Crimmy Comments: Oh man, this chapter was really hard for me to get through. But! I'm not nearly as far along as I'd like to be. So I'm going to be posting another BONUS UPDATE on Thicker Than Water on Monday, August 26th!
Also, you guys are always free to ask me any questions you might have about this fic (or in general)! I'll do what I can to answer without spoiling anything! Though, it's a little difficult to reply to anonymous comments on FFnet, so you're always welcome to bother my tumblr over at CrimsonEnigma dot tumblr dot com if you want to ask a question anonymously. Or hell, you're still welcome to bother my tumblr anyways. It's filled with general nonsense, a few drawings, and some random personal thoughts.
As always, I'm super lucky to have great readers like you guys! Thanks again and enjoy!
Gerhard von Stantten's replicas reared their horses at once. Each beast let out a high pitched whinny, as if they were steeds of the Apocalypse. Although the four illusions appeared as solid as a rock, the horses' eyes were still transparent. He could see the Homestead in flames through them, shining bright like hellfire.
Haytham frowned bitterly. It would be an understatement to say he put himself in a rough situation. He couldn't see himself coming out of this unscathed, or even alive.
But he wouldn't back down. Even though this was a terrible idea, the relic called to him, overriding his normally cool logic.
He remembered this Piece of Eden. It was called Dioscuri. It created life-like illusions and replicas of the user that could pass for flesh and bone. It could even go so far as to create a complete twin of the user—one so independent that it could almost function as a living being. Those Who Came Before had used it to keep their human slaves in check, as both a form of intimidation and in an effort to keep employment downsized. It could be split into two halves, duly named Castor and Pollux. While each half was weaker than the whole, they still could be used to intimidate humans and maintain crowd control.
But half of the relic should not be strong enough to create thousands of illusions and to mask an entire Man-of-war ship. Gerhard von Stantten held Castor, but someone else held Pollux. And somehow, the power of the relics was amplified.
Haytham needed to obtain the Dioscuri. He needed it. The amulet told him so.
The first horseman charged.
Haytham narrowly rolled under the blade trying to take his head. Not a heartbeat later, the second horseman came at him, sword swinging. This time, Haytham managed to parry the blow, but the inertia was too strong. He lost his balance and fell to his rear. Another charged and Haytham rolled partially out of the way, but it wasn't far enough. He covered his head with his arms in a futile attempt to keep his skull from being split open like a ripe melon. But the horse's hooves passed through him—THROUGH him—without any incident. Gerhard von Stantten was playing with him. He quickly recovered as all four Hessians laughed. He was surrounded now.
"Perhaps I'll take your head," the cavalry suggested at once, the multiple voices echoing like thunder. "I'll mount it on pike for your son to see."
Haytham bared his teeth. The Hessian was a headhunter—he had known that much for years. In fact, he exiled Gerhard von Stantten from the Colonies specifically because the Hessian had been lopping off civilians' heads in grotesque merriment. Gerhard von Stantten had used a disguise, something about a pumpkin, as he rode through the Frontier. Haytham would have none of that. He could remember his outrage at learning such an atrocity and banished Gerhard from the Colonies. Only now did he regret sparing the Hessian's life.
"Coward!" Haytham spat. "You're skulking behind the Piece of Eden like your mother's skirt! This isn't your work—this is the relic's."
The true Gerhard von Stantten was hiding nearby. Haytham could still feel it. None of the replicas were real. They looked real. They sounded real. But the horses' hooves didn't throw up any clods of dirt and their breath was stagnant. They only became corporeal when they attacked, which meant that the only time Haytham could strike was when they were striking at him. Such a feat was nearly impossible, but Haytham still searched for an opening. He pulled two throwing knives from his belt.
The next rider charged at Haytham with sword swinging and mocking laughter echoing in his ears. He rolled and turned on his knee before letting the knives loose. They embedded in the horse's flank just before the thing became intangible again. Stantten—the real one—couldn't control the illusion. The horse reared and whinnied in pain as the fake Hessian struggled to stay seated. Haytham took the opportunity and charged with more power than he thought he had in his old age. He vaulted onto the horse's back and slit the Hessian's throat. Blood sprayed in a fine red mist before the illusion fell out from under him.
Haytham crashed back to the ground unceremoniously and scrambled upright as another rider charged with a roar of fury. He barely managed to parry the blow and retain his footing. His chest throbbed at the old wound and a sting of pain shot down his left arm. But he remained standing as the cavalryman passed by.
Haytham ignored his body's protest and withdrew a dagger. One down, three more to go.
When the next rider charged, Haytham dove head on at the horse's breast collar. He used it as leverage to unbalance the animal and stabbed the poor thing in the neck. His aim was true and it hit the faux horse's carotid artery. The animal screamed, stumbled, and fell to the ground with a heavy thump, taking the Hessian replica and Haytham with it. They were both partially pinned under the struggling horse's weight.
Haytham had hoped that the illusion would be dismissed since the mount was down, but he wasn't so lucky. The Hessian scrabbled at him, trying to stab him with the cavalry sword. Haytham wrestled the fake in a tangle of limbs and a flurry of steel until he disarmed the illusion. He threw the Hessian's sword across the road, but then his own blade went flying as the illusion pulled out his bayoneted rifle. Haytham barely managed to divert the barrel of the gun before it fired, sending an unwelcome jolt through his body. Haytham managed to withdraw one of his legs and kick the Hessian's shoulder. His grip on the rifle loosened and Haytham threw it away as well. He writhed from beneath the horse, finally free, only to find the reins wrapped around his neck.
Haytham clawed at the thick leather as it pulled tight. The horse disappeared, but the faux Hessian and the reins remained as Haytham was forced to his knees. He ejected his hidden blade, trying to stab out behind him, but the reins were too long. The target was just out of arm's reach. Gerhard von Stantten's breath was harsh and greedy as he choked the air out of the elder Templar.
Haytham's head was swimming. His heart was beating so rapidly that it felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. He could feel his lips numb and his eyes burn. His lungs were struggling to take in more air, but he couldn't. His windpipe felt as if it was caught in a vice. He couldn't breathe and his head was lofty with lack of oxygen. He couldn't tell if the throbbing he heard was his heart or the amulet in his coat pocket or both. Haytham gripped onto the reins weakly, trying to give himself a little slack. He felt Gerhard lean close behind him and whisper into his ear.
"I've waited so long for this, Kenway," the German's accent was thick and rough. "Sie sterben jetzt."
The amulet pulsed.
Haytham reached back blindly, upon instinct, and grabbed the pouch at the Hessian's hip. He fumbled and yanked it away. Castor, half of the illusory relic, was within. Its power was tied to the real thing. Haytham felt it.
The amulet burned in his pocket, searing against his skin through the layers of fabric, and the fake Piece of Eden felt like a brand in his hand.
And then, Haytham wasn't on his knees, being strangled by an illusion of a man. Or rather, his body still was, but his mind was elsewhere. He could see Gerhard von Stantten—the real one—safe and deep in concentration in the stolen Assassin stronghold. But there was something else, some other connection. Castor, was connected to its twin, Pollux.
Haytham felt his mind travel along the thin connection like a spider on a web. Pollux was with someone else. He was a man, one who drummed his fingers against the armrest of his chair in displeasure. A wave of panic jolted through Haytham. The man had three relics—one was Pollux, another was some sort of power amplifier, and the third was something else—something stronger and deeply terrifying.
"I told you to capture Haytham Kenway, not kill him," the stranger said. His voice was familiar and prickled at something on the edges of Haytham's mind. He couldn't see the man's face, but he knew that this was the Neo Templar Grandmaster. Despite himself, Haytham was afraid, but he didn't understand why.
"Master, this traitor deserves to die!" he heard Gerhard von Stantten's thoughts project in an impossibly loud thunder that shook Haytham to the core.
"Do not disobey me, Gerhard," the Grandmaster's voice was mild, yet riddled with unspoken threats. The Hessian didn't respond, but Haytham could feel him grudgingly oblige. The Grandmaster turned his attention to Haytham's mind. Even if Haytham couldn't SEE the Grandmaster, he could sense the scrutiny. He felt the smile cast his way and a sick nausea crept up his spine.
"See you soon, Haytham."
Haytham lurched forward, his vision spotty as he coughed and wheezed. The fake Gerhard von Stantten had released the reins and Haytham was back at the burning Homestead as quickly as he had left. His lungs burned and his throat throbbed with pain. Ah, but air! Glorious air was filling his aching lungs with every shallow wheeze.
The Hessian replica scoffed at the collapsed Templar and dug its heel into the back of Haytham's hand. He gave a raspy shout and his grip on the fake Castor faltered, but he didn't let go. Von Stantten cursed in German and stooped to try and pry the pouch away.
Haytham was about to use the Hessian's grip to pull his body up and eject his hidden blade into Gerhard's groin, but he didn't get the chance. A gunshot rang through the air and the replica's body jerked sideways as its head was dashed to meaty bits.
"'Aytham!" Duncan Little called to him.
The fake Hessian disappeared into the ether. But when the illusion fell, the pouch and copied relic went with it.
Haytham wheezed another curse and forced himself to stand. His body protested and his head was pounding, but his limbs obeyed his command. He swayed on his feet, but it was at least a bit more dignified that lying face-first in the dirt.
"Duncan Little?" Haytham hoarsely questioned. The Master Assassin warily moved into the fray, throwing aside the empty rifle and plucking his pistol from his belt. He trained it between the two replicated Hessians and moved closer to Haytham.
"Couldnnae 'elp but notice you wandered from the flock," Duncan's lips were thin and bloodless, "An' 'ere I thought that gettin' into tough spots was Connor's specialty."
Haytham coughed a few more times, but just smirked and withdrew a few more throwing knives from his belt. "Like father like son," he offered dryly.
Duncan made an unamused noise. "Any idea which one's real?" he asked.
"He's not here. These illusions are different. They can become corporeal when attacking, but they can only do it one at a time. If we defeat these imposters, then the relic's power will be drained."
Duncan muttered something about witchcraft as the two Hessians on horseback circled them.
"I felt that amulet you have, Kenway," both of the Hessian's grinned darkly. "Master's something of a collector. I'm sure he will allow me your head if I present your relic to him."
Both of the horses disappeared and the Hessian replicas continued on foot. While Haytham was relieved that he wouldn't have to keep dodging hooves, he knew that it meant that the replicas would have a quicker turnaround rate between them. The transition between which illusion was real and which was not would be faster, giving them less time to both defend and attack. The Hessians readied their blades, smirked like a couple of cats stalking their prey, and pounced.
Haytham was lucky. The Hessian targeting him was first to become corporeal. The blow glanced off of Haytham's bracer, making him grit his teeth as his left arm was jarred unpleasantly. He thrust out with a hidden blade, only to miss, and ducked to avoid an oncoming swing to his chest. The Hessian struck at him again and Haytham moved to block with his bracer, but the blade wavered like a mirage and passed through his arm like a ghost. Haytham cursed and began evasive actions.
If Gerhard von Stantten were to make his replicas corporeal WHILE they were phasing through Haytham's limbs, then he would be stuck like a pig on a spit. He couldn't allow the Hessian such an opportunity. He thanked his stars that he practiced his footwork regularly with Connor for the past few months and fluidly dodged all incoming attacks.
Duncan grunted with effort as he fought the other replica. At least he had a sword and a pistol. Soon, the corporeal replicas switched solidity again. But Haytham was overly optimistic. He thought that it would be easy from here since there was only one opponent for each of them. But he had been presumptuous. Haytham jerked a little, his focus faltering, as he heard Duncan cry out in pain. The Assassin's sword clattered to the ground.
Haytham put some distance between himself and his own opponent to risk a glance over. His eyes widened in horror.
Gerhard von Stantten's arm was piercing Duncan's chest. He had materialized while his arm had been phasing through the Assassin's torso, literally skewing him. Duncan gasped and gripped the arm in a futile attempt to pull it out. Gerhard von Stantten chuckled darkly and pierced another hole in Duncan's chest with his sword.
Duncan choked on blood as his lung was run through, his throat too full suddenly to scream.
"I can feel your muscles clenching around me…" Gerhard murmured as one would to a lover. Duncan shuddered and gurgled in agony.
Haytham roared and charged forward. The replica faded through Duncan's body, again becoming a wraith and leaving a bloody fist-sized hole behind. Upon instinct, Haytham redirected his attack as Duncan fell to the ground. He spun on his heel, crouching like a Russian folk dancer, and lunged forward blade-first. The Hessian behind him jerked, the sword barely missing Haytham by inches as his hidden blade dug into the replica's liver. Haytham cut outwards, ripping through the layers of muscle and organ and skin with a shout. The illusion fell.
Haytham didn't waste another moment. Before the real Gerhard von Stantten could dismiss or manipulate the last replica into nothingness, Haytham tackled it and stabbed its heart. Blood gushed over his wrist, fleetingly warm and wet, before that replica also faded.
It was done. The copies of Gerhard von Stantten were finally gone.
Panting, Haytham stumbled towards Duncan's prone form. The Assassin's chest was heaving for air as blood drained from his body. Haytham was surprised that the man hadn't gone into shock yet, but perhaps he shouldn't have been. This was a Master Assassin, hand-picked by Connor. Even as Duncan was dying, his black robes shiny and wet with blood and a rosary squeezed in his palm, he fought.
Haytham's lips thinned grimly. There was no saving this man, but he wanted to do something. He needed to do something.
Haytham moistened his lips and dug through his mind for Catholic prayers he had heard priests murmur to the dead and dying. They were faded and dry, like old flowers pressed in books and forgotten for decades, but he tried. He clutched Duncan's trembling hand, rosary still tightly captured within.
"I commend you, Brother, to your God. You have paid the debt of all mankind by death, you may return to thy Maker, Who formed you from the dust of the earth," Haytham knew that he was butchering the prayer, but he didn't care. He could see Duncan's eyes slowly slipping away. He could see the man dying before him and never had Haytham felt so close to another's spirit. He owed Duncan this. Haytham's lips kept fumbling for the right words, hoping that the prayer meant something coming from man like him, until he reached the end of the verse.
"…And may you enjoy the sweetness of knowing your God forever," Haytham hesitated as Duncan's eyes fully glassed over. His chest stopped rising. His hand relaxed as the last of the air squelched out of his bloody lungs.
Duncan was dead.
The Homestead still burned.
Haytham clutched the Assassin's hand one more time and closed Duncan's eyelids.
"Amen."
Haytham didn't have the time or the energy to bring Duncan's body to the bunker. Instead, he had propped the corpse against a smoldering fence post, rosary looped around its neck, and hoped that the Neo Templars wouldn't find and deface it.
He couldn't attack the western bunker yet, not while it was crawling with Neo Templars. But oh, the desire burned like a white-hot coal inside of his chest. He wanted to kill von Stantten and pry the relic from his lifeless fist. It was difficult to turn away from the gentle siren cries, but he stubbornly managed. He couldn't let Duncan's sacrifice go to waste by walking into certain death.
Weariness soaked into Haytham's bones as he approached the northern bunker. He made some hand signals so he wouldn't be fired upon and before long, there was a small ruckus and a rope ladder was tossed down. Haytham was immediately confronted by Connor.
"Where have you been!?" the Mentor growled, relief hidden by anger. His eyes were red and slightly puffy, but they were dry. He looked behind Haytham and frowned. "Duncan left to search for you. Where is he?"
Haytham didn't have the strength to say. He just sighed and shook his head.
Connor cursed and threw his hands up as if he were searching for something to strike. Instead, the Native turned his back and threaded his fingers in his own hair. Connor's knuckles were white.
"A word, please?" Connor's voice was strangled with emotion as he motioned for them to venture away from the other Assassins.
Haytham thought to argue. He was tired and just wanted to rest for a moment. But guilt was a strong motivator. He followed his son down a tunnel and into a private room furnished with a desk and a chair.
"Did Norris mine these tunnels for you? Or were they already here?" Haytham asked absently.
Connor ignored the questions, still unable to face his father. He braced himself against the edge of the desk, his shoulders tense with rage and his grip on the wood merciless.
Haytham sighed and counted the seconds until the dam broke. He didn't have to wait long.
"What were you thinking?!" Connor hissed under his breath. "You should have stayed with the group! You should not have pursued the enemy on your own! Now, Duncan is dead! And if not for him, you could have died, too!"
"…I needed to get closer to the relic," Haytham offered stonily. It sounded so trivial now.
"No, you did not. I know that you could spot the real Templars from the fakes. You should have stayed. We could have formulated plans and put together our knowledge of the enemy to draw them out and bring the relic to us! Instead, you ran off like a child, searching for some-some GLORY!"
Haytham balked. Connor whipped around to glare at him.
"It's because of your carelessness that Duncan is dead!" Connor pointed an accusing finger at his father.
Haytham's nostrils flared. "How is it my carelessness!? You're the one who activated the amulet and gave away our location in the first place!" he spat. "Quit speaking as if I drove the blade through Little's chest! They did it! The Templars!" Haytham pointed towards the direction of the western bunker. He knew that they were bickering mindlessly, that their vehemence would get them nowhere. But still, Haytham glared at his son, daring for a rebuttal.
"You ARE a Templar!" Connor roared. "Or have you forgotten your allegiance so easily!?"
Haytham frowned in sudden surprise. Although he had never stopped thinking of himself as a Templar, he had begun to separate himself from the others. It wasn't just the Neo Templars that he differed from—he also thought of his past self as a separate breed. He didn't like this revelation.
Haytham took a deep breath and clenched his fists to keep from striking his son. "Connor, stop. I didn't kill Duncan. While I understand that he was searching for me because I sought the relic on my own, I did not kill him. The Neo Templars did. Their leader is named Gerhard von Stantten and he's been using a Piece of Eden called Castor. He's the enemy. They're the enemies. Not me."
Connor's face screwed up and twitched. "…I could have lost you," he said in a small voice.
Haytham couldn't help the small, bitter jerk of his lip. "But you didn't."
The two stood in silence a moment more, waiting for the waves to subside. They didn't do anything as sentimental as flinging themselves into each other's arms. They didn't sob and thank their gods or spirits. Instead, they shifted awkwardly and ignored the relief swelling in their guts despite the horrors they had witnessed.
"Tell me about this Templar and the relic," Connor asked. Haytham sighed and shared the information he knew. He could see that Connor was about to accuse him again for Gerhard von Stantten's survival, but the Assassin stopped himself. They needed to work together, and needlessly blaming each other wouldn't suffice.
"Then the power amplifier that you felt was how they managed to cloak two gunboats and a battleship," Connor mused bitterly.
"Yes. And it helped Gerhard von Stantten maintain the replicas' numbers."
"And von Stantten's Piece of Eden is now weakened? He will be relying on the Neo Grandmaster then."
"While the Neo Grandmaster is close, we won't get to him in time before he moves."
"Then we will defeat von Stantten and his illusions and retrieve Castor from him."
Haytham nodded in agreement. The two made battle plans. To his surprise, Connor appointed Haytham in charge of protecting the civilians and maintaining the bunker's integrity. He thought to argue, but his aching muscles and bones told him that partaking in melee combat would be a bad idea. After they had a few ideas, Haytham paused.
"…How are the civilians holding up?" he asked. A part of him just realized that he wouldn't be holding his reading lessons tomorrow.
Connor sighed. "They are…understandably distressed. We have lost a few people to burns and musket wounds, but thankfully only that."
Haytham heard the unspoken wish on the tip of Connor's tongue. He shared Connor's vain hope that all of the civilians were safe and alive. But alas, that wasn't the case. Connor listed off the names of the three that had passed and Haytham gave a solemn nod. He hadn't been close to those few, but he could tell that Connor felt each death like a knife in his soul.
When Connor relayed Faulkner's and Caleb's deaths to Haytham, the Templar could only nod dumbly. He already knew, but that didn't make the knowledge any less difficult to digest. So many good men had died so needlessly.
"Did you feel this…hopelessness when I…when I killed your comrades?" Connor asked quietly, a hint of fear in his voice.
Haytham nodded. "Yes. Hopelessness and much more. But we can't bring anyone back now more than I could then."
"No, but we can still protect the lives entrusted to our care," Connor finished solemnly.
Haytham agreed quietly and they wrapped up their impromptu meeting. Together, they visited the civilians.
The Homesteaders were housed in a separate room that was thankfully large enough to fit them all as comfortably as a cave could. They had blankets and water and a few rations, but it wasn't homey in the least. Children were wailing and parents were sobbing. Tense electricity hung in the air like the weight of a rainstorm rolling in. These people lost everything. They weren't just mourning the three lost civilians—they were mourning the life they had to leave behind.
Upon spotting Connor and Haytham, Terry and Godfrey confronted them. Each man's eyes were red and their beards still damp with tears.
"Let us fight, Connor!" Godfrey demanded. "If those blasted Redcoats want to start another war, then let them come at me instead 'o attacking like cowards! I'll take them down one by one!"
Connor shook his head gently. "I cannot allow that, Godfrey. They are not Redcoats. They are far more dangerous."
By that time, many of the other Homesteaders had their attention stuck to Connor like molasses.
"What'dya mean, they weren't Redcoats?" Terry raised an eyebrow.
Connor shifted a few times and took a deep breath. "I…I cannot…I…Telling you would put you in more danger than you already are," he offered lamely.
Godfrey's face boiled red. "I think we're already past that point, Connor! Tell us who those bastards are!"
The Native sighed again. "…They are called Templars. Specifically, they are Neo Templars."
Haytham knew that it was against both the Creed and the Code to talk about the ancient war embroiled between the two factions. But these people deserved to know. Their lives were already tangled in the mess and they deserved some explanation. Nothing but the truth would do in such a situation as this—not when everyone could still die.
Connor told the Homesteaders about the Templars and the Assassins. He was careful to keep details at bay, but his defeat already belied his discomfort. Haytham supplemented what information was appropriate and they waited for a response.
To Haytham's surprise, only half of the expected numbers sneered and shot their glares of hate at Connor. The other portion burned with a fire of vengeance.
Terry and Godfrey both mulled over the information like a bitter medicine. "Then that settles it, Connor. Let us fight. Let us help you!"
Connor blinked at them, bewildered. "You…would still fight by our sides? Even after you have been unwillingly dragged into a war of such magnitude?"
Godfrey smirked bitterly and thumped Connor on the back. "We're not about to let some pushy bastards have the last laugh. Besides, it looks like you're running low on soldiers. I don't know how to fight all fancy like you and your pap, but I'm not about to sit back and watch these bastards get away with this destruction! Like it or not, Connor, we're fighting by your side."
Terry nodded behind him. Norris and Myriam rose as well, cradling their sleeping daughter. Warren stood and Hunter held his father's hand. Big Dave and even Dr. White came forward. Slowly and surely, the majority of the Homesteaders stood to fight. They looked to Connor, their leader, and awaiting their new orders.
Connor scrubbed his suddenly moist eyes on the back of his glove, and beamed at his comrades.
"We've got a lot of work to do."
Crimmy Comments: Thanks again! See you all on Monday!