages of
puberty. Possibly he had been 12? 13? Yes, that sounded right. His voice was
cracking and hair had begun sprouting in places that it had no business
existing. His new growth spurts had proved irritating, turning his most
graceful counterattacks and movements into blundering stumbles and foolishness.
He had been but a boy. It had been a few days after his birthday that initiated
him fully into teenager-hood. He had turned the big 13 years of age and his
boyish chest puffed as he made the hurdle one step closer to becoming a man.
That was when Birch had first… It was when he had turned Haytham’s childhood
path down a rocky road of deceit and uncertainty for the second time.
Haytham had been frightened by the wandering hands and the harsh, whispered
sweet nothings. Birch had taken him in, had trained him, had educated and all
but accepted the task of raising Haytham. And now, he was doing something that
Haytham was certain that no adult should do to a child. But what could Haytham
do? He felt helpless under the weight of the man above him, who gave
breathless, slobbery apologies. Haytham knew how to fight and how to kill, but
how could he lash out against Birch? A part of Haytham loved Birch too fully
and unconditionally to push him away, even though he knew that this was wrong.
So Haytham accepted the situation.
As the years wore by, it didn’t hurt as much, physically or otherwise. It
became as close to normal as it could be for them. In the daylight, Reginald
Birch was a caring, but demanding, mentor and guardian. But at night, he became
something else, something that only Haytham was privy to witness. At times, his
own acceptance of the strange, utterly wrong situation startled Haytham. Other
times, it sickened him. And sometimes, it comforted him. Even if no one else in
the world could love him, then Haytham at least knew he had Birch’s feelings to
himself. Reginald had told him as much; he whispered his sweet poison in
Haytham’s ear, he let him know that no one else could possibly love a child so
damaged—no one else but him.
When they finally settled down at the chateau in France, Haytham was frightened
that the whole staff would know of his and Birch’s strange relationship. But if
they did know, then they said nothing. Haytham knew that at least some of them
had heard his desperate cries during the night, as Birch fucked him ruthlessly
into the mattress. They must have. And yet still…they said nothing.
Haytham grew older and his body filled and finally reached full manhood. He
made his first official assassination and was rewarded with a particularly
satisfying fuck. He was old enough now to where he could even dare think of
himself and Birch as lovers. They could talk for hours on end, discussing
politics and Templar plans. They could train until they were both sweaty and
fatigued. And they could whisper to each other in the dark, where no one could
hear them beneath the blankets. Haytham could dare say that they were lovers.
But he soon found that perception was wrong. It was only an illusion.
“Haytham, so glad that you could make it!” Birch greeted from a chair in his
study, setting down his half drained glass of wine. Haytham surveyed the room.
He had received a letter that morning firmly instructing him to meet with
Reginald Birch at 8pm. Normally, such letters meant that they were to lie
together, and that Haytham should prepare and lubricate himself in advance. But
this time, Birch was not alone. There were two gentlemen seated in their
respective chairs by the fire, each with wine in his hand.
“Good evening, gentlemen. I didn’t know that we were expecting company. My
apologies for my lack of manners. I am Haytham Kenway,” Haytham forced himself
into an immediate calm and set his hat on the end table. Birch had probably
meant to introduce Haytham to more Templars and speak of plans and
assassinations. It was an honest mistake to read too deeply between the lines
of the simple letter. After all, he had just uncovered Jack Digweed’s location
the day before and had finally talked Birch into joining him on the journey.
Birch probably needed someone to look after his assets while he was away and
thus, these gentlemen were possibly the candidates. That was likely all. Yes,
that was all.
“Oh nonsense, Haytham! Your manners are impeccable as always! Now where were
we, oh yes! Haytham, I’ve told you about John Harrison before, yes? John, meet
Haytham,” Birch motioned from a fellow with dark hair to his protégé. “Ah yes,
and this is Harold Smith!” Another motion from the other man to Haytham.
Harrison eyed him hungrily and Haytham found himself immediately disliking the
man.
“Aye, is he every bit the fightin’ dog you claim, Birch? He does look the
part,” Harrison drained his wine and Haytham found himself straightening his
back, as if to make a point. Yes, he was a good fighter. And to know that Birch
spoke highly of him filled him with a blossom of pride.
“Of course. As soon as an enemy lets Haytham get the upper hand, then the poor
fool’s as good as dead!” Birch praised, much to Haytham’s thrill. “But you
should be able to handle him. He’s obedient when the correct…pressure is
applied.”
Haytham’s stomach sank just a bit. Perhaps Birch was going to have him work
with other Templars for a while? That was plausible, but something about the
way that his mentor said those words made Haytham’s skin crawl.
“Boy, you should sit while in the presence of the Grandmaster,” Harold Smith, a
man with shaggy blond hair and too few teeth, urged. It was a strange request,
considering that there were no more chairs in the study to sit upon.
“No thank you, I think that I’ll stand,” Haytham made a conscious effort not to
fidget. He had to prove that Birch’s opinion of his strength was true. And his
instincts told him that he would soon be tested.
“Sir, what would you have me do?” Haytham asked Reginald Birch.
Birch picked up his glass of wine once more and swirled the blood red contents
with a smooth appreciation. He sipped it, drew it from his lips, and grinned
something awful.
“Obey.”
Haytham’s brows furrowed and he felt his body tense in retaliation. John
Harrison and Harold Smith stood and moved silently towards Haytham. “I don’t
understand, Sir,” Haytham protested calmly, wishing at once that he hadn’t left
his short sword in his quarters. Harrison and Smith were both behind him. He
could smell the wine.
“I told you to obey, Haytham. Now do not embarrass me, not in front of my
friends,” Birch commanded, his voice firm and leaving no room for argument.
Haytham’s heart was hammering in his chest. He had a fleeting certainty that
the men behind him could hear it, that they could feel it. “What is the meaning
of this?” he snarled between gritted teeth, his hands clenching and his knees
softening in preparation to defend himself.
“The meaning, Haytham?” Birch finished his glass of wine and stood only to
refill it. “The meaning is that you obey me. I want you to do whatever these
men want of you. And I want to watch. That’s the meaning, Haytham. I ask for
your complete and total obedience, nothing more and nothing less.”
“Now,” Birch sat again, adjusting himself so that he could see everything
before him. “Kneel.”
Haytham’s heart stopped. He could swear that it must have stopped because he
had the awful realization of what was happening, of what Birch wanted out of
him. It must be punishment for seeking out Digweed without consulting the
Grandmaster first. It had to be. He pulled his lips back into a snarl.
“No.”
Haytham spun around, fist flying at Smith’s ribs. They connected with a soft
huff of air and Haytham ducked the punch from Harrison. He threw himself
forward with a roar, tackling Harrison to the floor and pressing a knee into
his abdomen. Rolling to the side, he quickly stood and raised his forearms in
time to block a hit from the blond man. The three men grappled for a few more
heartbeats before Birch cleared his throat none-too-discreetly.
“HAYTHAM KENWAY! CEASE THIS FOOLISHNESS!” he bellowed as he rose from the
chair. Haytham hesitated, only for a moment. But that moment was all Harrison
needed to kick the back of Haytham’s knees. The young man crumpled to the
floor.
“I have fed you, I have sheltered you, I have loved you and raised you and
provided everything that you have ever needed and THIS is how your repay me!”
Birch didn’t need to stomp or storm about. The soft footfalls sounded like
thunder to Haytham’s ears as his mentor paced in front of him. “You have wanted
for nothing! And THIS is how you throw my generosity to the wind! You clearly,
blatantly disobey me in front of other Templars!”
Birch crouched to grasp Haytham’s jaw, forcing him to look up at his furious
mentor. “Who am I, Haytham Kenway? TELL ME!”
Haytham felt a tremble of fear shake his frame. It was small, almost
imperceptible, but Birch would know. “You are the Grandmaster of the British
Rite,” he responded the best he could with his jaw in a vice grip.
“And what does a good little Templar do when the Grandmaster gives him direct
orders?!”
Haytham swallowed, his gaze falling away from Birch’s watery gray eyes. “He
obeys.”
“And what will you do you for me, Haytham?” Birch continued, his voice hardly
above a whisper. “After all I have given you, after all that I have sacrificed
for you, what will you do for me?”
This was wrong. Haytham knew that this was wrong and yet his mind only created
escape plans with naught but dead ends. Birch had killed more men than Haytham
could imagine. He could just as easily snap Haytham’s neck and be done with his
impudence. Or even if Haytham somehow did get past Birch, he still had the
other two Templars in the room to contend with. They were good fighters. They
were strong. Haytham had never felt so trapped in his life.
“…I will obey you,” Haytham finally conceded, his eyes closing in defeat.
Birch smiled. “Good. You are a good boy, Haytham.” He finally released his
pupil’s jaw and sauntered back to his easy chair. Once nestled into the soft
warmth, Birch took up his wine glass once more. “Now Haytham, first I want you
to pleasure these men. With your mouth.”
Haytham’s breath hitched in his throat and he felt stomach acid rising to his
mouth at the idea of placing his mouth on another man’s dick. It was one thing
to suck Birch off, it was another to please a stranger. Harrison circled around
Haytham, his breeches already undone.
“Well go on, boy. And don’t you dare think of biting. I’ll cut out that sassy
tongue of yours if I so much think that you’re getting too many ideas,”
Harrison growled, pulling his half hard cock out of his trousers.
Haytham swallowed acid back yet again and took a deep breath. If he refused,
then he was certain that they would find a way to force him anyways. He just
needed to play along. Perhaps this was some sort of test, some sort of awful,
horrible test.
Haytham took Harrison’s cock into his hands and stroked.
Harrison hissed quietly, his fingers kneading into Haytham’s scalp. If he was
trying to be reassuring, the attempt was laughable. But Haytham still pumped
the elder man’s dick, working it into full erection. “With your mouth,”
Harrison growled, pushing against the back of Haytham’s head to spur him into
action. Haytham grunted angrily and withdrew his hand for a moment to spit on
his palm. He returned his grasp to the shaft in front of him and stroked until
Harrison’s cock glistened. Harrison pushed against the back of his head again,
harder this time. His cock rubbed against Haytham’s cheek, smearing some of the
precum and saliva. Another shove, and this time Haytham finally opened his jaws
and took the tip of Harrison’s penis into his mouth.
The young Templar ignored the sour taste and focused on the job at hand. The
sooner that he could get these men off, then the sooner he would be left alone
and all debts to Birch would be paid. He could leave the chateau. He could run
away. But for now, he just needed to get through this. He could do it. He was
strong and had been through worse. He could do this.
Harrison gripped onto Haytham’s hair almost painfully as he snapped his hips
against his face. Haytham’s eyebrows screwed in concentration as he relaxed his
throat to accommodate Harrison’s full length. Just when he was certain that
Harrison would come, the elder Templar withdrew his dick from Haytham’s swollen
lips. A thin string of saliva followed the motion until it snapped.
“Come on, you can’t just be spoiling John,” Harold Smith said, pressing the
head of his weeping dick against Haytham’s cheek. “You need to be pleasing both
of us. Don’t forget that, boy.”
Haytham glared at the blond man, who responded in turn by slapping his cock
against Haytham’s face.
“Keep them eyes to yourself, boy. I’ve never heard of a blind Templar doing
much good for the order,” Smith threatened.
Haytham growled inwardly, rage and indignation tightening in his chest. He took
one dick in each hand and stroked them both. His tongue lathed one cock, then
the other, moving back and forth fluidly.
It wasn’t until he had Harrison’s cock in his mouth that he knew that the man
was on the edge. He gripped Haytham’s skull again and ruthlessly thrust into
his mouth. Haytham gripped tightly to the man’s hips, trying to just focus on
breathing, when he felt the hot seed spill down his throat. He coughed around
Harrison’s dick as the elder Templar rode out his orgasm. When Harrison pulled
away, Haytham was certain that he was going to vomit. His stomach churned like
an ocean wave and he fought to just breathe. Smith insisted that Haytham finish
the job before catching his breath, however. Haytham did as he was instructed
and sucked the blond Templar to completion. However, rather than ejaculating in
Haytham’s aching mouth, Smith pulled back at the last moment and came on
Haytham’s face. The thick semen dripped down his cheek and from his eyelashes.
He grimaced in disgust, fished a handkerchief from his coat pocket, and wiped
it away.
The two Templars pulled back, sated and rubbing Haytham’s scalp as if he were a
good dog. A slow clap came from the easy chair that Birch sat upon. He rubbed
the sporting bulge between his legs and readjusted.
“Yes, that was a good show. At least, for the opening act,” Birch grinned.
Haytham felt his heart sink further and he stood in protest.
“That is enough. This sort of conduct violates Templar codes. It is the sort of
behavior reserved for beasts, at best,” Haytham snarled, throwing the dirtied
handkerchief to the floor. It fluttered to the nice rug, dirty side down.
Birch’s eye twitched a little as his rug was defiled. His cold, gray eyes
shifted up until he stared at Haytham. “And what do you know of Templar codes,
hm? You speak as if you know the ways of the world, but you are ignorant.
You’re only a child, barely a month past 21, who has been sheltered and cared
for his whole life. You know nothing, boy. This world is not fair. It is not
just. And for you to expect it forthwith is laughable at best.”
Birch motioned to the two other Templars again. They closed around Haytham,
making him feel more claustrophobic than ever before.
“Men need to be controlled. They yearn to be controlled, Haytham. You know
this! You know that control is the only way to achieve peace in this world.”
“But not like this,” Haytham gritted out from between his teeth, eyes darting
from one enemy to the next. “Templars must be nobler than this.”
“Ideally, yes. But not everyone will respond to the same methods of control.
For the more…rebellious type, we must take extreme measures. We must ensure
complete obedience, even if we make monsters out of ourselves.”
“Templars are not villains!”
“Oh Haytham, how young and naïve you still are. Assassins and Templars…” Birch
took another drink of his wine and stood. He turned his back to them and pulled
open a drawer in a nearby bookcase. “We are all villains.”
Haytham felt his voice catch in his throat. He had sparred against the other
swordsmen of the chateau. He had won every encounter. The only man he ever lost
to was Birch, in both sword and words. And now, he could not fight back the
searing burn of defeat. He could not win this encounter.
He glared at the other Templars. They were older, stronger, and more seasoned
than Haytham. But Haytham was younger and faster. He could use that to his
advantage. Birch may have defeated him, but he would not fall so easily to
these arrogant hypocrites.
“Since our guest is proving more willful than we thought, I don’t believe that
he’ll be disrobing himself voluntarily,” Birch said whilst digging through a
drawer that held the ‘playthings’ he would use with his young pupil. “John,
Harold; undress him. Do as you will, just don’t break his body. We need to ride
out in the morning.”
Haytham didn’t waste another second. He ducked to the side and swept up behind
Harold Smith to deliver a hard punch to his kidney. Smith gasped and elbowed
the place where Haytham had been. Haytham gave a good, hard whack to the back
of Smith’s neck, hoping to knock him out with the blow. Smith crumpled to the
ground with a shout of pain, but he was not unconscious.
Harrison dove at Haytham, a short knife unsheathed and ready to strike. Haytham
caught the Templar’s wrist and wrestled it.
“You won’t be so high and mighty when we mess up that pretty face of yours,”
Harrison sneered, regardless of Birch’s warning to not cause permanent physical
damage. He shoved Haytham against the heavy oak door to the study, rancid
breath hot against the younger Templar’s face. Haytham gave a shout of fury and
thrust his knee hard into Harrison’s groin. Harrison’s face purpled immediately
and he turned to the side, allowing Haytham to stumble away from the door.
However, he grabbed the back of Haytham’s frock coat and wrenched it from his
shoulders.
Haytham twisted as his arms were caught behind his back. He tried to finish
pulling his coat off when a heavy blow hit the side of his head, making him
reel. Smith coupled his fists together and hit Haytham again, sending the young
Templar to his knees.
Haytham’s vision swam as he felt the buttons on his waistcoat pop off and his
undershirt was sliced down the middle. The room was spinning and his fingers
felt tingly and numb.
“I said to undress him, not concuss him!” Birch snapped; his voice sounded like
it was underwater. Haytham distantly realized that he would have quite the
goose egg on his head once this was said and done.
He could feel cold air on his legs as his boots and breeches were stripped
away. Panic snapped him away from his daze and he struggled, kicking and
squirming as the two Templars tried to pin him down. Finally, his arms were
free of his coat and clothing. He fought for control, trying to push the
Templars, or hit them or smack them or scratch them, anything! He struggled
like a wild animal caught in a snare, curses flying like growls from his lips.
But Haytham was flipped onto his belly and his arms were wrenched behind his
back. A rope bound his wrists together. A disgusted sneer pulled on Haytham’s
lips. It was the same linen rope that Birch would use on his pupil when they
were feeling rambunctious. The irony was not lost on him.
“Reginald!” Haytham roared into the rug. “Reginald! Cease this madness! You
have made your point!”
Haytham received no response from his mentor. Only the hissing whisper of
Harold Smith replied, “No, I don’t think that he has yet, Princess. You’re too
wily for your own good. You need to be taught a lesson in obedience.”
Haytham snarled and Smith looped the young Templar’s discarded cravat around
his mouth. He pulled it between Haytham’s teeth and tied it taut behind his
head. Smith grinned at his handiwork and pressed the side of Haytham’s head
into the rug again. He leaned half of his weight onto the young Templar’s upper
back, making it hard to breathe and struggle at once. Harrison gripped
Haytham’s hips and raised them until he was on his knees and his back was bowed
painfully.
Haytham screwed up his face and tried to twist away as he felt cold, oily
fingers rub against the cleft of his ass. This was happening. This was really
happening. He was really going to be raped and there was nothing that he could
do about it. The one person he might have relied on to save him sat in a plush
chair across the room, a glass of wine in one hand and his cock in the other.
Haytham was alone. He shouted into the carpet as one digit shoved inside of
him.
“Now, now, boy. Don’t be so tense. You’ll only hurt yourself,” Harrison chided
mockingly as he moved his finger in and out of Haytham’s body.
“Ha, you’d think with how often Grandmaster Birch fucks him, that he’d be a
little looser! Innit right, Princess? You got all spoiled with the
Grandmaster’s cock that now you can’t stand another?” Smith gave a sharp smack
to Haytham’s rear.
“And it looks like he even fasted and prepared himself for our special
occasion! Little bitch was probably looking forward to getting his ass pounded
tonight. He just didn’t know by whom!” Harrison chuckled darkly, adding a
second, then a third finger in rapid succession.
Haytham growled around the makeshift gag in his mouth, feeling his cheeks
redden with embarrassment and rage. Horror wrestled in his gut alongside the
shame and fury. It made him want to vomit, but with a gag in his mouth, he was
bound to choke. Even though this was a wretched situation, Haytham still had no
intention of dying. He would make these men suffer. He swore it to himself that
one day, he would kill them both. It would go against their code to kill a
brother in arms, but Haytham could make it look like it was an accident. Or
else he could make it look like an enemy. Regardless, he could and would kill
them. And as for Birch…
Haytham’s body jerked as he felt the tip of Harrison’s cock press against his
ass. He sucked in a deep breath through his nose, wishing beyond wishes that
this horrific nightmare would end there. But no. Haytham was not so lucky.
Harrison pushed inside of his reluctant body with a satisfied groan. Haytham
jerked in pain at the sudden intrusion and buried his face into the rug.
“Oi, how is he? Is he tight?” Smith asked, his nails digging into Haytham’s
shoulders as he held the younger Templar down.
Harrison’s head dropped back in ecstasy as he thrust into the unwilling body
below him. “Fuck yes he is. The little bitch is clenching. I can see why the
Grandmaster likes his ass so much.”
“Well then finish the hell up. I want my turn. I wanna fuck him ‘til he
screams,” Smith grinned wickedly.
“I’m going to take my time. Deal with it,” Harrison grunted, hips snapping
languidly into their captive.
Smith didn’t seem too happy with that answer. For a moment, his nails bit
angrily into Haytham’s back before relaxing once more. “Finger him. Finger him
while you fuck him. See how much this bitch can take.”
“For once, that’s a good idea you’ve had, Smith,” Harrison reached his hand
down to Haytham’s face. Even though the younger Templar couldn’t suck around
the gag in his mouth, saliva was dribbling from his parted lips. Harrison
slathered his fingers in the mess and withdrew them. He pulled his dick out
partway and, with a freshly wet finger beside it, thrust back in.
Haytham jerked in surprise and squeezed his eyes shut. Birch had done something
like that before. He had fingered him while fucking him, using two and
sometimes three extra digits alongside his cock. Haytham knew that his body
wouldn’t break. It hurt, but he could handle pain. Pain was easy to
compartmentalize and file away like a stack of invoices. But it still felt so
wrong. These men were not allowed to touch him! And yet they were ravaging him,
making him feel as if he were going to fall apart at the seams.
“Damn, he’s taking two fingers and my cock already! Little slut!” Harrison
crowed. It made Harold Smith fidget a little more and he kneaded the skin he
was holding down.
“Do you think he could take two cocks? He seems hungry for them,” Smith growled
lowly.
“Go, clear off the Grandmaster’s desk. We’ll find out,” Harrison released
Haytham’s hip and set his hand on the back of his skull. He fucked him slowly
and smoothly, hissing between his teeth whenever he was fully sheathed and
pulling out with a faint groan. Then, Harrison pulled out completely.
Haytham sucked in deep breaths as he rolled disobediently to his side. His body
was shaking with rage and fear and pain and he tried to scoot backwards, away
from the Templars intent on raping him.
“Now, now, you’re not allowed to go anywhere yet, boy. You’re still our guest
of honor,” Harrison gripped onto Haytham’s leg and dragged him nearer. Still,
Haytham struggled as the two men tried to move him over to the desk. It wasn’t
until Smith whacked the younger Templar over the head again that they managed
to move his sagging body with relative ease.
Harrison lay across the desk as he maneuvered Haytham’s limp body onto his lap.
A quick thrust into the oiled heat was enough to have the younger man snarling
again. Harrison gripped onto the backs of Haytham’s knees, causing the man to
fall across Harrison’s chest face first. He gently thrust his hips into the
inviting warmth, cooing words of encouragement into Haytham’s ear. He could
feel the youngest Templar’s body shudder against him as Smith lined his cock up
and pressed in slowly alongside Harrison.
A wounded, guttural, cry tore itself from Haytham’s parted lips. His entire
body seemed to convulse, trying to get rid of the intrusions. Smith held
Haytham’s hips in place, muttering dirty and filthy words as he fucked him.
“God, he’s so tight with both of us. Fuck fuck fuck, he’s just taking two
dicks! Princess likes his cock, doesn’t he? You can’t be satisfied with just
one, but you’ve gotta take two up the ass, is that it, Princess?” Smith goaded.
Haytham twisted his wrists against their bonds. His body was shaking like a
leaf and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. His throat was tight, but his
body suddenly forgot how to scream. He felt like he was going split, as if his
body was going to snap into two! Tears prickled at the corner of his eyes, but
he refused to let them fall. These bastards would not get such weakness from
him. They might ravage his body, but they would not take his mind. He comforted
himself with thoughts of murdering these bastards. He would do worse to them.
He would make them beg for mercy before the end of it and he would make them
suffer. Not today, no, Reginald was watching. But they would answer for their
transgressions.
Haytham groaned piteously into the gag as Smith picked up his pace. He felt his
rear protest to the treatment, to the utter fullness enveloping his nerves.
Smith’s breath became ragged and short as he leaned over Haytham’s body. His
blunt nails dug into the youngest Templar’s hips, no doubt leaving bruises and
half-moon marks dotting his skin. Then finally, gratefully, Smith shot his
load. Haytham could feel the warmth spurting inside of him. The heat was almost
unbearable—searing and burning and far too warm—as the blond Templar thrust
with abandon, his hips having lost all rhythm.
Then, once finally spent, he slowly removed himself with more grunts and
pleased curses. Haytham sucked in a breath as he felt some of the pressure
relieved. The sharp agony that had felt like shards of glass was replaced with
a heavy throb.
“Sit him up,” Harrison grunted, his voice flustered and heated.
Smith pulled Haytham upright, leaving behind a trail of saliva that had
collected on Harrison’s shoulder. He leaned Haytham’s back against him, making
him kneel, as Harrison gripped onto Haytham’s hips and fucked him hard.
Haytham screwed his eyes shut, turning his head to the side as Harrison pulled
his ass flush against him and came. More semen joined the initial mess and
Haytham had a feeling that he could never be clean again.
Mumbling sated words of contentment, Harrison withdrew himself and rolled
Haytham onto the desk. Haytham thought about kicking them as they moved away,
but he hurt too much. His body was aching and his hands felt numb below his
wrists. Only revenge addled fantasies comforted the young Templar as the other
men dressed once more.
“My poor, sweet love,” Birch cooed, his breath laden with alcohol. Haytham
jerked as the Grandmaster caressed his sweaty, spit-smeared cheek. “If only you
had been more obedient, then none of this would have been necessary.” He untied
the gag and threw it to the side. Haytham worked his jaw a few times, grateful
that he could finally stop drooling all over himself. But he said nothing.
“You need only to obey me, my love. Obey my every whim, my every desire, and
you will be spared the pain of these lessons,” Birch tenderly rubbed Haytham’s
hips. The young Templar realized that Birch was still hard. A flare of panic
rose in his throat, but he was too tired to fight. He just hurt far too much
and his mind was still reeling.
Haytham found himself on his back, the edge of the desk digging into his spine,
as Birch mounted him. Haytham’s ass protested and he bit his lip to hold back
the cry of pain.
“These men, these wretched men, they only pleased themselves. They didn’t think
about your pleasure, not for one moment,” Birch continued as he moved his hips
at just the right angle to make Haytham’s eyes roll. His bound hands clawed at
the desk beneath him, whether seeking purchase or escape, he didn’t know.
“Only I can make you feel good. Only I can give you what you need,” Birch took
Haytham’s cock in hand and worked it until Haytham was certain that all the
blood in his brain had flown south. How was Haytham still able to get hard in
this situation? He ignored the nausea and took in a ragged breath. He was
little better than a whore. His father would be ashamed and disgusted. Tears
prickled at the edges of his eyes.
“Haytham, my love, you have no idea how much you mean to me… It pains me to see
others touch you. It hurts me more than it hurts you. I love you so much, so
very, very much,” Birch whispered his poison into Haytham’s ear.
Haytham’s back arched as Birch hit that spot again. It made him see stars and
for a moment, nothing else mattered but achieving release. It would be like
waking from a bad dream or drinking cool water when lost in the desert. Haytham
needed to come and Birch knew every spot on his pupil’s body to make him lose
control. Every thrust and caress was measured and smooth. Haytham’s body was a
map and Birch was the cartographer. Haytham heard himself moan as he wrapped
his legs around Birch’s back, his hips rolling to meet with his lover’s. Tears
finally made a hot, wet trail down his cheeks as he cried out for more, more,
more.
Distantly, he heard Harold Smith and John Harrison talking in awed, disgusted
voices about the display before them. They called Haytham an animal. They
called him a woman for liking cock up his ass. They called him a sodomite and
for a moment, for a brief fleeting moment, Haytham didn’t care. He keened
loudly as he came, spurts of semen dotting his twitching abdomen. Birch
orgasmed a moment later, releasing himself inside Haytham.
Haytham could feel the fatigue wearing on him as Birch pulled out. A mess
dribbled down Haytham’s thigh and Birch wiped away his tears as if Haytham were
13 years old again. He was rolled to the side and his hands were unbound. His
wrists were bloody and bruised, but there would be no permanent damage.
Birch hovered over him, a fresh house coat in one hand, and kissed Haytham
deeply. The two let their tongues intertwine before Birch pulled away in shock
and surprise. Haytham had bitten him.
The young Templar’s gaze was flinty and unreadable as he regarded his former
mentor and lover. His tears had dried and his lips were stained red from the
nasty bite to his Grandmaster. Birch breathed deep, waiting for the dam to
break.
Haytham stared him in the eyes, all trace of fear suppressed. His voice was
low, dangerous, and heavy with unspoken threats.
“Don’t ever touch me again.”
And with that, Haytham stood, painfully and tenderly, and snatched the house
coat out of Birch’s hand. He slipped the robe on, shoved his way past the other
Templars, and went down the hallway to the wash room.
In the morning, he would be leaving to track down Jack Digweed, with or without
Birch. Things could never be the same between the Grandmaster and Haytham, but
that was for the best. Haytham could not afford any more interruptions.
***** Jim Holden *****
Chapter Notes
     This fic only follows a loose chronology, so my apologies for the
     errant time-skipping adventures!
     Chapter Specific Pairings: Haytham Kenway/Jim Holden
     Chapter Specific Warnings: Handjobs, fluff, violence, suicide, death,
     angst, feels
Ch. 2
Jim Holden
 
Haytham made a face at the bland stew sitting stagnant in his bowl. It looked
downright awful and it tasted worse. He prodded the thick, gelatinous masses
that were floating like bloated bodies and suddenly, he felt his appetite
wither.
“You should eat to keep up your strength, Mister Kenway.” Private Jim Holden, a
bright-eyed, ginger-haired youth from Braddock’s troops, said. Even though the
suggestion itself was harmless, Haytham couldn’t help but cast a disdainful
glance to Holden. The lad was eagerly supping down his own soup as if it was a
meal fit for a king. “Just pretend that it’s a fine venison stew, with thick
cut vegetables and potatoes and all the right seasonings swimming around in
it,” Holden complimented his imaginary stew with a smack of his lips.
Haytham tried to entertain the notion for a moment, he really did try. But with
a defeated sigh, he just cast his bowl aside, pushing it towards Holden. “I’ll
eat later,” he said dryly.
Holden opened his mouth to protest, but he closed it with a quirk of his lips.
He accepted the bowl of stew and gave Haytham his chunk of bread. “An even
trade then, Sir,” Holden’s eyes twinkled mischievously and Haytham knew in an
instant that the lad would not take ‘no’ for an answer.
It had been a few months since Haytham last saw Birch; he left him behind with
Digweed’s cooling corpse to pursue the pointy eared man. Haytham thought to
return to the chateau—he did miss a warm bed and clean clothes—but Birch would
be there, waiting. Though living in Braddock’s army was the closest thing that
Haytham could imagine to hell on earth, it was not completely unbearable. It
got him away from Reginald Birch. At this point, just the thought of his former
mentor made shudders of revulsion, fear, and unwanted desire rattle him. He
couldn’t look at the other men without wondering if they somehow, inexplicably
knew. Haytham couldn’t be like them, with their shirts off in the hot summer
and bragging about the women they’ve fucked in their youth. He carried an
irrational fear in his chest. Perhaps just by looking at him, just by standing
a moment in Haytham’s presence, they would know that Haytham had spent his
teenage years sleeping with an older man. Perhaps they’d know he had been
raped.
But no one knew. He passed under their noses, labeled as a pretentious snob
rather than a sodomite. Haytham was fine with that. He would be the elitist
that they assumed. Such an air kept people at arm’s length, kept them away from
him. While the loneliness was frustrating at times, Haytham was accustomed to
seclusion. His father had hidden his whole family away in a manor. Birch hid
him in a chateau. Now, he could hide amongst an army. It wasn’t so bad, and the
situation was made more tolerable yet since Holden began sharing a tent with
him.
At first, the Templar had rejected the notion of daring to share his quarters,
with another person. But as space became limited and tents became more and more
scarce, Haytham decided that bunking with Holden was better than sleeping near
any of the other soldiers and mercenaries. Jim Holden was loud and talkative.
He filled up the quiet evenings by rambling about his home in London. The lad
was careful to dodge around the topic of his dead brother, but that was to be
expected. After all, Holden wanted justice just as much as Haytham did.
When Haytham first arrived to the camp, after having narrowly dodged being hung
at a makeshift gallows, he had searched high and low for information on the
pointy eared man. Out of the entire ranks, only Holden came forward to speak.
The information he had bordered on sheer madness, but what twisted truth didn’t
sound insane? The pointy eared man had been one of Braddock’s personal
soldiers. And one of Braddock’s personal soldiers happened to sentence Holden’s
elder brother to death at the gallows for stealing a bit of stew. Holden wanted
justice for his brother’s needless death as much as Haytham wanted revenge for
his father’s murder.
So if there was anyone in the entire camp to make friends with, it was Private
Jim Holden.
Of course, Haytham had to pretend to become far too preoccupied with Braddock’s
expeditions. He had to seem as if he had dropped his search for his father’s
killer in order to lull the mad General into a twitchy sense of security. So
far, it was working. And he was gaining a true comrade in the process.
Though Holden was annoying and loud and he snored at night, he was still a fine
friend. His optimism, though painful at times, was like a ray of sunshine after
too many rainy days. Despite the horrors of war weighing on his shoulders, the
ginger-haired man always had something to smile about and seemed to strive to
make Haytham’s lip quirk at the strangest times. It was entirely infuriating
and maddeningly endearing at once.
So it wasn’t much of a surprise when Haytham found himself attracted to the red
headed buffoon. Moths always flocked to the flame. Of course, Haytham had no
intention of being burned. He tried to distract himself in the campaigns
through Europe. He immersed himself in his work. Working was easier than
thinking about such wretched things as emotions. And thinking about that was
even easier than actually feeling them. As long as everything was in a plain,
objective, light, then Haytham was fine. He was fine with campaigning alongside
the irritatingly murderous Braddock, he was fine with trying a different,
simpler lifestyle, and he was fine about his and Reginald’s rather disastrous
falling out. Besides, Holden didn’t deserve the shame that Haytham’s feelings
would bring. Being fancied by another man wasn’t something to be proud of.
He didn’t suspect that Holden also yearned for him.
The first time that they had…physical interaction, Haytham figured that it was
mutual base, animal need. It had been a long time since they had camped
anywhere near town. Usually when Haytham felt that anxious stirring in him, he
would slip into the nearest bar to find a nameless woman for the night. He
wasn’t technically enlisted in Braddock’s army, so no harm would come to him
for leaving camp. And sometimes, the soldiers would bring back a handful of
prostitutes for their own needs.
But for months, the troops had been waiting out the winter in camp. It was only
natural for the men to seek comfort in the palm of their hands after so long
without the warmth of another body. Haytham himself had been too involved in
his fantasy of firm, bouncing breasts and a tight canal around his cock that he
didn’t notice when Holden first entered the tent.
It wasn’t until Holden gently pulled the Templar’s soiled hand away from his
spent loins that Haytham froze in realization.
“Seems you’ve gone and made a mess of yourself, Sir,” Holden commented. Though
his voice was light, his eyes were heavy with lust and his tone strained with
need. The redhead took Haytham’s hand into his mouth, licking away the evidence
of his private party.
Haytham blinked, first in shock, then in fear, and finally in rage as he
recoiled. Holden took a brief moment to be surprised, but then sighed.
“Perhaps this was a bit too soon…” Holden lamented.
For once in his life, Haytham was lost for intelligible words. He quickly
stuffed himself back into his breeches. “Sodomy is illegal,” he hissed quietly.
“So’s murder,” Holden replied with a shrug. He knew of Haytham’s occupation as
a Templar. He knew that they killed outside the law.
But even though his advance had been smashed flat, Holden still saw a glimmer
of hope. Haytham only pointed out the legal aspect of sodomy, rather than
blatantly arguing his sexual orientation. And now, the Templar was too ruffled
to do much else than quickly throw on his coat over the other layers of
clothing.
Holden smiled and flopped back onto his bedroll. He languidly fingered the hem
of his waistcoat, just barely lifting it above his breeches. “It’s only natural
for a man to need to take some time for himself, Sir,” he lazily undid the
laces on his breeches and reached inside. “Everyone needs a –ah!—needs a hand
every now and then…”
Haytham was still wrestling his boot on, but the fight was far less determined
than before. His cold eyes drifted up to watch as Holden arched into his own
hand. His mouth was suddenly far too dry and he wetted his lips. The lad’s
voice was hushed, but the eager sighs of pleasure sounded like waves thundering
through Haytham’s ears.
“You’re going to get caught and hung in the gallows,” Haytham growled.
“Only if you tattle on me, Sir,” Holden’s words were breathy with need and even
though it was likely exaggerated for Haytham’s pleasure, the Templar still felt
himself magnetically attracted to the soldier. This was wrong. His mind
screamed at him to stop—shouting reminders that attraction to another male was
unnatural. He was suddenly a step closer to Holden. Then another step closer,
one boot on and one boot forgotten by his bedroll. And another step.
Holden smiled at him, his forehead beginning to shine with the slightest bit of
sweat even in this frigid weather.
That was all that it took for Haytham to fall to his knees over the redheaded
man, brusquely shooing away Holden’s hand. He gripped the plump cock under him,
suddenly finding that he felt like he was on fire and at the same time,
freezing in shame.
Holden rolled his hips into Haytham’s fist with an encouraging smile.
“Please, Sir. Do as you wish.”
Haytham’s mind—his glorious, quick-witted mind—immediately numbed as he
fiercely took Holden’s lips with his own, swallowing the groan of need from the
redhead. His own cock was reawakening as he stroked the other man. It had been
too long since he felt pleasure. Holden met the desperate kiss with an eager
tongue. He palmed Haytham through his breeches, enticing the other man’s cock
to come out and play.
Haytham felt a heady rush of excitement as his dick was reintroduced to
another’s touch. It was unfamiliar frightening with another man, yes, but he
was determined. This was different. He was in control. He was kneeling above
Holden and fisting his cock as he pleased. There were no barked orders and no
rushed apologies. Haytham was in control.
He nipped Holden’s lip, his breath unnaturally harsh in his ears. “You’re quite
intent on giving me a ‘hand’, hm?” he husked.
“A good man always returns his favors,” Holden whispered, finally untying
Haytham’s breeches again and stroking the impressive length.
Haytham grunted as his heated flesh was fisted in time with his own hand. The
two men’s breaths were ragged and hushed as they neared completion. Their hips
were rolling and grinding into each other’s hands like horny teenagers having
their first romp. It felt like sheer bliss and yet it was terrifying at the
same time, as if he were running straight for a mountain ledge. He felt as if
he could throw himself over and never hit the bottom of the ravine—such was the
vastness of his fright and delight.
Holden’s body tensed and Haytham could feel the base of his balls drawing up
against his body. Covering the redhead’s mouth with his own yet again, he
swallowed the eager cries of his partner. Cum jetted between their bodies,
thoroughly soiling their waistcoats, as Holden trembled against Haytham. His
hand was a vice on the Templar’s shoulder, hard enough to bruise, as if he were
holding onto Haytham for dear life. Holden broke the kiss to suck in a breath
of air, still rolling his hips and riding out the vestiges of his orgasm.
Haytham kissed the side of Holden’s mouth again, his eyebrows drawn together in
concentration as he ground his erection into the soldier’s slackened grip.
Holden blinked, and with a small quirk of his lip, remembered to finish Haytham
off. His hand was fast and hard as it pulled at Haytham’s erection. The Templar
wrenched his eyes shut and fisted the bedroll beneath them and his toes were
curling as he came into Holden’s hand. Haytham jerked his hips into the iron
grip a few more times, milking his cock until the lights behind his eyes
finally faded.
Haytham peeled his eyes open, glancing down at the disheveled and smiling
soldier beneath him. He knew that he should say something, but no words came to
him. Instead, he opted to roll off of the slighter man and pulled a
handkerchief from his coat pocket. After wiping his hand and waistcoat in
silence, he handed the cloth to Holden. The redhead gratefully took it and
cleaned himself up as well.
The two didn’t speak for the rest of the night or the next day.
And they didn’t touch each other again for a long time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Six Years Later
“Are you certain that you’re okay with this? You can still back out at any
given time,” Haytham offered. The manor at Queen Anne’s Square was now devoid
of servants. They had seen their Master Kenway home, and had little else to
offer for the evening. That was good. Haytham didn’t want them there any more
than necessary.
“With all due respect, Mister Kenway, how many times do I have to tell you?”
Holden rolled his eyes, suddenly exasperated. “Yes, I want to do this. I want
to be by your side and help you in your personal battle for however long it
takes. I’ve already pledged my loyalty to you, Sir. Don’t go doubting it now,
after all of these years.”
Haytham’s hands clenched behind his back and he turned on his heel. “Very well
then. We begin tomorrow. For tonight, let us concentrate on rest. It’s been a
long journey.”
After a quick dinner, the two men retired by a fire in the study. But it wasn’t
his father’s study. Even though Haytham knew that the manor had been rebuilt
after the fire to nearly the same floor plan, it just wasn’t the same. It had
been tampered with. It had been defiled. This wasn’t his home any more, and he
couldn’t pretend that it had ever been. His home had burnt to the ground. This
was just a sham. It made Haytham’s heart constrict to think that his mother had
lived here for so long, in this dingy replica, until she had died. Yet even
though he didn’t want this place anymore, he knew he had to keep it. He had to
live in it for as long as he resided in London, else the Templars would catch
onto his charade.
Without a word to Holden, Haytham left the study. He wandered the hallways,
searching for something familiar and finding nothing. It was a stranger’s home.
Meandering like a wraith, he finally stopped outside of his mother’s bedroom.
He knew that it had been hers. The servants had told him such. He turned the
knob and paused, suddenly afraid of what he would find on the other side. His
mother was dead, but perhaps her spirit wasn’t at rest? No, Haytham was not a
superstitious individual and he didn’t believe in ghosts. But then what was he
so afraid of?
Frustrated at himself, he finally threw open the door. It clapped against the
wall with a hollow bang and Haytham felt his heart pounding in his head. He
stepped into the room and glanced around. Frowning, he realized that what he
felt was worse than fear.
He felt nothing.
There was nothing familiar in this room. There were none of his mother’s old
dresses. There was none of her jewelry or perfumes. There were no ashes in the
hearth and no makeup in the drawers. There was nothing left of his mother in
there.
A cold hollowness pervaded his senses and Haytham had a sudden sensation of
disorientation. He was lost in his own manor.
A warm hand on his shoulder snapped him out of his thoughts. He whipped around,
hand grabbing at the hip where his short sword should have been.
“Easy, Sir, easy,” Holden urged, his hands up and open. “I heard a noise and
got awful worried, Master Haytham.”
The Templar’s lips pursed and he glanced around once more.
“Let’s just get you back downstairs, hm? It’s been a long day and it’ll be an
even longer one come the morning!” Holden’s voice was soft and full of the
promise of a new day. He gently took Haytham’s arm and led him out of the
dreaded room where his mother had died.
“…They took her things, Holden. They took all of her things,” Haytham murmured
numbly. “Why would they do that? This was her home, and they had no right!”
“Now, they probably just stored the stuff away, Sir. Probably didn’t wanna keep
dusting it or whatever.”
Haytham nodded at the response and pulled his arm away from Holden. He gathered
his wits up about him again, feeling his shock slide from his mind like water
from glass.
The Templar insisted on another drink down in the study and Holden reluctantly
agreed. Another drink turned into two, and then three and four. Haytham didn’t
remember falling asleep after some time, but he did wake up to a chill in the
room.
He was slouched in the cushioned chair, kinks in his neck and back and a
blanket draped over his chest. Even though the fire had gone out, he could
still see in the dark. Holden was fast asleep on a short couch to the side, a
blanket cocooned around him as well.
Haytham couldn’t help but smile.
He entertained the idea of venturing up to a proper bed, but some part of his
mind (still slightly addled from the drink) insisted that this was just fine.
He had spent the past six years sleeping in the same tent as Holden and he was
in no mood to go secluding himself in another room quite yet. This was just
fine, even if it was only for a night. It was just fine.
Haytham leaned back into his chair, dutifully watching Holden’s chest rise and
fall with deep breaths. The ginger-headed soldier really was impressive. For
all of Haytham’s complications, Holden could read him like an open book. He
knew all about his nightmares about Birch. He knew about the twisted
relationship that the Grandmaster had manipulated him into. Holden knew about
both Haytham’s desire for and fear of men. He knew everything that the rest of
the world wasn’t allowed to know. And yet through all of the complication, he
remained by Haytham’s side. Holden even helped him when old memories surfaced
like drowned corpses and threatened to drag him into madness. Without Holden,
he would’ve suffocated long ago.
The Templar liked to think that Holden was remaining by his side out of their
mutual quest for justice. But part of him sometimes entertained the thought
that it was something more than that. The mere idea almost always put Haytham’s
mind on immediate arrest, but he still could not un-fathom it. He knew he was
vain, but how could he be that vain?
Haytham draped his blanket over the edge of the chair and noiselessly moved and
crouched beside Holden. He stared into the ginger’s freckled face, watching his
eyelashes dance ever so slightly as the lad dreamed.
“I never imagined that I would have someone so loyal and determined by my
side,” Haytham whispered into the darkness. The coals on the fire flickered a
few times, their dull orange glow barely reaching past the hearth.
“I know that I don’t always thank you for what you do for me, and I know that
I’m stubborn as a mule on a hot day, but…” Haytham paused, gently fingering
some of Holden’s ginger bangs from his face. “Hell…I can’t even thank you
properly when you’re awake. I’ve got to do something like this, talking to a
sleeping man…” Haytham quietly berated himself.
He closed his eyes and paused to listen to Holden’s breathing. The lad’s
breaths were still deep and measured.
“I just wanted to say…thank you. I’ve never known someone so wonderful could
exist…” Haytham breathed as the coals crackled. “I’ve told you before that I
don’t know what it’s like to…love someone intimately, but I think that’s a
lie…” he inhaled deeply, pressing his forehead against the armrest of the
couch. “I think that I…that I l—“
A finger pressed firmly to Haytham’s lips. The Templar’s eyes shot open to
catch the penetrating green orbs of Jim Holden.
“Shhh, sir. You don’t have to say anything,” Holden blinked sleepily and leaned
forward to catch Haytham’s shocked lips in an almost chaste kiss. “I already
know.”
Another kiss, and Haytham jerked away.
“But what if I become like…him?” Haytham swallowed the lump in his throat. He
still remembered the sort of man that Birch was.
“I won’t allow it,” Holden stroked his cheek. “As long as I’m around, I will
never let you fall.”
Haytham searched Holden’s eyes as one searches for the truth.
“I…thank you, I…”
“Shhh… I know.”
That night, Haytham let his body speak the inexpressible words for him. He
would say that he fucked Jim Holden, but that would be untrue. He would say
that he made love to Jim Holden, but that was too frightening of a concept to
admit.
Yet their bodies intertwined and rolled and rose and fell and clasped and
thrashed like a wave in high tide. Holden whispered Haytham’s name to the
darkness like a prayer and Haytham clung to Holden’s body as if it were a raft
keeping his head above water. Yet even so, he felt like he was drowning and
flying at once. Holden left scratches on his back and mutual hickeys on his
neck as Haytham rolled into him in a rhythm so intimate that it left the
Templar thoughtless.
Eventually, morning broke without remorse and the two men grudgingly
disengaged. Their limbs detangled and after cleaning up, they went along their
daily routines.
Yet even through the mundane and the plotting, there was still something else
there. Haytham could sometimes catch a glimpse of that something in Holden’s
eyes and while it always startled him, it also brought him a comfort that he
thought didn’t exist. Jim Holden was an incredible man.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December 1755
Haytham stood on the ship, watching and waiting as they sailed into the English
harbor. It had been so long since he had last seen Holden, and though their
parting had been amicable, it had always left a bad taste in Haytham’s mouth
throughout his duration in the colonies.
Just before he had set sail for the Colonies last year, Holden had insisted
that Haytham try to find a wife. He had reminded the Templar of the need for
procreation, not only to help Haytham in his later years, but to carry on the
Kenway name. Haytham understood the plain logic behind Holden’s words, but he
had still felt scalded. Who was Holden to tell Haytham to go find a woman and
settle down? Haytham was certainly still attracted to women, but he couldn’t
shake the part of him that wanted Holden. Their relationship had blossomed into
something unspoken, but painfully obvious. It had been the elephant in the room
that neither could ever admit to seeing. The two men simply couldn’t, or
wouldn’t, verbalize their feelings. They instead expressed themselves between
the sheets, sighing and moaning in pleasure as their skin sang songs of
bottomless affection. Haytham had even let Holden take him on occasion, giving
more trust to the man than he ever thought possible.
And yet Holden wanted Haytham to find a wife and have children.
Well, that venture didn’t go so well.
Haytham’s mouth thinned bitterly as the ship docked with several, rocky jerks.
Even from here, he could use his eagle vision and spot a bright blue light
waiting for him. Haytham’s nerves jumped a little and he found himself anxious.
Of course, a Templar Grandmaster needed to keep complete control of his self,
so he smoothed the feeling away and disembarked with grace.
The year had been kind to Holden as always and Haytham still had to wonder how
he could still look like a young lad. After all, Jim Holden was older than
Haytham by nearly seven years and yet they still looked the same age. It was
one of those quirks that he could appreciate from his gentleman.
They greeted each other as good friends, with hearty pats on the back and the
promise of catching up later. It wasn’t until they reached the manor in Queen
Anne’s Square that Holden threw his arms around Haytham and simply held him. It
was a warm embrace and for that moment, Haytham wished that it would never end.
The two men talked over dinner. Haytham relayed his adventures in the colonies
with more enthusiasm than he felt. He also talked about Ziio. At that, Holden
first looked very happy and pleased for Haytham. But by the end of the tale, he
realized the sorrow that Haytham felt.
“Perhaps…she will come around? It sounds like a misunderstanding, after all,”
Holden suggested hopefully.
Haytham shook his head with a heavy sigh. “No, she won’t. That’s not Ziio’s
way. Once that woman’s mind is made up, there is no swaying her.”
Holden stared at the nice tablecloth beneath his empty plate. He seemed torn
between what to say and what not to say. But rather than wait for any more
words to come from his gentleman’s mouth, Haytham stood and began gathering the
plates.
“Oh, let me do that, sir!” Holden jumped up and grabbed the dishes from
Haytham’s hands. Haytham released them and sat back down. He waited for Holden
to finish clearing the table and refilling their glasses with wine.
“So tell me about Jenny’s location again,” he said, folding his hands in front
of him.
The redheaded man relayed all information that he had and Haytham couldn’t help
but smile. Holden was as thorough as ever. He stood in the middle of an
explanation, prompting Holden to stop talking, his hand frozen in mid-
gesticulation.
Haytham towered over Holden, and gently tipped his ginger head backwards. He
leaned over the chair and brushed his lips against his friend’s. Holden
reciprocated, reaching up to grasp the back of Haytham’s neck greedily.
“What about women? You need a wife…” Holden broke the kiss to ask breathily. A
flicker of fear dashed across his green eyes.
Haytham smiled and leaned down for another kiss. “I don’t want a woman right
now. I’m happy with you.”
A certain brightness filled Holden’s eyes and he stood to meet his friend’s
heated embrace. The two ventured to the bedroom and lay together again, taking
their time grinding and reaching their peak with free moans and cries of joy
and adoration. After, an optimism filled Haytham as he held the sweaty, sated
body next to him. Once he rescued Jenny and let his sister oversee the manor,
he would take Holden back to the colonies with him. Even if Holden didn’t want
to become a Templar, then at least they could be together. And the other
Templars? Well, they would just have to accept the fact that Haytham’s
gentlemen would be joining their merry band. They didn’t need to know of the
sodomy. It was too precious a bond to reveal to others anyways. They could hide
their love in the light and let it run rampant in the dark. Everything was
going to be fine.
Two days later saw the friends setting out on their journey to find Haytham’s
sister. They loved and laughed on their travels, almost to the point of acting
like young teenagers again. Though they both understood the dangers of their
plan, neither one believed that they would die. Things were going too well.
They had everything planned out already and they were too strong to fail.
But months later, as Haytham unburied his mutilated lover from the sand with a
heart-wrenching sob, he knew that things had changed. Holden’s body and mind
were changed forever.
Haytham slew the monsters responsible for Holden’s pain, just as he slew the
beast that haunted his own nightmares. That’s what Haytham was good at. He
could kill, but he couldn’t heal. That was Holden’s expertise.
And Holden could only heal the pain of others.
Haytham had been stabbed by the very Assassin that he freed from Birch’s
twisted grasp. He had seen the rage and pain in the younger man’s eyes.
Immediately, he knew what Birch did to Julio.
Perhaps that haunting knowledge is what urged him to beg that the Assassins be
spared.
The last months of the year crept slowly by as Holden tended to a feverish,
injured Haytham. The Templar remembered snippets of conversation, of delirious
rambling and flailing. He remembered Holden reading to him at some point.
“But little Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain,
The best laid schemes of mice and men,
Often go awry,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy.”
And Haytham fell back into muddled slumber.
When Haytham awoke, he couldn’t believe that three months had passed. His
sensation of time was thrown off kilter and he thought that Jenny and Holden
were teasing him. But closer inspection proved otherwise.
Haytham’s body, bed-ridden as it was, had thinned. And he wasn’t the only one
who changed. Holden looked so…different. His face was drawn and gaunt, and his
freckles stood out in stark contrast to the pale cheeks. Even though his
clothes were the same, Haytham could tell that they were hanging differently
from his body. Holden had lost weight.
“…You haven’t been eating,” Haytham murmured one evening as Holden pushed a
tray of soup at him. “Why don’t you sit down and have dinner with me? I would
enjoy the company.”
Holden smiled and Haytham was taken aback. Whenever his friend had smiled
before, it had been more with his eyes than his mouth. But now, those green
eyes were dull and lackluster and his lips stretched over his teeth like a
corpse left in the desert. “No thank you, Master Haytham. I haven’t been very
hungry as of late.”
“…But you will stay with me, yes?” Haytham urged. He had never known Holden to
say no to any food. Even in the past, when Haytham had burnt dinners to a
blackened disaster, Holden still ate it and relished every bite. This new
behavior was becoming more and more worrisome.
A morbid heaviness hung in the air. Holden sighed, fidgeted, and finally sat
down with a tenderness that was new to Haytham. The Templar released the breath
of relief that he hadn’t known he’d been holding.
“I’m sorry, Holden. You’ve been by my side all of these months, and I
appreciate your tenacity and loyalty,” Haytham took a spoonful of soup into his
mouth, despite his dwindling appetite. “But soon, we’ll leave here. You can
come to the colonies with me once I’m well enough to travel. We can be together
all the time, not separated by an ocean. I can show you Boston and New York. I
think that you’d like New York. You can meet my team of Templars, you’d get
along smashingly with William and Thomas, and we can plan the Order of the new
land together…”
Haytham’s voice trailed off into oppressive silence. He tried to eat another
spoonful of soup before setting his tray aside.
“Holden… I—“
“I promised Miss Jenny that I would pull you out of the darkness one more time,
Master Haytham. And I kept my word,” Holden interrupted, staring blankly out of
the window. He paused, breath seemingly caught in his chest, before turning and
offering Haytham another blank, tired smile. “Don’t you worry, Sir. Everything
is going to be alright.”
Haytham wanted to believe those words, but he couldn’t. Instead, he insisted
that Holden lay next to him and he held the stiff body in his arms, trying his
damnedest to bring some sort of comfort to his inconsolable lover. Sometime
after, fatigue ensnared Haytham and he fell asleep.
The next morning greeted him with an empty bed and cold sheets. And Haytham
immediately understood something before he found the note or heard Jenny’s
mortified screams.
He understood that he would never be the same again.
 
Haytham,
I know that we were never much on sappy words, and I know that we never say
what we need to say. But I won’t have a chance after this. I love you. I love
you so much that it hurts. For that, I’m sorry for my selfishness. I can’t go
back to how we were. I can’t heal from this pain and I won’t be able to give
you what you need. Please, let me go and live your life. Find a wife, have
children, be happy. Please be happy.
That’s all that I want for you.
Forever with love,
Jim Holden
***** Ziio *****
Chapter Notes
     Again, this fic only follows a loose chronology! This chapter happens
     around the middle of the last one.
     Chapter Specific Pairings: Haytham Kenway/Ziio; Ziio/Haytham/Charles
     Chapter Specific Warnings: Blowjobs, handjobs, graphic sex,
     threesome, fingering, fluff, dreamsex
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Ch. 3
Ziio
July 1755
Week One
A bird was laughing. Haytham didn’t know how a bird of all creatures could
laugh, but this one was undoubtedly chortling and sniggering at his misfortune
as he wandered around the wooded area. If he found that bird (was it a thrush?
Was it a sparrow?), he would catch it. He would put a bullet through its tiny,
feathered body and he would pluck it and eat what’s left. Maybe he’d keep some
of the feathers and tie them to his belt. He was not in a pleasant mood.
Normally, after spending the night with a woman, Haytham was the first one to
leave. He would clean his groin, put on his clothes and hat, give a cheeky,
charming wink or possibly a kiss on the cheek, and he would walk out. That
would be that. He would never see the woman again. But this time—oh this
time!—he dared to nap with Ziio wrapped in his arms and when he awoke, she was
nowhere to be found. He had tried to search for her, but to no avail. Instead,
he had strapped all of his weapons and belts to his breeches again and set off
for Boston. The next day, he returned to the Precursor Site in the hope that
Ziio would be there, waiting for him.
Perhaps it was vain to think that she would return to this particular spot, but
he could think of nowhere else. He didn’t know where her village was and even
if he did, he strongly doubted that her tribesmen would be pleased to have a
white, British, well-to-do fellow waltzing into their home. And what would he
tell them? ‘Oh, I just tumbled with one of your women and was wondering where
she flew off to!’ wasn’t an appealing choice. Although he assumed Ziio to be
unmarried and single, he had no concrete evidence. She could be courted or even
betrothed by her own clansmen! All he could do was find her.
How ridiculous! To think that he, Haytham Kenway, the Grandmaster of the
Colonial Rite, was chasing after a woman like an errant teenager. This was
ridiculous. He had plans to hatch and comrades to lead. But a deceitful part of
his mind urged him forward. It wasn’t just his hormones that demanded he find
Ziio, but also something else that he couldn’t describe. Just seeing the woman,
beautiful and dangerous and willful, made something in his stomach flip. She
made his mouth dry and his fingers shake. She made his tongue freeze and his
cheeks burn. She made him smile, even when her quick-wit was delivered at his
expense. Ziio was magnificent and Haytham wanted to know more about her. He was
undoubtedly curious. How could such a person, a Native woman no less, render
Haytham into a speechless mess? He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to
understand how she worked, like a puzzle or a pocket watch. But it would be
ungentlemanly to just dissect her like a fish. He wanted to get to know her.
And well, becoming knowledgeable over her…ahem, assets was an appealing thought
to both his mind and his loins. Holden would be pleased.
When he first set out for the Colonies, Haytham was determined only on his
mission. Even after he spent the year gathering his comrades and forging
alliances and plotting against Silas and Braddock, his priority was locating
the Precursor Site. There wasn’t time for women. Holden had been firm, if not
demanding, that Haytham find a wife when he set out for the Colonies, and
Haytham had scoffed at the idea. He liked women’s bodies and their smell and
their soft skin under his hands, but he couldn’t imagine himself actually
LIVING with one or raising their children. He much preferred Holden in that
respect. He would’ve rather spent his years with his gentleman by his side
rather than some wench. Haytham had been determined to remain single during his
stay in the Colonies. That would’ve shown Holden!
But then Ziio happened.
Haytham knew that he was physically attracted to her. When he had commandeered
the slave convoy all those months ago, he had to keep reminding himself of the
task at hand. It would have been easy to reach out and touch Ziio’s skin. It
was so dark and lovely and bronzed with tiny dark freckles. Although he had
seen many different shades of skin on his travels, he had never seen such
perfection. He wanted to know what it felt like, what it tasted like.
But of course, that sort of behavior was unfit for a Grandmaster and a decent
man. He had kept his hands to himself and continued on the mission. But for the
nights thereafter, he couldn’t help but wonder after her. He thought that it
would stop at physical lust, but as he continued the missions, he couldn’t keep
the enigmatic woman off of his mind. He wanted to know her. He wanted to hear
her voice say his name, whether mockingly or lovingly.
He finally got his wish at the Precursor site. She had screamed his name, cried
out for him repeatedly as he thrust into her tight, wet heat. She surely must
have been a virgin, but she didn’t want her first time to be slow and sweet.
Her proud intensity had flashed in her dark eyes as she bared her teeth at him
and demanded more, faster, harder, deeper, more, more, more!
After her body shook and she screamed and her eyes rolled and her fingers left
bruises on his shoulders, she finally calmed like a stream after a raging
flood. Haytham kissed her and felt the breath leave his chest as if she were
stealing it away. She had been so beautiful, sprawled beneath him with semen
dotting her sculpted abdomen and perky breasts. Ziio had demanded that he clean
her, inside and out. with his mouth and Haytham hadn’t refused. She came again
with his tongue on her core. Afterwards, they had fallen asleep.
When Haytham next awoke, he was alone.
There wasn’t a note or memento or even a strand of Ziio’s hair left behind. She
had fled and seemed to take the oxygen with her.
That put Haytham in a bad mood.
And now here he was again, searching the woods in vain, hoping against
rationale that Ziio would still be here and waiting for him. Had he not been so
frustrated, he would’ve laughed at himself. As it was, he could draw his lips
into a bitter, bloodless line, and continue searching.
The damn bird laughed again.
He gritted his teeth and continued stomping about. On one occasion, he even
tried to take to the trees like he’d seen Ziio do. But while Haytham could
climb the trunk just fine, he had a more difficult time knowing what branches
were safe to jump on and which were not. He cursed more colorfully than he
thought he ever could as they cracked and sagged under his weight. He couldn’t
leap from limb to limb as Ziio had done; he was simply too heavy and clumsy.
Instead, he tried to stick to the thicker, stronger branches. It worked for a
time until he got himself mixed up on a certain tree.
The tree itself was safe and the branch he perched was steady. He used his
Eagle Vision to scan the area, ignoring the angry squawks of some bird to his
right. It was a sparrow or a robin or…or something feathered with wings. He
ignored it in favor of searching for Ziio. But out of nowhere, as he was
pleasantly minding his own business, it dove in and snapped its beak at his
face.
Haytham flailed, cursing wildly as the bird tried to scratch and peck his ears
and hands. He nearly fell more than once and resorted to pin-wheeling his arms
like a novice on a rooftop. Haytham tried to swat at the bird, but every time
he shifted his weight too suddenly, the branch would creak ominously. It was
only with the bird scratching at his exposed skin that he finally managed to
shimmy down to another branch. Still, it followed him until he leaped into
another tree. Those branches also sagged and a few snapped. He scrambled
unceremoniously to a junction in the branches and clung to the bark for dear
life.
The sparrow attacking him finally flew away. The laughing bird chortled again.
“I hate birds…” he grumbled irately.
Then he heard another noise. At first, he thought that it was the annoying
laughing bird, but it was too close and too feminine. Haytham snapped his head
around, his arms still wrapped around the branch.
Ziio was perched a few trees away, laughing at him and wiping tears from her
eyes.
Oh, he fumed.
“Stop laughing,” Haytham called to her. He looked around for the vicious
feathered fiend before jumping unsteadily from branch to branch. “That wasn’t—“
he leaped, “—funny!”
“That bird was protecting her nest! The misfortune wasn’t her fault—it was
yours!” Ziio called, mirth dripping from her tongue.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Haytham grumbled under his breath as he slowly made
his way closer. It wasn’t until he was a few trees away that he saw Ziio’s
posture change. He glanced up at her. Her face was split into a wide smirk and
even from the distance, he could see the mischief in her eyes.
“Oh no. Don’t you dare run away now!” Haytham groaned. But she only gave a
jaunty wave of her hand and then plummeted from the tree branch.
Ziio caught one of the branches below, swung and threw herself to another tree.
Haytham released the breath he had sucked in.
“Why are you running!?” he called. “Stop!”
She laughed again, pausing only to glance over her shoulder at him. “A woman
deserves to be coveted.”
Oh that coy, smug bitch.
Haytham sighed, exasperation making his nerves writhe. But at the same time, he
felt a smile tug and twitch on his lips. He would play her game. If she wanted
to play the lovely deer, then he would be the hunter. Although after a few more
leaps from tree to tree, Haytham picked another bad branch and fell to the
ground. He cussed and cursed, brushing leaves off of him and rubbing his side
and leg where he knew bruises would form. Fine. If the trees wouldn’t cooperate
with him, then he wouldn’t use them! Instead, he followed on the ground.
Unfortunately, he kept losing his target. He would hear her one moment, then
once he looks, she’d be gone. He would search some more, his neck forming a
magnificent kink in it as he stared up, but she wouldn’t be in sight.
“Aren’t we a bit old for games?” he called.
Only the laughing bird responded.
He huffed again, smoothing back his hair into the ponytail, and kept searching.
Perhaps using his Eagle Vision was cheating, but at that point, he didn’t care.
He just wanted to find Ziio and watch her smile and laugh and tease him. He
wanted to hold her again.
Finally, he spotted a pile of leaves that were glowing white in his Eagle
Vision. He crept away from it slowly, branches and leaves crunching under his
feet. Then, he hoisted himself into the lowest branch of a tree. Ziio wouldn’t
see this coming!
He quietly leaped to a branch overhanging the leaf pile, took off his hat and
set it atop a small leaf cluster, and hung upside down by his knees. What a
sight he must have been! A grown man, complete with weapons and quality
clothes, was hanging from a branch in an effort to catch a woman as if he were
fishing in a pond with his bare hands. He must have looked a fool. With a
shout, he plunged his arms into the leaf pile and spooked out his prey.
Ziio yelped and wiggled away from his strong grip. She darted out of the leaf
pile, but not before Haytham caught one of her arms. He held tight, laughing
and grinning like an idiot.
“Caught you!”
Ziio was already chuckling, but as soon as she spotted the Englishman, hanging
upside down from a tree, his face flushed and his hair coming undone, she
couldn’t help but break into side-splitting giggles. Her knees gave out and
tears formed in her eyes as she clutched her belly as laughter shook her slight
frame.
Haytham hoisted himself up to grab his hat and then flipped out of the tree,
perhaps a bit more extravagantly than need be. He ought to have been angry at
her. Ziio did leave him alone in the cave without so much as a goodbye, then
made fun of him and sent him on a race through the canopy. He ought to have
been angry, but he wasn’t. His cheeks hurt from smiling so much as he drew her
into a firm, warm embrace.
As soon as he caught his breath, he buried his nose into the heady musk of her
hair.
“Why did you leave?” he finally asked.
He could feel Ziio tense for a moment, then relax and wrap her arms around his
waist. “I needed to…think,” she admitted. “But it was worth it. You really did
look like a fool.”
Haytham laughed and put her at arm’s length. It had been fun—obnoxious, too—but
fun.
“How did you know I was in the leaves?” Ziio asked.
Haytham shrugged. His Eagle Vision was supposed to be a secret, but even if he
were to say, it was too difficult to explain. He settled for a half-explanation
instead. “Sometimes, my eyes see differently,” he tapped his brow.
Ziio cocked her head to the side in thought before smooshing Haytham’s cheeks
between her palms. She ignored his indignant squawk as she pulled his lower
eyelids down with her thumbs and stared into the inky gray irises. “Hmm…” she
murmured, Haytham’s face captive in her hands.. “I’ve heard of…tales of people
with special eyes. But I never imagined they would look so…” she wrinkled up
her nose in bewilderment, “…normal.”
Did she know about Eagle Vision? Haytham put the thought out of his mind. She
was probably referring to the Mohawk mythology or something. He smiled and
gently pulled her hands away. He kissed her palms. “Normal isn’t always
disappointing.”
“But extraordinary is always fun,” Ziio smirked again and glanced meaningfully
at Haytham’s groin. He blinked in surprise. That hadn’t been what he meant!
Still, a smug smile tugged his lips.
“Yes, sometimes it is.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Week Two
Over the next handful of days, Haytham and Ziio talked a lot. They told each
other vague stories of their upbringing. They lightly touched on their long
term goals in life. But they didn’t get involved too deeply in business. Their
conversations strayed on the innocent side; they discussed their favorite foods
and hobbies and hunting techniques. Ziio told Haytham stories of her tribe’s
gods and goddesses. Haytham shared his vague view on atheism.
They kept far away from politics and land rights and the plight of her people.
It was obvious that Ziio thought about it, but straying too close to the topic
broke the mood into somber brooding. Likewise, Haytham’s family was off-limits
in conversation, and he didn’t dare bring in the Templars and Assassins. For
once, it was nice to be a normal person.
Yes, he was huddled in a tent out in the wilderness, but it felt normal. He
could laugh freely. He could smile and touch and talk. He didn’t have to worry
about an Assassin crawling from the shadows to slay him in the night. He didn’t
fret how to control the territory and bring it under his command. He didn’t
feel revenge burning up his heart like a dry leaf to the flame. He didn’t have
to wonder when he would be caught and hung for sodomy. But he did miss Holden.
He spoke about him little, but even Ziio could tell when Haytham’s mind was
preoccupied with his friend.
“You’re lost without him, aren’t you?” Ziio asked one evening as they ate
dinner.
Haytham blinked at her in confusion. He prompted for clarification.
Ziio rolled her eyes. “Your friend, that Jim Holden man. You’re lost without
him.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say THAT,” Haytham blustered. “He’s a friend and my closest
comrade! Nothing more than that! He’s nothing abnormal or special to me!”
She raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t insinuate that he WAS more than a friend.”
“…Good! Because he’s not, you know,” Haytham took a bite of dinner. He chewed
thoughtfully for a moment. “What brought that on?” he asked.
Ziio shrugged. “I was just thinking.”
“About?”
“About…no, you wouldn’t like to hear it,” she shook her head.
Haytham rolled his eyes and prompted her again. She wasn’t one to be so
hesitant. Normally, Ziio’s words were straightforward and direct. If she was
skirting around her thought, it must have been unpleasant. But even if it
wasn’t something he would be delighted to hear, his curiosity was getting the
better of him. He liked learning how Ziio’s mind ticked. She was intriguing and
spirited, even if her blunt, opinionated nature seemed to overwhelm her grace.
She frowned for a moment and almost seemed to pick her words carefully.
Instead, she outright blurted her words. “You do not confront your problems.”
Haytham raised a brow. Of all things, he was not expecting such a criticism.
“How so? I fight oppressors who seek to destroy this world one facet at a time.
I fight for peace.”
“Yes, you fight external threats. Braddock, the slavers, the white
opportunists, you fight them all! But you don’t fight…yourself,” she tapped her
chest as if to clarify. She was searching for the right word. “You have
problems in here, but you don’t fix them. You don’t look at them. Instead, you
only look at everything outside of you. And while that’s noble in a way, you’re
ultimately damning yourself.”
“…And what makes you think that?” Haytham couldn’t keep the chill from his
voice. Fortunately, Ziio was unfazed.
“Jim Holden. You speak so fondly of him and it’s obvious that you rely on him.
But since you’re in the Colonies and he is still in England, you’re lost. You
disregard your emotions and bottle them up tightly. I don’t know what becomes
of them after that, but it almost seems like they…like they die. You hold back
your feelings instead of acting on them or understanding them, and then they
wither and die.”
“I think that you may be misinterpreting self-control,” Haytham sighed. She had
been right; this was one hell of a can of worms. “Things like…’feelings’ have a
specific place and time to exist. What you refer to as ‘disregarding’ I call
‘controlling’. I control myself and whatever errant emotions I may have.
It’s…only proper.”
“Call it what you will, but the point is that you don’t fix it,” Ziio shook her
head. “And if you refuse to confront your problems, then they will only get
worse. They’ll fester and ooze like an open wound. They will infect your spirit
and poison your blood until they consume your humanity and strip you down to
your bones. I have seen it; men consumed with revenge falling to their own
rage. Victims of violent crimes can potentially become the perpetrators they
despise. The only way to keep that from happening is to address your problems
and fix them.”
Haytham’s lips thinned and he set his makeshift plate aside. He couldn’t help
but remember Birch’s hands on his body or the whispered lies of love in his
ear. He wanted to kill Reginald, he really did, but he didn’t know if he could.
During his campaign with Braddock, Haytham had fought with himself—torn between
fleeing back to his Grandmaster’s warm, cloying embrace, and throwing his self
to the wolves of the world. But Holden had helped him, right? Holden had
comforted Haytham when the nightmares were too much or when his heart felt like
it was sinking in the ocean. Holden kept him afloat and surrounded by light.
Surely Haytham was better now. And there was certainly no way, whatsoever, in
this life or the next, that he would be a pedophile like Birch. He could never
condemn someone to such debauchery.
At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.
But his father’s murderer—ah, now that was an attainable goal. While it was
still far-fetched, considering how few leads he’d had in the past decade, he
still held onto the vain hope that he could avenge his family and rescue his
sister. Becoming the Grandmaster in the Colonies was only small detour. He
couldn’t forget his true goal, even if it did seem considerably less important
than creating a new Rite.
“You would have me forget about my father’s murderers? You would have me
abandon my sister’s plight?” Haytham frowned.
Ziio sighed. “No.”
“Then what would you have me do?”
“…I don’t know,” Ziio caught his eyes fiercely. She would not be blamed for
Haytham taking insult. “I don’t have that answer. It was just an observation.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Week Three
For the next week, Haytham fretted and brooded silently. He didn’t like the
idea of ignoring his inner turmoil, but he also had a difficult time
pinpointing exactly what it was. Perhaps one of the more straightforward
problems was his…sexuality.
Ziio was, in short, amazing. She was strong and wild and fierce by nature, but
her intensity always carried to the blankets. She was demanding and willful,
ordering Haytham to fuck her harder, faster, smoother, and better at every
turn. Even though part of him balked at the demands, he couldn’t help the toe-
curling thrill it gave him to carry them out. When she told him to lick, he
would lick. When she told him to suck, he would suck. And when she told him to
slam into her molten core, he would more than happily oblige. She tasted so
sweet and exotic and robust. She felt soft yet resilient beneath his
fingertips. Ziio was perfect, from the freckles on her nose, to the curve of
her naval, to her moist, swollen clit. But despite his obvious attraction,
Haytham also yearned for something…different.
He missed Holden. He wanted to grasp his friend’s cock and pump it and lick the
head and watch the pre-cum roll out like tears. He wanted to finger him open
and plunge into his willing hole and make him scream and beg for more as his
dick bobbed in time with every thrust. But Holden was across an ocean and he
had made it abundantly clear that Haytham wasn’t supposed to think of him that
way anymore. Haytham was supposed to find a woman.
He found Ziio, of course, but he still couldn’t shake his desire for men. It
was disgusting. His mouth would practically water when he thought of a thick,
erect penis. THAT was not an acceptable reaction. He should be horrified. He
should be revolted. Under no circumstances whatsoever should the thought of
another man’s erection make him weak in the knees.
He thought of Charles often when Ziio was off hunting or gathering berries
(Haytham was hopeless at differentiating the poisonous ones from the safe
ones).
Charles was eager and attractive. He was strong-shouldered and willing to work
for his rank. He was loyal and lovely and such a good student. Haytham had
spent many a night imagining indecent activities with his assistant. Such
fantasies often involved a lot of oil, a gag, and an evening of rigorous
gyration. He wanted Charles as he wanted Holden.
But that was wrong, wasn’t it?
’We are all villains.’
Haytham shuddered and determined to keep his hand away from his groin whilst
thinking of Charles. Unfortunately, his mind had another idea. Haytham fell
asleep whilst thinking of his favorite subordinate and Ziio.
Haytham awoke to soft, butterfly kisses against his cheek. It tickled, like a
moustache. He turned his head slightly and smiled at Charles. How did Haytham
get back to his room at the Green Dragon and why was Charles in bed with him?
It didn’t matter. Haytham couldn’t care as he reached out to untie his
subordinate’s cravat and slide his hands down his waistcoat.
He missed this. He wanted this.
“Master Kenway…” Charles breathed. “What if they catch us?”
“Don’t worry, Charles,” Haytham purred. “They won’t.”
Charles’ breath hitched as Haytham kissed and nipped at his exposed neck. He
expertly removed his subordinate’s waistcoat and undershirt. Haytham’s fingers
spread through the thick patch of curls on Charles’ chest, seeking out a pert
nipple and giving it a playful squeeze. Charles let out an unmanly whine and
grabbed tightly to Haytham’s shoulders.
“S-sir!” he husked. “Please, please let me…”
Haytham didn’t need to be asked twice. He was suddenly naked (when were his
clothes removed?) and his cock bobbed awkwardly as he slid back onto the bed.
Charles leaned over him, humming pleasantly and holding himself up with shaky
arms as he kissed Haytham. The younger Templar licked his way down Haytham’s
chest and belly, pausing only to trace his abdominal muscles and his hipbone
with a talented tongue. Charles was good with his mouth, what with how he spun
lies into gold. It was only natural that he would be excellent at giving head.
Haytham moaned freely and threaded his fingers through Charles’ hair. His
subordinate sucked him in deep and full, with more grace than even the most
talented whore. He bobbed his head and fondled Haytham’s balls. His fingers,
already slick, found the pucker of Haytham’s ass and gently plunged in.
Haytham gasped, arching his back and cursing as he spread his legs further.
“Oh GOD, Charles!” Haytham cried. The spot inside of him lit like a flame,
making him groan and arch his hips into the willing mouth.
Haytham looked down, his face and chest flushed in arousal. It wasn’t Charles
on his dick anymore. It was Ziio. Ziio was blowing him with her fingers buried
to the hilt. She smiled around Haytham’s cock and released it with an audible
pop.
“Take me, Haytham,” she nuzzled his dick, allowing the precum and saliva to
dribble against her cheek. “Bend me over and take me. Make me scream your name.
Fuck me hard and deep,” she pleaded.
Haytham was about to sit up and oblige when he felt someone behind him, pulling
him back down. It was Charles again. Haytham smiled and craned his head up to
catch the Templar’s lips. He tweaked one of Haytham’s nipples and bit his lip.
“Now Master Kenway, it’s impolite to keep a lady waiting,” Charles insisted.
Haytham didn’t need to be told again. He clambered to his knees and practically
tackled Ziio. She was so wet that the sheets were damp with her desire and her
thighs glistened with need. He touched her core and caressed the impossible
heat. She shuddered as the rough pads of his fingertips grazed her swollen lips
and engorged clit. Finally, he took the plunge, starting off with two fingers
already. Ziio threw her head back and moaned. She thrust her hips against his
hand, fucking herself on his digits with steady motions and soft gasps of
pleasure.
Haytham caught her nipple in his teeth and worried it. He grabbed onto his
shoulders and demanded more. He added another finger, spreading her and petting
the soft, wet walls of her pussy until she cried out again. This time, he
withdrew his hand fully. Ziio glared at him and wrenched his head back by his
hair.
“You will obey me. You will fuck me until I tell you to stop,” she demanded low
and threatening. Haytham fought to keep his eyes from rolling in his head. He
wanted to relinquish control; he wanted to be used like a toy. He nodded and
she delivered a fierce, wet kiss.
Haytham kneeled in front of the Native woman, taking in her marvelous body like
a drink of cool water. Her ample chest was heaving with desire, her dusky
nipples were perked and eager, and her pussy was dripping with juice. He lined
up his cock, groaning at the heat, and fully sheathed himself in one thrust.
Ziio screamed and clawed at the back of his neck, moaning unintelligibly in
Mohawk as she ground her hips into his.
He began thrusting, moaning, and trembling in ecstasy as he fucked Ziio. She
cried out for him again and again, tightening her legs around his waist and
rolling her hips in time. Haytham almost didn’t notice Charles behind him until
he felt the thick head of a penis rub against the crack of his arse. Haytham
groaned.
“I’m going to fuck you, Master Kenway,” Charles husked against his ear. He
rubbed his cock between Haytham’s cheeks again, pressing the firm muscles
together to clench around the hard organ.
“Oh god yes! Fuck me, dammit! Fuck me!” Haytham begged. He didn’t think that he
said it out loud, but if the dark chuckle by his ear was any indication, he
made his desire clear.
“As you wish, Master Kenway,” Charles slipped into Haytham’s willing body
without resistance.
Haytham felt his ass spread. He felt the stimulation as his hips stuttered. He
was so full and his dick was so hot and his breath was short with lust. Charles
bent over him, driving him deeper into Ziio. They both cried out and begged for
more.
“Oh god! Oh god, Charles! Ziio!” Haytham cried out, his body trapped between
two magnificent bodies. He pistoned himself back and forth, fucking Ziio with
his cock and fucking himself on Charles. His mind was overloading and nothing
mattered but the blinding pleasure.
Then, he woke up.
Haytham jerked with a startled moan. He flipped the body atop him and rolled
with it, ready to defend himself violently if need be.
Ziio, the real Ziio, yelped and cussed at him.
As Haytham came back to his senses, he frowned. Ziio was half naked and
flushed. Her skirt was gone and her thighs were wet. Haytham’s own breeches
were still on, but undone and he was hanging out unceremoniously.
Oh.
Oh, it was a dream, but not a dream.
“I’m sorry,” Haytham murmured, his grip slacking as he kissed Ziio on her lips.
She smiled coyly at him and reciprocated.
“It’s what I get for having sex with a sleeping warrior,” she chuckled. Ziio
smirked as she dragged her thigh against Haytham’s exposed, weeping dick. He
clenched his eyes and hissed, uncertain how long he would actually hold out.
Ziio pulled his head close and licked his ear. She worried the lobe momentarily
before whispering into it, “I want to ride you…”
Haytham didn’t argue. He knew that his fantasy with Charles and Ziio was a
dream, but the real Ziio was here, in the flesh and ready for more. He nodded
dumbly and rolled onto his back. Ziio wasted no time as she clambered atop him.
She steadied his cock with one hand and slowly, with a low groan of
satisfaction and her head thrown back, she impaled herself on his impressive
length.
Haytham hissed and gripped her hips tightly. His balls were already threatening
to draw up, but he couldn’t ejaculate inside of her; he couldn’t risk
impregnation. But Ziio wasn’t making it easy. She pumped her toned thighs
steadily, rising and falling like the breath of a goddess. Haytham groaned and
reached under her top to grope her chest. Her breasts were warm and full and
her nipples were tight. He tweaked them, one at a time, and earning eager
moans.
“Oh fuck, Ziio…” Haytham groaned loudly. The heat was amazing. Her pussy was
clenching around him as she rode up and down. Her juices were dripping down his
cock and catching in his pubic hair and their hips smacked wetly against each
other as she slammed down again and again.
Ziio began moaning in Mohawk. She steadied herself with a hand on Haytham’s
chest. Her thighs were shaking and her breath was short and her face was
flushed. Haytham reached with his free hand and rubbed her clit in small, firm
circles. The engorged nub poked out from the fleshy hood, eager and pink. He
rolled it between his calloused fingers and prodded at the tight ring of muscle
where her cunt joined his cock. That was it. Ziio screamed and her hips
stuttered. Her back bowed as she huddled over Haytham’s chest, her mouth drawn
into a perfect o and her disheveled hair falling across her sweaty forehead.
It took every ounce of Haytham’s willpower to keep his orgasm at bay. The
pressure around his cock made him groan with need, but he kept petting Ziio’s
clit, trying to drag as much pleasure from her as he could.
Finally, she shuddered one more time and suddenly remembered how to breathe.
Her breasts heaved with every lungful of air as she gasped like a fish out of
water. Trembling still, she climbed off of Haytham and crawled between his
legs.
Haytham gave a needy whine, despite his self, and practically bucked his hips
as she took a hold of him. It didn’t take long—just a few jerks, a well-placed
lick, and a sultry demand—and he came with a hoarse shout.
Ziio groaned and lapped at the semen. Even though she made a face, she drank
every bit before languidly licking the tip one more time and crawling up his
body. Haytham smiled—content and sated and boneless—as he cradled her against
his chest. She nuzzled his damp neck a little as she caught her breath.
“What…what brought that on?” Haytham asked, even though he had already figured
the answer. He felt Ziio grin against his neck. She pressed another kiss to his
racing pulse.
“You were so pathetic that I couldn’t help myself,” she giggled.
Haytham rolled his eyes and held her tighter. There were worse things to wake
up to. A beautiful woman eager to ride his dick was probably the best. He
hummed in response and felt sleep tugging at his mind again. That had been
nice, very nice. And it got his mind off of Charles and Holden. Yes, a partner
with a vagina was much better than one with a penis, right? He rather enjoyed
fucking Ziio.
“Haytham…?” Ziio was suddenly uncertain. He could feel her shoulders tense.
Haytham braced himself for awkward questions and grunted for her to continue.
She frowned against his chest. “Who’s Charles?” she asked. “Isn’t that the name
of one of your comrades?”
Haytham fought to keep his heart beat even. “It’s no one, Ziio.”
“Oh,” another silence passed. “Are you attracted to…” her nose wrinkled against
his shoulder. “…men?”
Haytham tried to keep the nervousness from his voice. “No! That’s preposterous!
Why would I want a man?! That’s sick and wrong and could get me killed just for
mentioning the idea!”
Ziio huffed. “You’re lying.”
“No, I’m just tired, Ziio. That’s all,” he fought down the strike of fear and
nuzzled the top of her head. “I’d like to sleep now.”
She seemed about to argue, but left it alone and nestled down with her arm
draped over his chest.
“Fine... Just don’t wake me up with another erection.”
Haytham laughed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Two evenings later saw Haytham lying outside of the tent. He held the amulet up
to the sky and peered through the keyhole. It was such a small, insignificant
thing to the naked eye, but he knew better. He knew that it was a rare relic of
Those Who Came Before. Even if the cave didn’t contain the treasure he
imagined, he still knew that it was important. It had SOMETHING in it.
Ziio finally flopped down beside Haytham, soaking in the warm summer night.
They had thought to go their separate ways, but whenever they spoke of it, they
would find some excuse to remain. That’s all it was—excuses. But even though
Haytham knew better, he didn’t care. He liked this. He liked living in the
woods with this exotic, wonderful person. He enjoyed Ziio’s company.
The Native woman reached up to touch the amulet, tracing the snake around the
edge.
“It’s called an oroboros,” Haytham supplied. “A snake or serpent eating its own
tail represents eternity and cyclicity.”
Ziio traced the edge of the amulet, deep in thought. “To my people, it’s
reminiscent of something different and far more sinister. It’s a prophecy.”
Haytham raised a brow. “Do continue…”
She pursed her lips for a moment, hesitant to continue. But finally, she
withdrew her fingers from the amulet.
“A long time ago, before the white men came, there was a prophecy. It spoke of
a boy finding a sickly, weak, gold and silver, two headed serpent. The serpent
made a glorious light show, one so beautiful and sad that the boy wanted to
save the poor creature. He brought it back to his village and pleaded with the
elders to keep it. They reluctantly agreed and helped the boy nurse it back to
health. At first, the serpent only ate bugs and mosquitos. But soon, it grew
and required more sustenance. It ate rats and rabbits and raccoons, then dogs
and elk and bears! Soon, it became so large that it broke out of its cage and
ate the children of the village. Even then, it did not stop. The two headed
serpent tore a path through the land, devouring trees and filling our rivers
with disease and excrement. It would kill animals, but wouldn’t stop to eat the
corpses. It even bore holes in the sides of mountains and cracked the earth
apart like an egg. Eventually, it turned to the sky and even tried to eat the
air and the clouds. The world fell to ruin, and with nothing left to devour,
the two headed serpent turned back to Kanien’kehá:ka. But as it arrived, it
squabbled. The two heads couldn’t decide which got to feed first, so it turned
on itself. The gold head tried to devour the silver one and the silver head
chewed the gold one from the inside out. But as it struggled, it thrashed the
land. Arrows and sticks would not stop it. The rivers were too dry to drown it
and the earth too broken to swallow it whole.
But, despite the destruction and lack of hope, there would be a savior. It’s
told that a small boy will arise from the broken ruins with a bow made from a
willow and strung with the hair of the Clan Mothers. His arrow, a straight
sapling with a white flint tip, will slay the monster. The two headed serpent
will die, felled by a small creature fit to be a snack. The boy will climb on
the dead foe’s belly and cut it open and everything that the two headed serpent
had eaten will return to its natural place in the world.”
Ziio’s voice fell quiet and Haytham mulled.
“At least it’s only a story,” he said.
Ziio scoffed and sat up. “It is not a story!” she snapped. “It is a prophecy,
one that has already begun!”
Haytham raised an eyebrow and clutched the amulet in his hand. “Pardon me, but
I don’t see any giant snakes tearing through the countryside and devouring
children.”
“It is not a literal snake,” she bit, “It is white men. White men came to our
land, sick and weak and begging for mercy. We provided them shelter and food.
We cared for them and taught them how to survive on our land. And what did they
do? They brought us nothing but disease and war! They’re killing our herds and
poisoning our rivers! They’re digging through mountains for gold and ripping
apart our forests! The prophecy is already in motion!”
Haytham frowned at the unspoken accusation. “So you blame me for what others
have done to your lands?”
Ziio paused and eventually shook her head. “Not expressly, no. You’re
different. But…but I hope that one day, if I cannot save my people, then I can
have a child who will slay the monster. I want a son who can string a willow
bow and cast the white flinted arrow in the face of adversity. And if my son is
not the one to slay the monster, I would hope it would be his son. Or the one
after. Or the one after. The cycle must end…That amulet is cursed.”
Haytham looked at the amulet. Perhaps there was something more to the prophecy
than drugged shamans? Perhaps it was a warning from Those Who Came Before.
“What is this amulet, Ziio?” he finally asked.
She scoffed again. “Why would I tell you?”
“So that I may ensure that it never falls into the wrong hands should it be
dangerous.”
She paused again and fiddled with the hem of her shawl.
“It is dangerous—but only as a whole. What you have there, that ring, it is
only one piece.”
Oh, now THAT caught Haytham’s attention. He asked for her to continue and she
did so grudgingly.
“The second half of the amulet is different; it is a small ball, similar to a
miniature black apple. But when the two pieces are united, it only creates
havoc and fear. Stories have been passed down from my people. We separated the
two pieces long ago so that they may never find each other. We thought that
neither piece would ever see Kanien’kehá:ka again, but we were wrong,” she
looked at Haytham, a mixture of anger and sorrow shimmering in her eyes.
“You’ve brought this cursed relic back to our land. Now, we might all be
doomed.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Week Four
Haytham sighed as he finished skinning another rabbit. He was bored,
undoubtedly and completely bored. He was so bored, he was even debating
visiting Boston again and checking in on his comrades; it had been awhile after
all.
Ziio was busy with another mission—or so she claimed. Haytham doubted the
sincerity of it, but she insisted that she would be gone for 6 to 7 days. He
thought that he could take up the time to research the Precursor storehouse,
but there were only so many cave paintings he could stare at in one day.
Deciphering Native mythology was William’s expertise, not his. And while
venturing to Boston sounded like a mighty fine idea, he couldn’t bring himself
to pack up the camp in the childish hope that Ziio would return early.
He wasn’t disappointed.
Ziio returned on the fifth day of her journey, worse for wear. Her mood was
dour and her mind was obviously preoccupied. But whenever Haytham tried to ask
what she was thinking about, she would deny that there was a problem. He
thought to throw it in her face, to declare that now it was she who was dodging
conflict, but it was unnecessary. He was an adult and he ought to act like one.
But he did notice that she wasn’t feeling well. Her hand kept absently touching
her belly.
“Are you in pain?” he asked after dinner.
Ziio started, then forced her hand away from her stomach. “It must have been
something I ate. Nothing to worry about.”
Haytham thought to argue, but why would Ziio lie to him about a stomachache? He
shrugged and accepted the excuse. The next day, she went hunting earlier than
usual. That was when Charles encountered the camp. That was when it fell apart.
As soon as Charles mentioned Edward Braddock, passive aggressive as it was,
Haytham wished desperately to stop him. Ziio was close. He could feel it. But
he couldn’t give Charles the satisfaction of lording over him and requesting
that they speak later. The damage was already done. The Order was mentioned and
his transgressions had been brought to light. Had Charles known that Ziio was
there, waiting in the trees? He must have—after all, he was Haytham’s pupil.
Haytham felt the rage in his gut churn and give way to fear. He swallowed it
down. Now was not the time for feelings.
Ziio was a storm. Her face was thunder and her words were sharp as lightening.
“You lied to me. You told me he was dead!” she bit at Haytham.
“Yes, but Braddock’s wound was fatal! I know how much you hate him, but I did
not spare his life by any means and I certainly wouldn’t have lied unless it
was for good cause,” Haytham tried to salvage what he could. Yet all he felt
was Ziio slipping through his fingers like water. She touched her belly again.
“If you lied to me once, then I should expect you’ll lie again Templar!” her
face contorted in fury and Haytham was taken aback by her ferocity as much as
her words.
“How do you—“ he tried.
“You lied to me! You never told me you were a Templar!” she spat.
“I never claimed otherwise!” Haytham roared. How did she know about Templars?
If that was the case, did that mean she was familiar with the Assassins, too?
Had she, this whole time, been expecting Haytham to be an Assassin? His gut
twisted with regret. He shouldn’t have done this. He should’ve never gotten so
close to her.
She accused him of trying to steal her land. His denials fell upon deaf ears.
“You led me on! You let me trust you!” tears welled in her eyes, but refused to
fall. She drew her sword and pointed it at him.
Haytham held up his hands in surrender. He didn’t want to fight her. He
couldn’t fight her. “…So I take it you’re allied with the Assassins,” his voice
shook with a sadness he didn’t know how to feel.
She spat on the ground in response.
Haytham laughed. Of course. Of course it always boiled back down to that,
didn’t it? Templars and Assassins were always going to jeopardize the world.
Haytham was hollow. He couldn’t win. He couldn’t find happiness and contentment
and love. That sort of lifestyle wasn’t meant for him. He was born an Assassin
and molded into a Templar by monsters and men alike. Ziio wasn’t meant for
someone like him. She deserved better. He could never be as amazing as her.
“Leave!” she screamed, the corners of her mouth twitching in sorrow. “Leave
this place and never return. For, if you do, I will tear out your heart with my
own two hands and feed it to the wolves!”
Haytham tried to talk sense into her. He really did try. But her rage was too
strong. It was too encompassing and unrelenting. He hung his head in defeat.
“Swear it!” she shouted.
Haytham felt his heart hollow and his stomach seize. His fists clenched at his
side as emptiness flooded his chest. It would be easier to leave rather than
fight. Ziio wouldn’t listen to him, not after he already broke her trust. As a
Templar, he couldn’t even begin to mend their shattered relationship. Why
bother even trying? He could move on. He could leave and pretend that Ziio
never existed. Ziio was right; it really was in his nature to succumb so easily
to conflicts within his heart.
“As you wish…” he conceded.
But she would never get to see what kind of man he could become, and he wasn’t
certain it was worth trying anymore. She turned her back, sheathing her sword
with shaking hands, and climbed back into the trees.
They were finished.
Chapter End Notes
     The Two Headed Serpent prophecy is actually a real Iroquois prophecy.
     D: I couldn't find a date was first written, but it was a long time
     ago. There are a bunch of versions just from Google alone. They have
     minor variations, but they're basically the same prophecy.
***** Charles Lee *****
Chapter Notes
     Chapter Specific Pairings: Haytham Kenway/Charles Lee
     Chapter Specific Warnings: Frotting, Piece of Eden shenanigans, mild
     sexual violence
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Ch. 4
Charles Lee
Haytham knew that there was something special about Charles from the beginning.
He didn’t know if it was the exuberant, almost puppyish enthusiasm that was so
enthralling, his intellect, or his utter willingness to please that had Haytham
taking as shine to him almost immediately. The man was so eager to become part
of something more, something bigger than his self. He had a higher calling in
this world than marching alongside Braddock until cannons or muskets or poor
leadership took him. He yearned for organization and order in his life, and the
military was proving to be inefficient. Charles Lee was born to be a Templar.
So as Haytham slipped the Templar ring onto Charles’ hand, he knew that the
metal cross had finally found a worthy owner.
And Haytham was not disappointed.
Over the years, Charles had been a magnificent asset to his cause. He killed
and sabotaged and infiltrated with a mere command, either written or verbal or
implied. And it was obvious, even to Haytham, that the soldier simply adored
his new leader. On more than one occasion, Haytham had been tempted to take
advantage of such willingness. How easy it would be to command Charles to his
knees! He was so eager to please, such a pliant little sapling, that Haytham
was certain that Charles would easily bend to his whim. Dark whispers in his
mind encouraged him to succumb to his needs and simply take what he wanted from
the new Templar.
While sparring with Charles, Haytham would allow himself the obscene pleasure
of standing too close, or touching his neck or shoulder or waist for far too
long to be appropriate. He would pin his subordinate beneath him, using his
full body weight to trap and straddle the soldier in place. It was almost a
game between them, one that Charles knowingly played. He would spread his knees
a little wider than necessary or bare his throat coyly, just so he could watch
the hunger in Haytham’s eyes.
But when Haytham’s hand lingered or his hot breath was too close to Charles’
ear, those pale eyes would turn to Haytham, seeking permission and validation.
They prayed for Haytham to quench Charles’ thirst.
They were watery and almost gray under the right light, with creases around the
lids forming from a lifetime of frowning. Though Charles was far from naïve or
innocent, though Charles wasn’t a victim of Haytham’s lust, those blue hues
made Haytham’s heart jump with grief and horror every time. Haytham always
ceased his advances before they went too far. Usually, after finding himself
rattled to the bone, he would scoop himself up and right his clothing, his
posture and tone concealing the shaken soul within. He would dismiss Charles,
reminding him to watch his footwork for next time, and then whisk away to his
own quarters under the pretense of impending paperwork. Finally, when he was
alone and the doors and shutters locked, Haytham would fold his hands around
his head and wonder, not for the first time, just what was wrong with him.
Had Haytham looked upon Reginald Birch with such a wondrous, confused gaze as
the elder Templar had violated him? Had he somehow brought it upon himself? He
must have. He must have done something to deserve such treatment. But no, that
wasn’t right. Holden had promised him that it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his
fault, dammit. The blame lay with Birch and Birch alone.
The nightmares had faded over the years, and the pain and fear faded right
along with them. But still, the dull reminder of that confusion, of the tumult
of emotion fit to drive a lad insane, remained ingrained in his mind. If Birch
had obtained the willpower to resist such a young boy, then what kind of man
would Haytham be today? Would he still fancy men or would he be chasing skirts
thrice as much? Would he even be a Grandmaster Templar had he not bared his
backside to his mentor decades ago?
One night, as he was caught in the tide of his own self-loathing, there was a
knock at his door. Haytham froze at his desk, hoping and wishing that the
interloper would give up and leave. He thought to pretend to be asleep or not
present, but the light from his lantern would give him away. Maybe if he just
didn’t respond…
“Master Kenway, sir, my apologies for bothering you at this late hour, but I…
feel that I must speak to you.” It was Charles. Dammit, Charles was outside his
door and he wanted to talk. Didn’t he know that there was nothing to talk
about!
“Is it urgent?” Haytham clipped.
He heard his Templar shifting uncomfortably outside the door. In his mind’s
eye, he could imagine Charles taking extra measures to square his shoulders and
present his best face to authority. “No, sir. But I believe that it is
important,” he replied as politely as possible.
Haytham didn’t know why he decided to get up and unlock the door, but before he
could think about it, he had smoothly risen and let Charles into his study.
Charles politely entered the room, his eyes flicking to the desk. Haytham had
mentioned that he needed to finish some paperwork, but his desk was clear and
his quill was dry. Charles noticed, but said nothing.
Haytham closed the door behind his friend and clasped his hands behind his
back. With his chin held high and his tone smooth and even, he asked, “What is
so important that you must bother me?”
Charles did his best not to flinch at the harshness. “I must apologize, Master
Kenway. As of late, I have noticed that my lack of finesse during our sparring
sessions has disgusted you. It was never my intent to be such an inferior
opponent, but I must let you know that I will continue to try my best. I will
achieve your standards, but it may take time. I implore you, Master Kenway,
that you please bear with my substandard skills until then. I won’t disappoint
you, sir.”
Haytham narrowed his eyes at Charles. Damn him and his way with words. They
both knew that this conversation had nothing to do with Charles’ fighting
competence. But perhaps this was Charles’ way of second-guessing himself.
“I am aware of that,” Haytham replied, clenching his hands behind his back to
keep from reaching out to his friend. “Your skills will improve in time,
Charles, and I am willing to see that through. Is that all?”
Charles hesitated again as words momentarily escaped him. He stepped closer to
Haytham, purposefully invading the Grandmaster’s space. It took all of
Haytham’s willpower to maintain his authority and keep from backing away. It
was a test.
“I appreciate the effort that you put into educating me, Master Kenway,”
Charles continued advancing, his eyes—damn his eyes!—trying to convey a message
that his words did not. “How can I repay your efforts?”
“How presumptuous of you, Charles…” Haytham growled. The other Templar faltered
once more and Haytham could see him doubt. Perhaps Charles was wondering if he
misjudged Haytham’s sexual inclinations. He looked about to apologize, but the
words withered on his tongue. Was it fear? Was it honest fear of what
repercussions Haytham would bring upon him? Sodomy was an unnatural crime. They
both knew it. They both knew the consequences. Haytham thought of Jim Holden.
‘It’s not your fault.’
Haytham couldn’t say that he was thinking when he acted. He only knew that he
didn’t want Charles to feel guilty. Being attracted to men was wrong, but it
wasn’t Charles’ fault. It wasn’t their fault.
Without his mind’s consent, Haytham latched onto Charles’ lapels and threw him
against the oak door. Immediately, he surged against the younger Templar and
forced their mouths together in a demanding, ravenous kiss. Unsurprisingly,
Charles reciprocated enthusiastically, parting his lips to invite his superior
in. Their tongues entwined and Charles made a deep, throaty whine as he arched
into Haytham. The Grandmaster growled and pressed harder against Charles, his
body more than flush against the other man. His cock stirred in his trousers
and his hand wandered briefly over Charles’ side.
A tightness in his chest accompanied the constriction in his breeches. He was
supposed to find a wife. He needed to embellish his charade as a normal
civilian and settle down and have children. He couldn’t drag Charles into his
misfortune.
Just as Haytham began to lose himself in his Charles’ warm lips, he clenched
his fist and punched the oak door hard enough to make the entire frame rattle.
Charles gasped, eyes wide and startled as Haytham angrily pushed away from him.
The younger man kept his back to the door as he watched the Grandmaster stalk
away in frustration.
“M-Master Kenway…wh—“ Charles began.
“Get out,” Haytham ordered. His erection withered as his own nails bit into the
palms of his hands. “We must focus on our mission. We need to find a convoy to
track within the week.”
Charles righted his cravat, his hurt buried beneath an unreadable façade. “Yes,
sir. But what about—“
“Speak of this to no one, Charles. Now get out.” Haytham snarled as he gripped
the edge of his desk, his shoulders tight and his back to his subordinate.
“That’s an order.”
Charles made a strangled choke of a sound, but without another moment’s
hesitation, he politely left his Grandmaster’s side. The door clicked shut
softly, masking the rage and hurt both men held, writhing, in their chests.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Things changed between the two Templars, though not necessarily for the worst.
Charles was still determined to prove his worth to Haytham, even when the
Grandmaster had decided to live with Ziio for a delightful month. Haytham still
must have still been pining as well as he indulged in indecent fantasies and
wet dreams involving his second-in-command. The younger Templar was resourceful
and competent in Haytham’s absence. He mediated Templar superiority amidst the
French and Indian war and spied on internal affairs. Charles even began working
alongside some Mohawk tribes to infiltrate and gain intelligence on the
Assassin influence in the Colonies. He was an invaluable ally. But of course,
the jealousy and desire remained.
Haytham saw the envy in Charles’ eyes whenever he mentioned of Ziio and the
utter triumph was pasted all over Charles’ face when Haytham moved back into
town only a day after their confrontation in the woods. Charles had known that
Ziio was there, watching and listening. He had baited them both and part of
Haytham knew that he could never forgive his friend for sabotaging his
relationship. At least Haytham knew that Holden wouldn’t leave him because of
some misunderstanding.
Charles and Jim Holden shared many attributes. Both were eager to please and
obedient. They were excellent fighters, made better under Haytham’s tutelage,
and they were both sodomites. But Charles could never be like Holden. He could
never light up a room the way that Holden’s smile did, or make his companion
laugh with a silly joke or side-remark. And he could never save Haytham from
himself.
Holden had promised that he would never let Haytham become a beast like
Reginald Birch. But Jim Holden was across an ocean, and before long, he was in
a place that Haytham couldn’t reach by ship or horseback or foot. Holden was
dead.
When Haytham first returned to the Colonies, Charles knew that something was
wrong. It wasn’t just the slight wince when the Grandmaster turned his torso a
certain way and it wasn’t just the somber grimace he wore constantly. Something
had broken within Haytham, and Charles knew.
Haytham changed.
The Grandmaster was more rigid in his beliefs than ever—that the world could
only prosper under strict, rigorous, tightly reined control. After Charles and
the others had rounded up the surplus of information on the Assassins during
his absence, taking the Colonies was simple. He shattered what was left of the
Assassin influence and brought it to its knees. The coup was meticulous and
methodical, as if he were balancing his accounts with blood instead of ink. He
was relentless and violent and part of that genuinely scared Charles as much as
it thrilled him. But to say that Haytham brought his wrath upon the land would
be wrong. The Grandmaster did not act out of emotion. There was no rage or
unanswered fury. He did not kill the Assassins for revenge or over petty
squabbles. Haytham acted only on cold, calculated logic. His only folly was
sparing the Mentor’s life, but even then, it was not out of grace. Achilles
served as an example.
As soon as the Assassins were eradicated like a bad pest, Haytham sent word to
the British Rite that he needed a competent, well-trained Templar to help him
control the Spanish territories rising west of the Colonies in light of the
French and Indian war. He was only one man and he couldn’t be in two places at
once. And while he thought to send Charles or one of the Templars in his inner
circle, he didn’t want to risk upsetting the delicate balance that they had
already attained.
In the meantime, with the land under the Templar’s shadow, Haytham continued to
research Those Who Came Before. Ziio had mentioned that the amulet had two
pieces. Although she had warned that the pieces should never be reunited,
Haytham didn’t care. It was a weapon. It had to be a weapon. And if it was
something that he could gather, then he should. It wouldn’t do to have the
scraps of Assassins, likely still hiding in the cracks like vermin, get to it
first. And if he could use it to further his own cause, then it would be worth
it. He had stolen several of the Assassins’ documentations and he pored over
them like a priest seeking retribution in a Bible. After many sleepless nights,
he found the information he was doggedly pursuing; the second part of the
amulet was real. Problematically, it went missing several years ago. In fact,
the Assassins documented the thing moving as if it had a life of its own, as if
it had sprouted legs and walked out from under their noses. How ridiculous!
They just hadn’t been able to control it. But Haytham would be able to. He
would keep it and covet it and use it only for the Templar cause.
Late one evening, while Haytham had been writing in his journal again
(something that he had been avoiding since Holden…passed) a rapt knock at his
door drew his attention. He placed a blotting sheet within the pages, hoping
that it wouldn’t smear, and snapped the book shut. Ah yes, the Grandmaster of
the British Rite had sent word that an ally would be along.
“Enter,” he called as he folded his hands on the desk.
Charles politely swung the door open and ushered the British Templar inside.
Haytham’s hands balled into tight fists and he felt his face pale at the sight.
“Grandmaster Kenway, may I introduce our Brother, Harold Smith,” Charles
professionally introduced.
Harold Smith grinned widely and nodded his head to Haytham. He had lost a few
more teeth and gained more than a few pounds in recent years and his blond hair
was thinning and receding something awful. “Long time, no see, Grandmaster
Kenway,” he mocked.
Haytham’s lips thinned and he stood, maintaining a perfect composure and an
even voice. “Yes, it has been a long time, Harold,” he replied, withholding the
tension from his voice. He could never forget this man; he could never forget
those hungry eyes or that condescending tone or the feel of his hands violating
his body or the cock throttling up his ass. Haytham would never forget.
Charles blinked in slight confusion. “My apologies, gentlemen. I didn’t know
that you knew each other…”
Haytham waved his hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. Welcome to the
Colonies, Harold. I trust that your stay will be short-lived and uneventful.
Charles will tend to your lodging and you will be briefed on your mission in
the morning.”
“Aw, you don’t wanna drink with me?” Harold pretended to be vaguely offended.
“I already sent a letter back to the British Rite telling ‘em I’ve arrived, so
we’ve got a loooong time to catch up on old memories, Haytham.”
“That’s Grandmaster to you, Harold. And no, I have better things to do,” he
sniffed and motioned to the door. “May the Father of Understanding guide us.”
Charles, sensing the obvious tension, ushered Harold Smith out of the room, but
not before the older Templar managed to reply. “Yes, Grandmaster, may the
Father of Understanding guide us.”
Haytham listened intently as they walked smartly down the hall and descended
the staircase. It wasn’t until one of the servants bade them goodbye and the
front door shut that Haytham allowed himself to fall. He immediately crumbled
into his chair, his arms shaking and his brow sweating. Every time he closed
his eyes, he was bombarded with memories of his brief, but horrendous
experience with Harold Smith. He thought that he had forgotten what it felt
like for the Templar to grope him and pin him and slam into him relentlessly,
but his mind ignited all of those faded recollections with a vengeance. He
shivered in disgust and his stomach rolled and rebelled.
Haytham barely made it to the privy down the hall before he vomited.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A few hours later, Haytham was staring out of the window in his chambers. The
panes were open and the candle on his nightstand flickered angrily at the cold
breeze. He hadn’t bothered getting ready for bed; he knew that sleep would not
come to him tonight. He had tried to read and research more about the relic,
but he could not focus. He could only wait for the sun to rise.
Unexpectedly, he heard hoofbeats clop along the path to his home. At first, he
had an irrational fear that it might be Harold Smith, but through the open
window, he heard Charles talking to the night watchman instead.
“I must speak to Master Kenway!” Charles’ voice was clenched with anger.
“I can’t allow that, sir. It’s late and the Master needs his rest,” the night
man urged.
“Let me in now,” Charles demanded. The watchman must have finally conceded
because Haytham heard the back door opening quietly and Charles slipped inside.
He listened to the man move almost silently through the hallways, as not to
wake the servants. He first stopped outside of Haytham’s study, but upon
noticing that the Grandmaster wasn’t there, he continued to Haytham’s quarters.
He didn’t get the chance to knock before Haytham called him in.
“You may enter, Charles.”
The Templar didn’t hesitate this time. He entered the room and gently closed
the door behind him. His body was tense and shaking and his face was an awful
puce.
“Sir, I believe that our Brothers from the British Rite must be playing some
sort of prank on you,” Charles started, fighting to keep his voice under
control. “Harold Smith is a joke of a man! I refuse to believe that
contemptible worm is a worthy Templar!”
“You don’t say.” Haytham chuckled dryly, his back still to Charles as he gazed
out the window. “What brought this on?”
“He was slandering you and your upbringing, Sir! He said that the late
Grandmaster Birch, your very mentor, was a pedophile and sodomite. He went on
to spout utter, VILE nonsense about Grandmaster Birch converting you to such
awful delinquencies before you came to the Colonies! He even had the NERVE to
claim that you murdered the Grandmaster while you were in Europe! That idiot!
That son of a WHORE! I should have CUT OUT his libelous tongue and FED it to
him!” Charles snarled, his voice shaking with indignation. He would’ve been
yelling and screaming at the top of his lungs if not for the sleeping servants.
They couldn’t afford an audience.
Haytham felt his pulse skip unpleasantly as his stomach soured again. He
swallowed and finally turned away from the window to face Charles. His friend
was disheveled. He sported a black eye and a few specks of blood had dried onto
his cravat.
Haytham narrowed his eyes and inspected him. “Did he attack you, Charles? Are
you injured?” he questioned fiercely. Against his better judgment, he reached
up to gently caress Charles’ bruised and swelling cheekbone. If touching the
sensitive wound hurt, then Charles’ bewilderment outweighed the pain.
“No, Sir. It’s just a black eye,” he replied with a savage grin. “But I did
teach him a thing or two about insulting our Grandmaster. He’ll be wearing our
mark on his cheek for the rest of his miserable life!” Charles held up his
right fist. His knuckles were bruised and scraped open, but more importantly,
the Templar ring on his finger was coated in dry blood.
“…How soon will he be able to travel?” Haytham inquired.
“Probably not for a few days at best,” Charles frowned. “I did lay into him
pretty good before dropping him at the inn like the shit that he is! He’ll
require a doctor to stich the wound his face, but I hope he gets an infection
in the meantime. Such scum deserves it.”
Haytham nodded. Although he wanted Harold Smith out of the Colonies as quickly
as possible, he was still pleased that Charles hurt the bastard enough to lay
him up for a day or two. Though, he wished that HE had been the one to beat the
shit out of Smith. Oh, revenge would be so easy. He had already murdered John
Harrison, and Reginald had met his end like a pig on a spit. Harold Smith was
all that remained of Haytham’s past trauma.
“Sir,” Charles started again, his thick brow drawn suspiciously. “That fat
bastard wasn’t…he was lying, correct?”
Haytham paused, a response dying before it even left his lips. Haytham
understood that, above all else, Charles despised weakness, and what was weaker
than his childhood? Haytham had been used and violated; he had only been a
shadow of the leader that he was now. He thought to lie, but Charles knew how
to read him. Perhaps it was too dangerous for Haytham to have gotten so close
to his right-hand man.
“What do you think, Charles?” he finally managed to ask. Wouldn’t it just be
easier to deny all knowledge? Even if he didn’t outright lie, he could still
dance around the topic. He didn’t have to go down this route.
Oh, but he wanted to. Some part of him sought Charles’ opinion, even if it
might drive the younger Templar away from him.
Haytham thought of his father—even though he had been an Assassin, Haytham
still valued the quality of free thought that he imparted. It had suited him
well. As a leader, he needed to think creatively and intuitively, and it was
only fitting that he pass the skill onto Charles, despite the cost.
Charles paused in confusion, and then averted his eyes to the floor. “I don’t
know. I can’t speak my mind on this matter because I didn’t know Grandmaster
Birch.”
“But you know me. Do you think that I’m a pedophile and sodomite?” Haytham
dared to ask, his lip rising in disgust.
“No! GOD, no!” Charles was quick to shake his head. “I know that you would
never hurt a child like that! As a Templar, you frown upon unrighteous
treatment of people, children included!”
“But as a sodomite…?” Haytham gripped onto Charles’ wrist hard enough to make
the other man wince.
“That doesn’t matter! Who you are attracted to is your business and yours
alone!” Charles snapped, refusing to meet his eyes. “You already know
about…about my preferences, so I have no right to judge yours. Besides, it’s of
no concern to our goals as Templars!”
Another silence lapsed between them. Charles suspected the truth, but he would
not say it. Would it be better to leave the Templar waiting and wondering
forever? Haytham couldn’t risk bringing more animosity to his doorstep. He had
already denied his relationship with Ziio in the past and he saw what sort of
resentment those lies and half-truths begot him. But to admit to the childhood
abuse out loud again, hell, to even allude to what transpired was shameful!
Holden would’ve known what to do.
’Sharing secrets is dangerous—downright and terribly so—but if you find the
right person to trust, then it’s the best thing ever.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because it cures some of the loneliness, the kind right here,’ Holden touched
Haytham’s forehead, ‘and the kind in here,’ he touched his chest, just over his
heart.
“Reginald Birch was a monster. He lost the right to call himself a Templar
years before he died,” Haytham started, his voice suddenly dry as a desert.
Charles didn’t need to know this. He didn’t need to know anything about this.
But Haytham wanted him to know; he valued Charles’ opinion and hoped against
rationale that Charles wouldn’t abandon his cause. No. The younger Templar was
too strong and determined for that.
“Birch was a pedophile and a sodomite. He orchestrated my father’s murder, my
mother’s imprisonment, my sister’s enslavement, and my upbringing.”
Charles’ blue eyes darkened in confusion, and then widened in realization.
Haytham couldn’t stand to look at him. He turned to close the shutters on the
window. Either Charles would storm off in disgust or else he’d stay. Haytham
tried not to hold his breath. He already felt skinned alive and left to cure in
the sun. The cards were on the table.
“Then…when you went to London again…you said that you had business to attend…
Did you…?” Charles said slowly. “Did Birch...?”
Haytham didn’t bother replying. Charles was a bright man. He already had it
figured out.
“Why are you trusting me with this information, Sir?” Charles asked.
Haytham sighed. “You’re my second-in-command, Charles. That is reason enough.”
Another half-truth, but one not so volatile.
Charles shifted his weight.
“…Sir… If Harold Smith is willing to divulge these secrets to me, then what
will keep him from blabbing to someone else? I propose that we kill him, Master
Kenway. It would be the wisest choice,” Charles suggested.
“You would continue to fight by my side, even knowing that I have murdered a
Grandmaster?” Haytham questioned. They both knew that the ensuing answer would
determine Charles’ fate.
“Yes. I trust your decisions, Master Kenway. If Grandmaster Birch really was so
corrupt that you had to…eliminate him, then I believe such a fate was
necessary. After all, you are a Grandmaster as well; you are fit to deliver the
judgment that someone such as I cannot. What happened in the past has…passed.
You have risen above adversity and personal horror to become the greatest
leader this land has ever known. THAT is what we fight for—to rise above
hardship and become something better by bringing order to ourselves and our
world,” Charles determined, his loyalty unwavering. “Now, Master Kenway, how
would you order me to dispose of this Harold Smith?”
A wave of relief crashed through Haytham’s chest. He turned to Charles and
scrutinized him; he saw through him. Charles was sincere. Something felt oddly
liberated inside of him.
“I believe that we will pay him a visit in the morning, a non-lethal one, mind
you,” Haytham said as his shoulders relaxed. Charles raised a questioning
eyebrow.
“Sir?”
“Revenge isn’t as satisfying as it appears,” Haytham stated bitterly,
remembering how empty he felt as Birch’s eyes glassed over. Even after his
breath had stopped, it still felt as if he were mocking Haytham. Birch still
won, having controlled Haytham’s emotions to the end.
“As much as I would prefer to kill Harold, it simply isn’t worth it. He’s a
worm, not a snake. If we kill him, then I’ll have to send to the British Rite
again and they may become…curious. If we act against him, then Harold Smith
will win.”
“What if he spreads this…scandal around town?”
“No one will believe him.”
“So we should let him go?”
“Not necessarily,” Haytham replied with a wry grimace.
Charles nodded. “Then…about our misunderstanding,” he said, stepping towards
his Grandmaster once more. “I apologize for my inappropriate assumptions,
Master Kenway. Now that we are both…more knowledgeable, perhaps there is a way
to reconcile.”
It shouldn’t have been the time for this. Haytham felt as if he had been ripped
open and stretched like a piece of deerskin. Sand and salt grinded in his open
wounds. But Charles held the promise of trust and safety in his hands. It was
the balm to his wind-beaten soul.
It shouldn’t have been the time for this, but Haytham’s loins declared
otherwise.
He closed the gap between them. “And what if I don’t want such apologies?” he
asked as he straightened the collar of Charles’ coat. He trusted Charles, more
than any other man, and that trust had not been misplaced.
“Then I hope that my continued loyalty would please you, Master Kenway,”
Charles said breathlessly, his hands glued to his sides to keep from reaching
out to his idol.
Haytham hummed his approval and seemed to continue straightening Charles’ cloak
and waistcoat. It wouldn’t have mattered much in a few minutes, but for the
moment, it was an excuse to touch his friend in a way that he hadn’t indulged
in before.
Charles’ breath hitched as Haytham’s hands firmly, finally grabbed him about
the waist to press their hips together. The elder Templar threaded his hand in
Charles’ hair and wrenched his head back.
“May the Father of Understanding guide us…” Haytham murmured against the other
Templar’s lips. Charles barely had the chance to mutter it back before their
mouths pressed together in a heated kiss. Haytham didn’t want to be plagued by
old ghosts anymore. He’d rather make new memories and hope that they wouldn’t
be his downfall.
Haytham’s palms slipped under Charles’ coat, urging it off of his shoulders as
he began to unbutton the man’s waistcoat. Charles moaned quietly, happily, as
he hesitantly reached up to cup Haytham’s jaw. The Grandmaster grasped Charles’
wrist and guided it to his side. There, it pet and felt the elder Templar with
a fervent heat that had been withheld for far too long.
A few moments later had both men writhing on the bed, as they shucked off
clothing and boots and cravats. Charles straddled Haytham’s thighs and gazed
with pure awe at the lovely form beneath him. Though Haytham was familiar with
certain people’s hungering expression, this gaze was different. Pure adoration
shined in Charles’ light blue eyes. His hands danced over the taut muscles and
his fingers grazed the thick scar on Haytham’s side. He scooted back a little
to kiss it. Haytham chuckled and switched their positions. He spit into his
palm and reached between them to stroke Charles’ awakening dick. The younger
man arched into the touch with an obscene gasp, no doubt eager to fulfill the
fantasies he had been suppressing for so many years. Haytham grinned and
mentally corrected himself. They BOTH were fulfilling suppressed fantasies. How
many years had Haytham secretly hungered for Charles? It felt like an eternity
with naught but oil on his hand and his imagination. But this was real.
“M-Master Kenway!” Charles whined, his hips shamelessly bucking into the touch
as a flush spread over his neck and upper chest. Haytham leaned down to lick
along the other man’s collar bone, nipping lightly at the pale flesh and
eliciting a string of hushed moans. Charles gripped Haytham’s arm and rolled
them both to the side.
“Not so hasty!” Charles panted, his cock already hard and dripping under
Haytham’s ministrations. He wanted to relish this moment, to savor it and draw
it out for as long as possible. Haytham’s fist already had Charles on edge, but
he couldn’t allow himself to orgasm. Not yet.
He rolled on top of Haytham again, much to the elder man’s frustration, and
kissed him sweetly on the jaw. “As much as I appreciate the attention, Master
Kenway, I would prefer that this be for your pleasure, too. You deserve so
much, and I can only give you so little.”
The Grandmaster might have protested had Charles not picked that moment to
grind his hips experimentally into Haytham’s. A short gasp choked out of the
Grandmaster’s throat as he threw his head back against the pillow and bucked
into the heat pinning him down. Charles grinned in triumph as Haytham cracked
open an eye at him. It was permission. Although Haytham may have been beneath
Charles, he only allowed such treatment because he wanted to. After all, one
must be IN control to give it. Charles repeated the motion, making the
Grandmaster growl and grasp his waist firmly. Charles allowed Haytham to guide
his hips with a satisfied smile twitching on his lips.
“Like that, Sir? Do you like it when I grind our cocks together?” Charles
whispered into Haytham’s ear, his hands gripping the pillows as he surged his
hips against his elder’s.
“Y-yes, Charles, just like that…!” was the breathless reply. It had been so
long, far too long. A panicked voice in his head screamed that this was a bad
idea, but the heat pooled in his lower belly didn’t care. His body moved of its
own accord, bucking against Charles’ form. It felt so good to have another
person atop him again, one so loyal and trustworthy that he could let go. He
didn’t realize how much he missed the sensations of a thick cock rubbing
against his until Charles rutted against him once more.
“Let me take care of you, Master Kenway. I’ll please you for as long as you’d
like,” Charles whispered fondly.
Haytham nodded and pressed harder on Charles’ hips as he thrust his own upwards
with a soft cry. Charles covered his lips in another sloppy kiss. Their teeth
clacked together and Charles’ moustache tickled his nose. They made indecent,
slippery noises as they gyrated against one another, cocks pulsing with wanton
heat. Charles wanted so desperately to reach his peak, but he wanted Haytham to
fall first. He wanted to watch his Grandmaster cry out in pure ecstasy, to go
rigid beneath him as he came. Such a gift would be more than Charles could have
ever hoped to receive. The unflinching trust was nice, but to have that and
Haytham’s seed would be paradise.
He finally broke the kiss with Haytham and slid down the Templar’s body until
his swollen lips reached Haytham’s cock. The Grandmaster threaded his hands in
Charles’ dark hair as the eager man suckled on the head of his dick. Charles
swirled his tongue about, exploring the ridges and veins, and tasting every
delicious inch that his mouth could find. The grip on his hair tightened and
Haytham thrust his hips into the inviting warmth. Charles took in as much as he
could as he fondled the Grandmaster’s heavy balls.
“Master Kenway, come for me,” he demanded as he nuzzled Haytham’s dick,
trailing sticky precum and saliva on his cheek. He sucked on the tip again,
dipping his tongue against the leaking slit, before he felt Haytham’s testicles
draw up. Not a moment later, Haytham came with a muffled shout. Charles drank
the load that shot down his throat, unwilling to waste even a drop of his
Grandmaster’s precious gift. He lathed the magnificent organ with his tongue
until there was nothing left for Haytham to give.
The Grandmaster panted, his face flushed. Wordlessly, he pulled Charles up the
bed and kissed him passionately. His nimble hand found his friend’s neglected
dick and he stroked at a breakneck speed. Charles moaned into the kiss, simply
adoring the taste of Haytham’s seed and mouth assaulting his tongue at once. He
didn’t want to fall over the precipice or orgasm, not so soon when it felt as
if he had barely begun to appreciate Haytham’s body, but the Grandmaster was
relentless. It didn’t take long for Charles to find his peak. With a long keen,
he jerked his hips against Haytham’s hand as thick jets of semen splattered
their bellies. Charles slowly came down from his high and he sagged against his
Grandmaster’s sweaty chest.
Charles fought to say something intelligible, but words escaped him in favor of
a satisfied groan.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next morning, both men were refreshed and confident as they rode to the
inn. Harold Smith had visited a doctor sometime in the night and his cheek was
recently stitched, though one would be hard-pressed to know what part of his
face belonged where. Charles hadn’t exaggerated when said that he had beat the
tar out of the British Templar.
“Ah, I see that your night went well,” Haytham taunted as soon as the door to
the room was closed.
“Go da ‘ell, ‘aythem,” Smith slurred.
The Grandmaster backhanded Harold Smith casually, making the blond fool yelp
and stumble onto his backside. Haytham crouched with a calm smile and gripped
Smith’s cheek hard enough to make the fresh stiches bulge.
“Let me clear something up for you, Harold. Your presence is most undesirable.
You are little more than a shit stain of a man, much less a Templar. Now we are
going to give you papers and a map. You are to follow this map west of the
Colonies, where you are exiled. As of this moment, you are no longer welcome in
my territory. If I hear that you’ve so much as put a toe into the Colonies
after this week, then I will hunt you down personally and slice you from stem
to stern. Your death will not be quick, Harold, oh no. If you disobey me now, I
will do worse to you than you can possibly fathom,” Haytham threatened calmly.
“Wh-wut you wan’ me ta do?” Harold tried to slur again, his body shaking in
fear. Haytham wasn’t the fearful lad from before; he was a Templar Grandmaster.
Haytham bared his teeth and tightened his grip on the other Templar’s face.
Fresh blood oozed from between the stiches and Harold whined piteously. Killing
him would be so easy…but the easy route wasn’t always the right one.
If he exacted revenge, then he would lose himself. He would be one step closer
to being just like Reginald. Some of Birch’s words floated to his mind and he
bared his teeth. He spoke the phrases that haunted his nightmares for years.
“Simple,” Haytham replied, “I want you to obey—nothing more and nothing less.”
Harold’s swollen eyes tried to widen.
Haytham continued. “I will be sending you orders periodically from the Colonies
and you are to fulfill them like a good little Templar. Do you understand?”
Haytham guided Harold’s chin, making him nod against his will.
“Good!” The Grandmaster Templar finally released his subordinate. He wiped his
bloody fingers on Harold Smith’s waistcoat.
“Wy you sparing me now?” Harold tried to say. He didn’t bother standing; he
only gazed up at the Grandmaster through misshapen eyelids.
“You are not worth my blade, Harold. You’re less than a man, less than a
beast,” Haytham folded his hands neatly behind his back as his lip twitched in
disgust. “Charles will see you off. I believe that I’ve wasted quite enough
time with you already.”
Harold laughed hoarsely as Haytham began to walk out of the room. He called
after him, his words still slurred, but intelligible. “Once you make a beast
out of yourself, there’s no going back to being a man, Haytham! How long can
you keep up this charade? How long until you become a monster like me,
Haytham!? How long!?”
Haytham kept walking.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Things went well after that. Haytham didn’t hear from Harold again, but he did
receive word from his subordinates that the fool had moved west as ordered.
That was just as well. Haytham didn’t need to kill Harold Smith, not when there
were so many better things to devote his time to.
Haytham and Charles couldn’t call themselves a couple. They were not lovers.
But at times, during a stressful week or when work had been a bit slow and
their blood a bit hot, the two Templars fucked. That’s all it was; fucking.
There were no words of love passed between them like naughty secrets and there
was no time to ruminate on their actions. It was simply a bodily necessity that
had to be sated.
Of course, Haytham assumed that Charles felt differently, but the younger
Templar kept those emotions bottled up and tucked safely away. He remained an
invaluable ally who sacrificed his time, blood, and energy to the Templar
cause. Perhaps more importantly, he sacrificed everything he could for Haytham.
While the Grandmaster was a vain man, he wasn’t so prideful to believe that
Charles’ actions, his practical worshipping, was all for Haytham. Charles did
it for himself as well. Their cause gave Charles the purpose he so craved.
The only thing that Charles clearly disapproved of was Haytham’s research on
Those Who Came Before.
It had started off innocently enough, but it soon grew into an obsession.
Though Haytham didn’t neglect his duties as Grandmaster, the little time he had
outside of his Brothers was devoted to research. Haytham had initially brushed
off Charles’ concern as jealousy. Rather than spending a few stolen hours with
his subordinate, tangled in the sheets, he was decoding old books and maps. It
was only natural for Charles to feel slighted and replaced by musty paper and
faded ink. But it couldn’t have been an actual problem.
He was so close to uncovering the mystery behind the core of the amulet. He had
diagrams and drawings and speculations on it, but actually finding the route it
took across oceans and continents was proving more difficult.
Several months after the debacle with Harold Smith, Haytham decided to take a
short break from his research and spend a few moments outside. It was late
afternoon and the spring air was crisp, but inviting. He paced about the
courtyard of his plantation, his hands clasped behind his back and his mind
deep in thought.
Reginald Birch had been obsessed with Those Who Came Before. It had seemed
ludicrous and silly for a man of his power and position to lose himself. But
Haytham wasn’t like that. Oh no, he couldn’t possibly be like that because he
refused to become like his mentor. Holden had promised him that he’d never be
like Birch. Besides, it wasn’t Haytham’s or Birch’s fault that the information
was so alluring! Haytham was only doing what was best for the order! He would
find the relics, the Pieces of Eden, which the documents mentioned. He would
crack the riddles like a hard-boiled egg and dig out the innards with a spoon.
He would do whatever it took—whatever it took—to gain the power that the relics
held and he would bring order to the world and her people. He could save
everyone from themselves.
He touched the amulet around his neck unconsciously, his finger tracing the
edge of it under his under clothing. Strange. The amulet was warm against his
skin, like a piece of metal left out in the sun.
He frowned and pulled it out from under his cravat. It was glowing. The etched
lines were a bright teal and the eyes of the oroboros snake glittered
mischievously. His heart skipped a beat in excitement. The relic was reacting
in a way it hadn’t since the Precursor cave! No sooner than he began pondering
the strange phenomena did something tap against the side of his boot. He
ignored it at first, thinking it some pebble. But it happened again.
His pulse quickened. Something was wrong and unnatural. It called to him.
Haytham looked down.
A small, unassuming, black marble was tapping against the side of his boot.
Tap tap! Taptap tap!
He paused and watched it roll lazily onto the toe of his boot. It tried to
scale his leg, like Charles’ prized Pomeranian dogs.
Haytham could hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears. It called to him—not
with words or gesture—but something called to him. He stooped and picked up the
small marble. What was it? What sort of thing could move in such a manner on
its own? He held it to his face and peered at the small etchings across the
surface. They began glowing as well.
Haytham nearly dropped the thing with a surprised gasp. It was pulsing! The
thing was warm and almost felt as if it was trying to wiggle out of his grasp.
He could feel the heat of the amulet seep through his clothes and chest. He
clenched the marble in his fist. It wiggled and writhed against his palm as it
heated up as well. The pulsations synchronized with his heartbeat.
Suddenly, his fist magnetically flew to his chest, hitting it with a meaty
thunk that nearly knocked Haytham off-balance. It pulled against his fingers,
seeking out the amulet. Haytham heard his heart speed. He found it! This was
the second piece of the Relic, he knew it! And he found it (or did it find
him?)! But he didn’t want to unite the pieces, not here in the open, not in his
courtyard.
Haytham tried to pull his hand away from his chest with difficulty, as if
invisible ropes were ratcheting between the marble and the amulet. He
maintained it at a distance for a moment before it flew back and hit him again,
this time with enough force to make him stumble. Haytham grunted and had the
absurd realization that he must look a fool to anyone unfortunate enough to
witness this. To an outsider, he would appear to be hitting himself in the
chest hard enough to knock the wind out of him.
He realized with a fevered enthusiasm that the two pieces WANTED to be
reunited! They were meant to be together and he was standing in the way of
that. It didn’t matter that he was out in the open or that he didn’t have any
notes in front of him. It didn’t matter that part of his mind screamed and
rebelled, begging for him not to do this. Nothing mattered except uniting the
two pieces.
He uncurled his fingers slowly. The marble must have known his intentions—it
didn’t fight anymore.
He held his breath, his eyes alight and warm, and placed the marble in the
center of the amulet.
Everything went white.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Someone shook him.
“Master Kenway! MASTER KENWAY!” the person yelled above him, voice frantic.
Haytham didn’t know how much time had passed. Perhaps he had been gone for a
few minutes or hours or days in the White Plane. He opened his eyes. He was
still outside, in his courtyard, and on his back. No birds chirped from the
well-manicured trees, but the sky was clear and the air was crisp and inviting.
He hadn’t left, at least not physically.
The amulet was safe under his shirt, still pulsating and warm and comforting.
“…Charles,” he recognized, his voice rough as gravel and his stomach in knots.
“Master Kenway,” the Templar breathed with relief. “I thought that…I…that you…”
Charles paused to collect himself. “What happened? Are you ill?”
The first thoughts that came to Haytham’s mind were lies. He was about to tell
Charles that he had been napping or that he had fallen down somehow. (Why was
he willing to lie without thought? What had happened? What was wrong with him?)
But he caught the lies on his lips before they fell. Charles was too
intelligent for that. He wouldn’t believe it for one moment.
“…I’m fine,” was all that Haytham offered. He sat up, tenderly rubbed his head,
and stood to brush himself off.
Charles’ eyebrows furrowed. He was entirely unconvinced. “Sir…you were on the
ground, motionless and pale. I couldn’t wake you, no matter how much I yelled.
Your pulse it was…different,” Charles tried to convince him. “I’ll send word to
Benjamin. He could look you over, make certain that you’re alri—“
“I’m fine!” Haytham snapped more forcefully than he intended.
Charles was taken aback. “Haytham…your eyes. There’s something wrong with your
eyes,” he breathed.
Haytham blinked. They were warm, but they felt just fine. He glanced at Charles
again with irritation clearly etched into his face.
Whatever his subordinate saw must have faded because Charles’ expression
changed from shock, to fear, and then to confusion. “N-nevermind. It’s…It’s
gone. Must have been a trick of the light,” Charles conceded uneasily.
“Will there be anything else?” Haytham demanded none too gently.
Charles shifted again. “I have those documents you requested. We can go
upstairs, I’ll have the servant bring up some tea, and we’ll go over th—“
“Unnecessary,” Haytham growled. “Just leave them outside my study. I’m busy.”
With his hands clasped firmly behind his back, Haytham left no room for
argument. He brushed briskly past Charles and headed towards his home.
Haytham had a lot of work to do.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Weeks passed. Haytham lost track of day and night and he couldn’t remember the
last time he needed food or rest. There was so much to do, so much information
to sort through. He couldn’t afford the time to stop, and thankfully, his body
didn’t seem to need it.
Charles knocked on his study door and smartly cleared his throat. “Master
Kenway, are you well?” he called from the hallway. Damn him! He had been
checking in on Haytham almost incessantly these few weeks! Haytham wanted to be
angry, but he was almost done with his map. He wanted to show it to Charles, to
see his subordinate enlightened. Haytham put a finishing touch on the page and
responded almost feverishly.
“Yes, do come in, Charles!”
“…Sir, the door seems to be locked. Are you certain that you are well?”
Haytham tutted and finally stood up, he unlocked and unbolted the door to let
his friend inside. Charles scrutinized him with a disapproving stare. Haytham’s
hair was frazzled, but still tied back in a ponytail and although he wore clean
clothes, the dark circles under his eyes and the abnormally sallow skin spoke
volumes.
“Master Kenway, you missed another meeting with our Brothers today,” Charles
started suspiciously, indignation lacing his voice. Haytham had never missed
any of their little get-togethers before this month.
“That was today? Bah, then we will reschedule for another time. I’ve been far
too busy to bother with going out,” Haytham dismissed.
Charles frowned. “Since when has our cause been a ‘bother’ to you, Master
Kenway?”
“Don’t sound so bitter, Charles! I’ve found something of great importance,
something that can aid our cause in a way that no simple meeting can!” Haytham
spoke rapidly, as if energized from an unknown source.
“I’ve cracked it, Charles! I’ve finally found it!” he said. He scooped Charles
into his arms and spun him around with abnormal strength. His subordinate
stiffened and tried to pull away with a disgusted tick in his lip.
“Found what, Sir? A cure for your madness!?” Charles blustered as soon as he
was back on his own feet, wary of the strange behavior.
“The key! The key to the key to the Precursor Site!” Haytham explained as if he
were speaking to a small child, ignoring the insult as if it was an
inconsiderable outburst.
“….Ah…ha…?” the other Templar raised a worried eyebrow. He could feel something
off in the room, something wrong. Perhaps Haytham had unfortunately snapped?
Charles sincerely hoped that it was just a bad side effect of stress. Haytham
had always been strong and impossibly resilient. He couldn’t afford to doubt
his Grandmaster now. “Sir, perhaps you should rest. When was the last time that
you ate or slept?”
Haytham thought about it for a moment, his demeanor still commanding an air of
authority even behind his unruly appearance. “I suppose it’s been close to five
days now since I’ve napped and nearly three days since I last ate. Remarkable,
no? To think that such a small device could fuel a human being for days without
rest or sustenance!”
Charles was deeply concerned. Something was wrong, and it wasn’t just Haytham’s
mental well-being. “Haytham, what device do you speak of? What is your
discovery?” It must have had something to do with that day that Charles found
Haytham motionless and prone in the courtyard. Ever since then, ever since that
moment, Haytham had been different as a man possessed.
Haytham smirked. He held up the amulet and a small, black ball, no bigger than
a musket round. Teal etchings glowed along the surface. Charles gasped. It was
unnatural. It was wrong. “I found this. Or perhaps it found me, I haven’t
decided. But it seeks out the artifact, Charles. They go together!”
Haytham slid the circular amulet to one side of the desk and placed the marble
on the other edge. The marble shifted as soon as Haytham removed his fingers
and it rolled steadily towards the amulet. Haytham picked it up again and
dropped it from the air. Instead of obeying gravity and falling straight down,
the marble flew magnetically to the key.
Haytham rattled off the tales that Ziio told him about the amulet and some of
the information he read. His words were jumbled and lacked sense, but Charles
understood the gist. Thanks to the amulet, Haytham had made a discovery that
could create a new world for the Templars. After a few more demonstrations,
Haytham placed the marble in the center of the amulet.
“Look Charles! Our salvation!”
As soon as the marble settled, it began to gyrate through the air, defying
gravity entirely. The amulet rotated on all axes and the ball rolled in place.
It hummed like a fierce wind blowing through a crack in a door and made a noise
like a coin spinning on metal. Blue light filled the room and Charles yelped in
surprise. His comb-over was standing on end and the stray hairs on Haytham’s
head danced weightlessly in the air. Thin beams of blue danced along the walls
and the rug until they finally stilled. The noise quieted, but it didn’t stop.
Haytham spun the key towards a blank wall.
“It’s…it’s a map…” Charles gasped in horror. A map, more perfect than any
cartographer could draw, was projected onto the wall. It had all of the
continents etched in such fine detail that Charles could hardly believe his
eyes. This was wrong. There were small beacons of golden light. They were
markers of some nature.
“These were relics of Those Who Came Before, Charles!” Haytham blinked
owlishly. “I have reason to believe that each of these indicators mark other
Pieces of Eden!” He tapped the air at each beacon as he spoke, eventually
stopping on the one farthest northwest of the Colonies without touching the
ocean.
“They are all powerful, more powerful than we can imagine because they were
meant to control humanity! They’re weapons, Charles! This one manipulates the
will of men, bringing them the fabled order and obedience. This one creates
illusions so realistic that they’re tangible! This one grants the wielder a
temporary immortality! But this one! Oh, this one is of particular interest. It
appears to be a prototype device for some sort of time travel,” Haytham said as
he tapped the beacon again. Information immediately began streaming along the
wall. Some of it was in English, but most were obscure symbols that Charles
couldn’t even begin to read. “Just think! We can go back in time to achieve our
goals! We wouldn’t even NEED the other relics at that point! We can eradicate
the Assassins before they were even born and we can ensure a simple, controlled
future for the entire world! It’s bigger than just the Colonies, Charles, it’s
for the world!”
No! This was wrong! Charles recoiled. It was changing Haytham, whatever that
damn thing was, it was wreaking havoc and changing his Grandmaster! The Piece
of Eden was dragging Haytham into the depths of hell.
Charles backed away from his superior. “This is madness! I don’t understand
what that demonic device is, but look at what it’s done to you! You’re
obsessed! You speak of altering time as if that was your God-given right!
You’re becoming a monster!”
Haytham scowled as the blue lights danced about the room, flitting over his
dark expression in little bursts of teal. “No, it has done nothing to me so
much as it has done something for me! If I could get that time controlling
relic under our thumbs, then the Assassins would cease to exist!”
“DAMMIT! YOU would cease to exist! How can you possibly change time without
eradicating yourself! You were born of an Assassin father! If he never existed,
then you would never be born! Please, cease this madness and return to your
senses, I implore you!” Charles all but begged. Fear clawed at his spine. He
wanted to back away, to flee and never return, but he couldn’t. Haytham was his
Grandmaster and something more. He couldn’t leave him like this.
“Coward!” Haytham sneered. “You would pass this opportunity?! Then fine! Leave
if you will! But I will change things! Haven’t you ever wanted to go back and
do things differently, Charles?! Haven’t you ever wondered what you would be
like if certain people had never entered your life, if it had never been
shattered beneath the incautious heel of some worthless bastard!?”
Charles pulled his lips back into a snarl. “Is THAT what this is about? Fixing
your childhood? How ridiculous! You would use such a powerful relic for your
own selfish means?! It’s one thing to preach about it being for the good of the
world, but now you just want it for YOURSELF!”
“No! I never said that’s expressly what I would do with it, but that would be a
side effect. Without Assassins, I may not have been born, and if I was never
born, then Birch could never have raised me, and if Birch never raised me, then
I could never become the beast like him!”
“Listen to yourself! YOU’RE MAD!” Charles bellowed. “If don’t know the
consequences of altering time! And even if you did manage something so
insignificant as saving your damn father before he died, then I never would’ve
met you! You never would’ve brought order to this land! The Colonies would not
be better for missing you here and your sacrifice would have no meaning, no
value!” Charles shook his head, trying to contain his rage and fear. “I cannot
allow you to seek that Piece of Eden! It’s too dangerous. There are too many
unspoken factors and perils and you are not thinking clearly.”
“Haytham,” he started, holding out his hand, “give me the amulet!”
“You wouldn’t save the world?” Haytham narrowed his eyes at Charles dangerously
and clutched the amulet to his chest. The younger Templar squared his
shoulders, readying for an attack as his skin prickled from tension.
“Not if it meant losing you, Sir.”
Haytham laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound, but rather a short bark that was
harsh and suddenly breathless. “You don’t want to lose me? How sentimental. You
know nothing,” he growled.
Without warning, Haytham launched himself at his subordinate. He wrestled the
other man to the floor and straddled his hips whilst pinning his arms to his
side. “I have been lost for decades Charles. Ever since then, ever since Birch
wrung all he could from me, I have been lost…” He claimed Charles’ lips
hungrily, nipping at them and sucking on them without permission or mercy as
his hips ground lewdly against his friend’s. “Perhaps I’ll show you what it’s
like, then? To have your control stripped away and leave you with naught but
your bare bones and a sore arse to show for it? Perhaps I should take you as
Birch did to me, to make you scream and cry and beg beneath me! Then maybe
you’ll wish for an alternate future as I do! Then maybe you’ll finally share my
vision for the world and realize what a godsend this amulet is!”
Charles shuddered as the blue lights in the room continued to spin. He breathed
deep and found something whispering darkly in his mind like a soothing lullaby
promising freedom from horror. It told him to give up. It told him to give in
and let Haytham take what he wanted. It told him that he should be grateful,
that he should be obedient. He couldn’t fight anymore. Haytham’s will was too
strong and the thing kept whispering to him. Damn, it pissed him off! His
nostrils flared in a mix of contentment and fury.
His pale eyes pierced Haytham’s. It was only then that he noticed that
Haytham’s eyes were a different color. They were no longer the usual stormy
gray, but had instead changed to an inhuman gold, like the eagle that he was
named after. It was the same as that day when he found Haytham in the
courtyard. He knew it hadn’t been a trick of the light, and it wasn’t now
either. The amulet changed his Grandmaster.
But Haytham was still there—his Haytham. He could see it, beneath the unearthly
glow.
“You’re lost in your madness! But I will follow you to the ends of the earth
and back again. You may hurt me, you may wreck me, you may punish me and ravage
me and obliterate what respect that I have for you, but I will still follow
you,” Charles’ voice shook with emotion. “But know that if you cross that line,
if you become the monster that we have sworn to fight against, then I will be
the one to end your life. I can’t save you from yourself, but I can save the
rest of the world from you.”
Haytham stared at Charles, as if trying to comprehend something that was just
out of his reach. He winced and Charles distantly noticed that the veins in
Haytham’s temples were glowing that same, strange blue as the amulet’s light.
“Holden…Holden promised that he’d save me… That he’d keep me from becoming a
beast like Reginald…” Haytham’s voice shook, unnatural and deep.
Charles sneered. “Jim Holden is dead. You’ve got to save yourself now.”
Haytham’s expression shook and trembled. His eyes were straining and his
fingers were digging into Charles’ arms with an unnatural strength.
“You’re fallible, I understand that now. But you’re also stronger than your
strife. You’ve overcome your grief before and you can do it again! I believe in
the Templar cause, Master Kenway, but more than that, I believe in you,”
Charles pushed again. “I can forgive your inadequacies; I can learn to accept
you as the human that you are! But not like this! You are a better man than
this.”
Again, Haytham winced and the strange glow finally reached his eyes. They
shined a bright, vibrant blue that made a shiver of fear shoot down Charles’
spine. The whispers were louder. They escalated into a cacophony of wind and
screams and the promise of knives digging into his spine and blood draining
from his gut like a pig. They swore agony and ruination upon Charles,
screeching and searing through his mind like a hot iron, like a club smashing
his brain into squishy pink and gray bits. His rage fell, shattered apart by
the otherworldly shrieks. He didn’t have the right blood. The relic told him
so—that he didn’t have the correct sort of blood to fight back properly.
But what was the purpose of fighting Haytham’s will at this point? Charles
sighed and relaxed, willing to let the Grandmaster do with him as he wished.
Ever since meeting Haytham Kenway, everything that Charles had accomplished, he
had accomplished for Haytham and the Templars. And though he knew that Haytham
could never love him the way that Charles did, he could remain at a distance,
at arm’s length to support his dear friend and unrequited lover. After all,
just because they slept together didn’t mean that they could work as a cohesive
domestic unit.
Haytham’s will was a rush stronger than any tide, and Charles would happily
drown in it—but only so long as Haytham held up his morals. As soon as those
were disregarded, then Charles knew that he couldn’t allow anyone else to
suffer the tides. If Haytham strayed from the path of righteousness, then it
was only fitting that Charles be the one to end him, should he get the chance.
“Ch-Charrrrrrlessss…” Haytham growled abnormally.
The younger Templar sucked in a breath, ready for either death or violation.
Instead, Haytham shouted—he roared—as he ripped the spinning artifacts out of
the air. He tore the small marble from the center of the amulet and threw it
across the room. The lights on the wall immediately died and Haytham crumpled
bonelessly to the floor. His breathing was more ragged than any battle.
Charles remembered how to breathe.
“Get it away from me, Charles! Take it away! Far, far away!” Haytham begged,
his voice rough and dry and panicked. His eyes slowly lost their unearthly glow
and faded to a bloodshot gray. He held the amulet to his chest, but warily eyed
the marble slowly rolling back towards him.
Charles scrambled upright, his legs going numb and weak, and stumbled to the
inert marble. His Grandmaster gave him an order and he was obliged to obey. He
WANTED to obey, especially this time. He stooped and picked it up with his
handkerchief. The thing pulled against him weakly, as if trying to still move
towards the amulet in Haytham’s hand, but Charles would not allow it. He tied
his handkerchief around it and held it firm in the palm of his hand.
“Sir, don’t leave until I return. I’m going to dispose of this monstrosity,”
Charles breathed. Haytham only nodded, eyeing the folded handkerchief
cautiously.
Charles didn’t waste another second. He fled the plantation house and mounted
his horse. The thing whinnied in panic, as if sensing the danger in the
handkerchief, but Charles managed to urge her into a sprint towards the nearest
port. The horse didn’t argue and in nearly record time, Charles arrived just as
a merchant’s ship was about to depart.
The thing in his hand called to him without words. It begged him not to go; it
pleaded for him to reunite it again with the amulet. The words and feelings
made Charles’ hands falter. He almost steered his horse back to his own
plantation. But he didn’t want what the marble promised him. Although Charles
wanted a new world, he wanted one where he could remain by his Grandmaster’s
side. That wasn’t something that the marble could promise.
The marble swore to return to him.
But Charles ignored the threat. He was too angry to obey, too rebellious to
concede. He offered a hefty sum to the ship captain to gaze among some of the
cargo under the pretense of purchasing something before it set sail. He paid
more than he ought to have for a crate full of furs, but it was worth it.
Charles had slipped the marble and handkerchief into the other cargo, wedged
between the bundles so that it wouldn’t be able to even begin a return trip to
the colonies until the crates were unpacked. And those furs were being sent
first to Europe, and then to Asia along the Merchant’s Trail. The marble would
be halfway around the world before it could begin to return of its own
volition.
He did it. It was gone.
Feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from his chest, Charles returned
to Haytham’s home. He was weary, more so than he should’ve been, but he was
compelled to continue on. He had to know how Haytham was faring. He had to make
certain that his Grandmaster was alright.
When he arrived, Haytham was asleep and the amulet was lifeless on his
nightstand. Charles entered as quietly as he could, surprised already that his
superior had yet to wake. The artifact must have taken more out of him than he
thought.
“Master Kenway?” Charles prompted as he stood just out of arm’s reach should
Haytham wake up swinging. “Haytham?”
The Grandmaster frowned and stirred. He cracked a bleary eye open and regarded
Charles with a drowsy grimace. “Is it done?” he slowly sat up, wincing and
stiff as a board.
Charles nodded. “Yes. The artifact is heading across the ocean as we speak.”
Haytham swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He was still in his day
clothes, having not bothered to undress before crashing. He rubbed his temples.
“…Good.”
“Sir…I…” Charles shifted uncomfortably. Haytham was just a man. He wasn’t a
demigod or a messiah or a savior. He was only a man. While part of Charles was
disappointed by that revelation, he couldn’t help the inspiration it sparked in
his chest. Haytham had still been strong enough to ward off the Amulet’s power
even after Charles succumbed. There was hope for humanity yet. “Thank you for
making such a difficult decision, Master Kenway.”
Haytham snorted and kept his eyes to the floor. After a moment, Charles turned
to leave and Haytham rose to stop him. “Charles, wait,” he started, still
finding the wall far more interesting than his fellow Templar’s face. “I…I’m
sorry for such poor behavior. I have no excuses, I just… I’m sorry. But thank
you for being there, for believing in me.”
Charles beamed, relief and admiration filling his chest once more. Haytham was
his Grandmaster. Haytham was his grand Master. “You’re welcome.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
September 16, 1781
Things changed between them once again. But this time, it was for the best.
Haytham knew that Charles loved him. They never said it, they never would dare
to utter such words, but they knew it. Did Haytham love Charles as well? He
didn’t know. He relied on Charles more than ever. He trusted his dear friend
with his body and facets of his mind. He knew that he would save Charles
however he could.
“I won’t allow him to kill you,” Haytham said. He knew that it might be
impossible once the Assassin arrived at Fort George, but he liked to believe
that he could win this encounter. Though how could he win? Victory would be at
the cost of his son’s life. But if he was defeated… Haytham didn’t have the
time to consider such an option.
They had fought so hard for so long. Haytham was tired of the battles. He was
tired of second guessing his motives ever since that night Charles saved him
from the amulet. While he still believed that the world would be better off
under Templar control, he couldn’t deny the doubt that plagued him. The amulet
had shown him many things, and knowledge like that was something that could
never be forgotten.
Charles huffed a harsh laugh despite his fear. “And how will you manage to kill
him? He’s obsessed and driven unlike any predator I’ve ever seen. We need to
run! We need to get out of here before he realizes that we’ve gone! We can get
a head start, hope that bombarding the fort will kill him before he gets to us
first.”
“He won’t stop, not until either he’s dead or us,” Haytham gazed wearily out of
the window of his room. This would be the end of it, one way or another.
Perhaps after this day, he could finally rest in peace. But poor Charles.
Should Haytham fall, he knew that that his friend would be stricken with grief.
He only hoped that Charles wouldn’t become a monster over it.
Haytham removed the amulet from around his neck. The fear it instilled was not
forgotten, but he had a newfound respect for the artifact. It was dangerous and
powerful. They couldn’t allow anyone else to suffer because of it. Charles knew
the dangers that lie in wait. Although Haytham didn’t want such a burden for
his friend, he knew that he was still the next best candidate for the amulet.
“I won’t take it!” Charles jerked his hand away as if the relic was damned. And
for all they knew, it was. Ziio had tried to warn him that it was cursed. He
hadn’t listened.
“You need to keep it safe. The world depends on the amulet being in the right
hands,” Haytham urged.
“Then you keep it! It’s right in your hands and yours alone!” Charles
countered.
Haytham shook his head. “Please help me one more time, my friend. Should I fall
in battle, I cannot let this pass to the Assassins. It’s too dangerous.”
“You won’t die…will you?” Charles asked, finally taking the amulet with a
grimace and looping it around his neck. He was afraid of it, and rightfully so.
“I can’t lose you.” The confession was unnaturally soft and shaky with terror
considering Charles’ usual temperament.
“We can’t afford to run, Charles. The Father of Understanding will guide us.”
The Templar knew Haytham’s words were true. Emotions were chaotic and
unreliable in large doses, and acting upon the rampant fear coursing through
his veins went against their code. They needed to bring order, and to do that,
they must control themselves. Charles nodded.
Haytham thought to lie, he really did. But all that came to mind was Holden’s
last words to him. He smiled bitterly and inclined his forehead against
Charles’. “Don’t you worry, Charles. Everything is going to be alright.”
Haytham pressed a chaste, comforting kiss to his friend’s brow. “I won’t allow
him to kill you,” he repeated.
“With all due respect, Haytham,” Charles whispered. “Don’t make promises that
you can’t keep.”
And that was the last time Haytham saw Charles.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Haytham died that day.
Or at least, he expected to as soon as he felt Connor’s blade slide into his
neck and warm blood flowed down his arm and chest. His body was cold and tired
and sleep sounded so promising.
Did he have regrets? Of course, even though his soliloquy might claim
otherwise. He hoped that Connor was right. He hoped that the world would
survive. He hoped that Charles was well, that he wouldn’t cry or fall into the
trap of despair. He didn’t want his friend to hurt anymore.
Connor was giving him peace of death, but thanks to Charles, Haytham would die
a man, not a monster.
 
How unfortunate that death would not claim him yet.
Chapter End Notes
     Whoo, that was a long chapter!
     Well, that's it for this fic, guys! Thanks so much for sticking with
     it! I'll see you on Thursday with another update of Thicker Than
     Water! <3
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