Okay. So she's a Templar. So…
He's having a hard time thinking past her smell, which is still the same, still sending his brain into something… something instinctive and basic and… oh, he wants her. Badly. The part of him that is wolf couldn't care less if she's an assassin or a templar or a circus clown, and for once Desmond is glad to give into his instincts.
"I don't care about that," he says.
"What do you care about, then?" she sounds confused. What had she been expecting him to do, stab her as soon as he found out? What kind of person does she think he is?
"I care about why you kissed me," Desmond says, and his heart is hammering so hard he can hear it. That's not exactly normal, even with his sense of hearing. "Were you just… upset, or scare, or… do you really…" he swallows hard against the fear of what Lucy is going to say. "I've never been kissed before," he says lamely. "Did that count?"
"Do you want it to?"
He nods, flushing. "I kind of really like you, Lucy."
"And I kind of really like you." Her fingers brush across his ears, and Desmond shivers. He doesn't think he'll ever get tired of that. The way she makes him feel special, instead of like a freak. "In any other world, this would… maybe we could…"
"Why not in this world?" Desmond asks. He's thinking about Connor and Haytham, and the world they come from. No king, no tea, and somehow it had still worked out even worse for them. The Haytham from this world seems grateful and glad for a second chance to be Ratonhnhaké:ton's father.
"This is a bad world," Lucy says.
"Maybe…" he hesitates, but what does he have to lose? If he speaks, he might be able to convince Lucy not to leave. "Maybe it's the bad worlds where we need each other the most. I don't know who we are in those worlds. Maybe we're happier, I hope so. But the only world we'll ever have is this one. You can't just say it's bad and put your life on hold because you wish you'd been born in another world. All we have is here, and I think that being with you would make my world a little bit better. I really hope you can say the same thing about me."
"That was sweet," Lucy says. "But it doesn't change anything. I'm still a Templar. The king could still kill us any time."
"But I'd rather die—or live—with you. I at least want a chance at being with you."
"You barely even know me," Lucy laughs, but she doesn't look as hopeless and dismissive as she had a few minutes ago.
"His ears twitch uncertainly under her fingers. "I know you're in a class of your own," he tells her.
"A good class?"
"Top of the class."
She laughs again, and Desmond says, "You will come back, won't you?"
"The others might not be as accepting of a templar as you are."
Desmond shrugs. "So? We won't tell them."
"If we don't tell them now, you'll be in as much hot water as I am if they eventually find out on their own," she points out."
"I'll take that risk," Desmond says confidently. "Besides, it seems stupid to keep fighting templars right now. We both want the same thing, don't we? We want the King dead."
"Desmond—"
"Maybe it'll be easier if everyone's working together. It's been—what, two hundred years since he came into power? It's not like either side has had any success on their own."
"Desmond," Lucy says, and the smell of her fear finally gets through to Desmond. "Shut up."
He turns to look behind him at whatever it is she's seeing, and instantly understands why she's so afraid. "No…"
There are six of the king's soldiers standing there, smirking at them, and Desmond realizes with a cold, sinking horror that they've heard everything. That they want to kill the King. A confession like that—even the suspicion of something like that—is a death sentence in this country. A painful death sentence, one that will be preceded by the kinds of torture people have nightmares about.
"Lucy," he says, but then the men are on them, and all Desmond knows is darkness.
-/-
Haytham washes up on a cold, rocky shore, coughing up a lungful of brackish water. He feels like death warmed over, or—no, he's frozen through as well. He's so cold, and he hurts everywhere, inside and out. It's a struggle just to remember to breathe, for a moment, and Haytham feels something like phantom limbs stretching out from where massive tentacles had been only minutes before.
"Freak."
He doesn't see the blow coming, and he's so numb he barely feels it. But it's enough to knock him sideways and half back into the water. Haytham doesn't react. There's no point. He doesn't have enough energy to get up or fight back, and anyway, he deserves it. People… monsters… things like him deserve pain. They deserve to be locked up underground, like Haytham had been for years—they deserve to die, but Haytham is too much of a coward.
"You are an abomination," the voice continues, and all Haytham can do is nod weakly before he feels a hand on the back of his neck, dragging him sideways and forcing him into the water. Haytham tries to just let it happen, because if he dies here it will all be over, he won't have to fight with this thing in his head anymore.
But when he breathes in, something in him lights up and he can't stop himself from fighting back. He wants to die, but he's so, so afraid… what if whatever comes next is worse? It could be like this, an eternity of this, his humanity gone—
He kicks out and even with his strength almost gone, Haytham's foot connects solidly with whomever is holding him in the water. It's not much, but it gives him the space to sit up and roll over, coughing up brine and panting for breath. The attacker doesn't try again, which is lucky. Haytham doesn't think he has the energy to fight back any longer.
"What is wrong with you?"
It's the man that had been trying to kill him a moment ago. It's him.
The other him. The one from the world Connor comes from. So they're separate now. Alright. Well—Ratonhnhaké:ton and Connor had been trapped in the same body until Ratonhnhaké:ton almost died. Maybe the same thing had happened here.
It doesn't much matter, maybe. Haytham looks at the face of his other self, although it takes a physical effort. Seeing the disdain and self-hatred he feels reflected on someone else's face is… hard. "Don't hate me," he whispers. Whimpers, really. He is so pathetic. But this is so disturbingly hard to see.
"Don't talk to me," his other self snarls. "I can't believe you. I can't believe a thing like you—" his lip curls. It looks like he just can't help himself. "I thought you were like me. I thought you were me. But you're a mistake, a monster."
The words hit him hard and burn into his mind. He knows he'll never forget them. "I did make mistakes—"
"No. You are a mistake." The tone is clipped, cold, angry. "Now get up."
"Why?"
"I can't get too far from you, and I have no intention of staying here."
"Where are we going?"
His other self grabs Haytham by the upper arm and pulls him unprotestingly to his feet. He looks well fed and well rested, healthier than Haytham or most other people in this world. The place where his fingers dig into Haytham's arm leaves bruises—he's stronger. Normal. Sane. Human.
Haytham ducks his head in shame and hurt and defeat, and allows himself to be led onward.
"You don't need to know," the other Haytham tells him grimly. "No more than a horse needs to know where it's ridden or a dog needs to know where it's led. You are below them both."
"I know." Haytham isn't entirely sure that he actually says the word out loud, or just mouths it to himself.
How far he has fallen…
And he has no one to blame but himself.
-/-
The homestead is so much like Connor remembers that it takes his breath away. When the Aquila docks at the same, familiar place it always has, he grips the railing and leans forward slightly, away from Shay and toward home. "You know this place?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks him.
"I know it well," Connor says. "This was home."
"Was it?" Ratonhnhaké:ton looks around at the homestead, and Connor can understand why he looks so confused. It's nothing like the place where they had grown up, and Connor had certainly struggled with the transition when Achilles first took him in. But that had been a long time ago, and in the years since then, it has become a very important place for him. Home. He closes his eyes, trying to forget the presence of his double at his side, the templar at the help of his ship, the monster that is his father somewhere below the water's surface.
It smells like home.
Ratonhnhaké:ton trails after Shay as he leads the way from the docks, because he doesn't know his way around. Connor trails after both of them because he's still trying to process this. He's known for a long time now that this is not his world, but—but this is his home. It's home, but he doesn't belong here, and somehow that drives the point home more effectively than anything else he has seen so far.
He cannot go home. He cannot go home.
"Connor?" Ratonhnhaké:ton says suddenly, and Connor realizes that he has lagged a little too far behind Ratonhnhaké:ton and Shay.
"I'm sorry," Connor says. He schools his face into something a little more closed off, trying not to show his unease so obviously, and picks up the pace a little.
They reach the house eventually, and Connor is surprised (although he really shouldn't be) at the way everything looks suddenly different. There are still homes and businesses, a little village set up around Achilles's house. But they are not occupied by the same people Connor has come to know and to care for over his years at the homestead. These people are strangers, and a look around in eagle vision shows that these are not innocents. They are assassins and templars, shining red and blue in almost equal amounts. Connor is surprised by how cordial the two factions look, mingling together and conversing as though there's nothing strange about this.
He also notices that neither assassins nor templars are looking kindly at Shay. It had been the same on the ship, really—the men treated him with respect, but not with friendliness. Interesting—but then, nobody really likes a traitor, and Shay had admitted to being almost but not quite a templar when Washington took over. Not being able to stand fully with either side obviously hasn't helped him win any friends.
"Where are we going?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks eventually, and Connor is not surprised to see Shay point at Achilles's house.
"The mentor of the assassins used to live there," he explains. "He's gone now—"
"Dead?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks.
Shay nods. "But he was one of the lucky ones—old age and illness got him before the King. There are half a dozen of us staying there now—someone will have an idea of how to get to the King."
"Thank you," Ratonhnhaké:ton says, and Shay nods. They're nearly back to the house when someone comes running out—Connor recognizes Stephane Chapheau, the first person he'd ever recruited as an apprentice. It's strange knowing the man would have found his way to the assassins even without Connor's help.
"What's the matter?" Shay asks sharply.
"You will never guess who just showed up at the back door," Stephane says, gesticulating with a typically wild enthusiasm.
"Who?" Shay asks.
"Haytham Kenway," Stephane says. "Washed up at the beach, then came stumbling up here—"
"Damn," Connor whispers, as his heart gradually sinks (down, down, down…). Will there never be any true escape from his father? Not even this twisted, alternate reality version of him?
Shay sighs. "Thank you," he says. He gestures toward Ratonhnhaké:ton, who is the only one that looks happy to hear that Haytham is alive. "This is Haytham's son—"
"Oh." Stephane looks at Ratonhnhaké:ton sympathetically. "I'm sorry."
"We'll go talk to him," Shay says quietly, and guides Ratonhnhaké:ton into the house, Connor still following behind.
-/-
Future chapters will likely be shorter than previous ones have been (About 2000 words instead of 3000). I just feel like I don't have enough to say in each chapter to justify the longer length, so... yes.
Also, I'm sort of trying go gauge interest in this fic- is anyone still reading it? If no one cares if I finish it, I might not (or might not for a long time, I don't know). So please, let me know how you feel.