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gococogo · 2 months

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A Fool's Life | Shaytham

Synopsis: Desmond has to dive back into Haytham to find out where a power source is for the temple. But the last thing he expects is something akin to when the Templar first met Ziio. But these emotions run something deeper, crueler.

Word Count: 3.8K

Pairing: Shay Cormac / Haytham Kenway

Warnings: Internalized homophobia

“We need you to dive back into Haytham.”

A few simple words that Desmond wished he would never have to hear. Desmond stares at his father with a scowl upon his lips waiting for the punch line. He glances to Shaun and Rebecca. Yet, they stay quiet and that is just saying a thousand words as is. It’s not some joke.

“Why?” Desmond asks as he looks to his father once more.

“Because Haytham came in contact with a power source for this Temple,” William explains monotonously. “We need to know where he put it.”

He tries to not put any hint of emotion in his words. Desmond knows what he’s doing. But it only makes him feel that itch of anger inside and he tries not to let it show.

“Can’t you just track this one like the others?” Desmond asks with bitterness in his tone.

So much for keeping it hidden. It can’t help it when it comes around his father. Almost everything he says makes Desmond want to retaliate in a frustrated manner.

This has William scowling. “It will only be for a moment, son,” he firmly says.

It’s not like Desmond has a choice at this point of time. His father will just tell him to do it until he does. They probably won’t continue on with Connor until he goes back into Haytham’s mind. Desmond throws up his hands and lays back down into the Animus with a grunt.

“Fine, but let’s get his over and done with.”

It’s the first day of Fall in Boston and the cool breeze is an ease on Haytham’s skin. But with Desmond being in Haytham’s mind again, it’s almost criminal. He can feel the anticipation on his mind, the quickening of his heart as he spots red sails coming onto port. There’s a man on that ship that Haytham knows, and it has the man itching. Which is something Desmond has only felt when Haytham was around Ziio.

Haytham may be blind to his emotions, someone that sees too much but doesn’t focus on himself, but Desmond knows this feeling. This breathlessness at the mere thought of someone.

The worn ship docks, her crew shouting out at each other, pulling ropes and bringing in sails. The Morrigan her name is and she’s seen her years for sure. Her once yellow paint is chipped and faded from years at sea. She’s an older ship, not up to date like the ones now. And she has people looking upon her that stand on the dock. Haytham only sees beauty, a fine ship that has lasted so long. But one could say that she’s only as strong as her captain. Working hand in hand.

The captain, Haytham sees him straight away and Desmond takes him in. He’s a tall, broad shouldered man with salt and pepper hair. It’s tied back into a short ponytail, one thing that hasn’t changed with him. But he now sports a brown leather coat with blue clothing. It makes him look older and wiser. Nothing like the young man Haytham knew almost twenty years ago.

All these emotions that Desmond feels nearly overwhelms him. The animus glitches for only a moment but Desmond retains himself. Haytham may present himself as a stern, serious man but by god can this man feel. And is he ignorant to his own emotions.

The man, Shay Cormac, smiles as he spots Haytham standing on the dock. Haytham had received a letter from Shay a week ago, telling him of his arrival soon in Boston. Said note is currently tucked away in Haytham’s breast pocket, just in case he got the dates wrong. Something that Shay will never know about.

A plank is drawn between the Morrigan and the dock and Haytham stands at the end of it as he watches Shay walk down. Desmond has never seen Haytham look upon a man like this as of right now. Haytham looks upon a much older version of the image he has in his head of Shay, but he still finds himself marvelling at the captain.

The two of them clasp hands in a firm handshake that feels like neither of them want to let go. But Haytham contains himself.

“It’s been a long time, Shay,” Haytham is first to speak.

Shay’s smile is something the Grandmaster has missed. It’s the exact same, just with added lines and wrinkles.

“Oh, it has been,” Shay speaks as if all those years away are now playing on his mind.

Where he’s been, who he’s met and the time he’s spent away. All something Haytham wants to know of.

“And you’ve retrieved it?”

With a soft nod, “Yes,” is what Shay replies with.

Haytham gestures out a hand. “I’ll lead you to the Green Dragon, it’s not far.” He begins. “I’d love to hear of your ventures away.”

Course you would, Desmond snaps out.

The simulation suddenly glitches and everything begins melting away into a blue, glitchy effect. Desmond groans in pain as he begins desynchronizing from the animus. This hasn’t happened since he first began with Altair. He’s aware he dislikes Haytham but not enough to desynchronize to this extent.

“Desmond. You need to follow Haytham,” Shaun’s voice comes through the animus.

It’s very hard to when it’s Haytham, Desmond snaps back.

“Just calm down. It’ll only be for a short while,” Shaun inquires again, trying to get Desmond to sync back up.

Desmond can suddenly feel his beating heart, thumping in his chest like a jack rabbit. He slows his breathing and calms his mind. The animus begins to flow again, the simulation changing from the docks to a tavern area. They’re at the Green Dragon.

It’s just Haytham and Shay sitting at the table that the Templars like to use for their get togethers. The very same that Desmond found out who Haytham truly aligned himself with.

Shay takes a long, slow drink of his ale. Haytham hasn’t touched his, still full in its cup. He watches Shay’s Adam’s apple bob up and down with each gulp before pulling his gaze away. Shay exhales loudly as he sets the cup on the table.

“I will have to say,” Shay admits. “I have missed American ale.”

Haytham looks to the other again to only find him staring at him already. He knows he shouldn’t be so sheepish around Shay. Even though they haven’t seen one another in nearly two decades, it shouldn’t be this awkward on Haytham’s end. Nowhere as near.

“Did you find you didn’t partake in the delicacies overseas?” Haytham asks.

“I don’t think that’s it, sir. I think it’s just something about this that speaks home,” the Irishman smirks.

That gets a short chuckle out of Haytham. Something that makes Shay’s brows lift ever so slightly. A warmth spreads to Haytham’s chest that has Desmond second guessing everything. He hasn’t felt this since Ziio. A longing, a want. But this runs deeper. Much crueller in its wake that Haytham wants gone. But he can’t help himself looking at Shay with a eyes that speak a thousand words.

The two mingle and talk about their lives some more. Something that Desmond finds himself getting lost in. Shay is so open with Haytham that it’s almost scary. But Haytham finds it so comforting and like Desmond, he almost gets lost in the Irishman’s tales and his way of words. He’s been everywhere and anywhere in these sixteen years away. He’ll be speaking on one thing and it’ll remind him of another story that has him talking for another thirty minutes.

But Haytham doesn’t stop him. Not once. Not even when he grabs another round of ale for them, he keeps listening. And this is so rare of Haytham. The warmth in his chest is something the British man rarely allows himself to indulge in.

As the night grows old, the two men move from the tavern to Haytham’s home. And as far as Desmond is concerned, not even Charles Lee comes around to Haytham’s in worry of disrupting the man’s privacy. In which Haytham is very grateful for. Yet with Shay, he’s more than welcome to bring him around.

The entire walk, Shay doesn’t stop talking. It isn’t an annoying chatter. It’s something so welcoming to Haytham’s ears since he has not heard that Irish accent in nearly two decades.

Shay finishes a story as they enter Haytham’s house and he doesn’t pick up another once, being self-aware to know when to stop. The host guides Shay to the living room which is something that Haytham has tried to replicate of his old home. The one where everything was right and just in the world before everything terrible and malicious that could happen in the world, happened. It isn’t the best, but the lounges are from Britian, the floral patterning hand woven instead of machine made. Bookshelves line the walls that are made from a walnut stained oak, made here in America. Each book that lines the shelves is something that Haytham holds dear to his heart, but he would never say such a thing out loud. The coffee table is also oak but stained with something darker that Haytham can’t remember at this given moment.

Not when Shay, - before he gets himself comfortable and rids himself of his coat- places the precursor box on the coffee table next to the empty fruit bowl.

The small wooden box seems to hum, and it has an energy to it. Something that Haytham doesn’t know if he’s imagining or if he can feel it. Could also be the blood rushing past his ears as his heart skips a beat or two within his chest.

Desmond has never seen anything like it, but Shay seems very familiar with it. He sits down in the lounge across from Haytham with his coat in his lap and looks to his Grandmaster with a raised, scarred brow.

Haytham, unlike Shay, doesn’t seem to be pleased with it. From where he stands, somehow on the other side of the room, he walks over and picks it up with a gingerly touch. The box is still and firm in his hand, but warm. He has to hold the shiver that threatens to run down his spine and over his arms.

“You actually found it,” Haytham finds himself muttering before he can stop himself.

Shay is a little taken a back but, he gives a heavy nod. “It took me longer than it should have, sir, but I found it,” he answers firmly, that casualness that he once possessed him gone and replaced by a formality found in soldiers.

Haytham sets it down before he drops the damn box. Such a small thing that has kept Shay away from the Order. Haytham could count how many times he could have used such a man like Shay for jobs here in America. He wishes he never sent him away after such a stupid little box. But both would argue on how important such a thing is. To keep out of Assassin hand.

Without even thinking, something that Shay catches, Haytham rubs the hand that touched the box on his coat.

“Thank you, Shay. This means a lot for the Order,” Haytham says, raising his chin a bit higher.

But Desmond hears the unsaid words. This means so much to me.

A softness comes to Shay’s hardened features that has Haytham turning his gaze away. He wonders over to one of the bookshelves and takes out one of his old journals from five years back now. Dust has settled upon it and the pages have begun to fox. He flips through to the middle and takes out a piece of loose paper. He slams the book shut before sliding it back into its place smoothly.

“I have something for you,” he says as his eyes quickly flick over the document.

Haytham turns back to Shay, who has been watching him the entire time with dark eyes. Instead of pausing or acknowledging the way Shay tracks his every movement, Haytham holds out of the piece of paper to him.

“This is your next task for me,” Haytham instructs.

Shay looks to him before down at the piece of paper as he takes it. Something shifts within his eyes, as if a flicker of hope was just snapped out like a candle snuffer. Haytham moves around the coffee table to the lounge that sits across of the Shay and sits down with his hat being placed next to him. He, in return, watches Shay’s dark brown eyes dart back and forth on the paper. Said paper is a rough sketch of an artifact that is rumoured to be a power source for a precursor sight. There’s little information and it’s outdated since said information is five years old now.

Haytham knows this could take another decade to find. And he’s very self-aware on what he’s doing. As much as Haytham enjoys Shay’s company and wishes him to stick around. As much as Haytham wishes to listen to Shay speak about his journeys across seas and in Europe. As much as Haytham would love to just be in the company of Shay, the Irishman is loyal to the course -loyal to Haytham- and is the only man the Grandmaster can trust to retrieve said items.

There were at times that Haytham thought Shay had given up, but a letter from the man would come not even a month later. It would only speak of how he is still on the trail of the box and that his loyalty to the Order has not wavered. How he misses New York and how he has missed many other things. How he’s missed the blue flowers that grow in Fort Arsenal and how they only bloomed in spring. He had said they remind Shay of someone, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He’d write in the next letter if he remembered but the next letter it seemed like he had forgotten entirely. Oh well…

Haytham had kept every single one of those letters, but Shay doesn’t need to know that. And never will.

The look that Haytham receives from Shay is one of hurt and sorrow. A long exhale escapes through Shay’s nose that has his shoulders sagging slightly. He seems to melt back into the lounge.

“This could take me another lifetime to find with this outdated information,” Shay comments what Haytham already knows.

Desmond can hear the plea.

“I know,” Haytham nods. “But there is no other man that I would trust to find these artifacts.”

Shay’s jaw clenches. “Is there no one else to find this, sir? Someone that is familiar with these rumours and whomever has given you this information.”

Another plea that goes unheard. Haytham is set in his ways, and he will not listen to reason.

“I can give you the contacts on who gave me that information. But I have been holding onto it in hopes you would return back with the box. This, I need for my further research into the precursor site I have been after,” Haytham tells Shay firmly but, softly.

A defeated look comes over Shay. He looks over the single piece of paper again with a deeper set frown. He lets out a sigh.

“I’ll do it, sir” Shay agrees. Only because it’s you asking.

And with that, Shay says his farewells and is off before Haytham can blink. A deep ache settles in his cold heart that has him inhaling deeply to try and rid himself of it. It only worsens and he curses to himself for having such feelings towards such a man he has only known for such a little time.

Was it amongst the letters from Shay he realized the origin of the warm feeling whenever he was around said man? Or was it when that Morrigan had disappeared over the horizon when Shay first set out for the precursor box that the first real ache came to his heart. Or maybe when he first saw the broken man at the other end of the table to pledge himself to the cause. He saw a man willing to lay down his life for something greater and for a better future.

Maybe that’s why Haytham has always had an eye watching the Irishman when his back is turned. Or reading the letters he had sent over and over again when he feels the need. It’s such childish behaviour. He can admit that to himself.

But even so, he still finds himself staring and watching the back of Shay disappear around the corner of the room with a longing. He could speak. Say something. Say such few words that he knows would change everything. His tongue feels so heavy. Even when he hears the front door click open and shut, his tongue doesn’t even know how to form words.

Even if Shay had stopped and turned, what would have Haytham had said? For once, he’s speechless with himself. He doesn’t know how long he sits on the lounge for, staring at the empty space that once had Shay. He knows this is foolish of himself, but whom is to judge him? Such a sad man in a foolish world.

The animus skips time for Desmond, and he quickly realizes that it had only taken Shay Cormac two years to find the artifact. He was good. Too good for what he does. Took him much less time to find this artifact than the box.

This time, there was no grand entrance at the dock. No long-lost lover type movie thing coming back.

Three sharp knocks come to Haytham’s door, and he looks up from his newspaper. He wasn’t planning anyone coming over at this time of day and he had planned to stay inside for the rest. He wills himself to stand off his lounge and wonders over to the front door in nothing but his white, laced collared shirt. He’s rid himself of his heavy coat and cloak, not needing it in his private home.

He opens the door, expecting someone like Charles Lee or one of his own hired men to come and spill some nonsense to him. He’s all ready to wave them away to tell them to not bother him until later. But Desmond can feel all irritation melt away as Shay Cormac stands at the front door with his back turned.

As soon as the door has opened, Shay turns to greet Haytham with a wide smile. Something that instantly reddens Haytham’s ears.

“Back already, Shay?” Haytham asks with the slightest of cockiness in his tone.

This has Shay scoffing a light chuckle. He unclicks something on his belt, something wrapped up in cloth and hands it out to Haytham. The Grandmaster takes it with a nod and unwraps a bit of it to unveil what’s inside.

“Despite with what little you gave me,” Shay says. “It didn’t take me long to track it down since this thing was actively being hidden away from me.”

Haytham peers down at the unknown artifact. It’s a steely grey with lines that run over that, glowing a bright blue like glow worms. The shape is odd and cube like.

Desmond recognises instantly as the power source for their current precursor sight. So, it was Shay that brought it into Templar hands. Now they just need to pinpoint what modern Templar base has it and they’ll be able to find it.

“I’m going to pull you out now,” Rebecca’s voice sounds over the scene laying out before Desmond.

No! Wait a moment. Desmond quickly shouts out. I want to see where this goes.

“Uuhhh. Okay?”

Haytham folds the cloth back over the power source and looks to Shay again.

“Would you like to come in?” He asks Shay, side stepping a tad with an outstretched hand.

Shay’s brown eyes look into the doorway with a longing, but he shakes his head with a, “I’m sorry,” on his lips.

“I do apologize for this quick meeting, Haytham.” Shay speaks with regret heavy on his tongue. “But I must be heading back to New York to find out what has truly become of my estate.”

Haytham can’t help the silent, “Oh,” the comes from him as he stands fully in the doorway again. He wished to speak more with Shay about all of this. To just, sit with Shay would be a pleasure.

“Is such a matter so urgent?” Haytham asks, his tone stern and rough to hide the neediness behind its meaning.

Shay bows his head, “I’m afraid so.”

“I see.”

“Are there any other artifacts you would like me to look into before I leave?” Shay asks, his voice becoming soft.

Haytham looks to the wrapped artifact in his hand. He doesn’t have any other leads he would like chased up his sleeve. But he wishes he did. He wishes he could make Shay stay a little bit longer.

“No,” Haytham all but mumbles out.

He meets Shay’s soft gaze, one that Desmond recognises as disappointment. Why fall for someone like Haytham? Desmond is real curious on what goes inside Shay’s head. He wishes to know more about him despite being a Templar. In wanting to know more, to see if Shay’s look of disappointment comes with an ache in his heart similar to Haytham’s. Both must be feeling such similar things, yet neither of them wanting to say such out loud.

Shay nods with a sniff. “I’ll be off then, sir. I’ll still be at the ready if you need be,” he says before he turns to leave.

Haytham isn’t sure what he’s doing, but he reaches out and grabs onto Shay’s wrist. He’s curious in his own mind on why he’s done such a thing. But he meets Shay’s eyes once more and sees hope. Shay doesn’t say a word, waiting for Haytham to say something. His crow’s feet furrow together as Shay’s eyes narrow onto him.

Haytham wishes. But not now. He recoils his hand away and places it behind his back. He juts out his chin and straightens his back. The Grandmaster of the American Colonial Rite stands before Shay Cormac, and that is the last person the captain wanted to see.

“I will still want those reports of your contribution to the Templar course, Shay,” Haytham says instead of all the things on his mind.

Shay’s shoulder slouch and he smiles with hurt on his features. He looks Haytham up and down before giving a slow nod.

Haytham you stupid old man.

“Of course, sir.” Shay says. “I expected nothing more.”

Haytham gives a nod back with a frown upon his features.

“Goodbye, Haytham.”

And with that, Shay leaves. He all but disappears into the crowd on the Boston street, his assassin upbringing never truly leaving his blood. Haytham lets out a shaky breath and returns to his home, the door once again clicking softly behind him with Shay on the other side.

Did they ever see each other again?

There’s silence in Rebecca’s end before a sorrow filled, “No.”

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awriterlivinginaconstantdream · 9 months

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You told me sweet lies

And I trusted you because you’re the only one left alive

Sam, don’t do that again

#assassins creed #desmond miles #asscreed #edward kenway #haytham kenway #rebecca crane #shaun hastings #assassin's creed fic #original assassin characters #original templar characters #ezio auditore #ezio auditore da firenze #ezio trilogy #altair #haytham #arno #ac3 #ac2 #wip

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peridot-tears · 8 months

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Time Travel AU: Be Gay, Solve Crimes

"Oi, is it true what they say? That you Frenchies are always raring for a good murder mystery?"

Time travel!AU where after Jacob kills Maxwell Roth, he blacks out from sheer exhaustion and smoke inhalation, only to wake up during the French Revolution. He quickly tags along with one Arno Victor Dorian, who's hot on the trail of whoever killed Jean Paul Marat, and he can't keep away even after Charlotte Corday is behind bars. In fact, he especially wants to stay when Arno teams up with Elise De La Serre -- "She doesn't want you as much as you want her, Arnie!"

After a revolution ends and a new era begins under Napoleon, Arno finds himself turning to Jacob as his closest confidante. "Though you may be boorish and reckless, there must be a reason that you're somehow still miraculously alive to bother me."

("This coming from the man who killed a bunch of men just for wine," Jacob scoffs.)

After a long and tumultuous courtship that they try to label as "frenemies," except in 19th-century French, they become dual Master Assassins who serve the people of France -- and the people of England, because fuck Napoleon and fuck the King too -- and make their relationship official.

And they were dual Master Assassins. Oh my God, they were dual Master Assassins.

They spend the rest of their lives sneaking and assassinating, trying to bridge the gap between Assassins and Templars, and though they ultimately fail, their attempts were so influential, even the biggest fanatics of both sides speak their names with respect.

Once they've retired to the Alps as old men, they spend their days in leisure, until the day they go to bed holding hands, and never wake up.

Except Jacob does wake up.

Evie is at his bedside, scolding him for his recklessness, and it's 1860s London again.

He recovers quickly, considering the tragedy that just befell him. Maxwell Roth is dead. That's a pity. Jacob has known better love and a better man than Maxwell Roth.

Even if that man was just a dream.

Until the day he breaks into the rest of Twopenny's personal collection, where he sees several original portraits of the French Revolution. A sharp-eyed painter from that time had managed to spot two men in the crowd -- Jacob finds himself staring at his own face, hiding in plain sight, and though the head of the man beside him is turned, he would recognize that scar anywhere.

And what sharp eyes that painter had. Jacob sees himself in this painting. That painting. Several paintings throughout the years, given away by small tells that only Jacob himself would recognize: The familiar swoop of Arno's frame as he sidestepped a guard. Jacob's godawful sans-culottes disguise. In the blurry distance, Arno performing a leap of faith, given away only by a gold and blue plumage unusual for a bird in Paris.

I'm here, he thinks. I'm really here.

Familiar steps sound the hall behind him.

Jacob ducks behind the painting; it's merely a worker in the building, coming to make sure the collection is as untouched as it has always been. He looks bored. He looks like Arno.

His hair may be cropped, and his scar may be gone -- the sign, perhaps, of a life that's dealt him a kinder hand -- but that bored look has not changed. It's Arno. He's been reborn, somehow.

That can't be it. Arno's gone. Jacob died with him. But Jacob is here, Jacob thinks to himself.

It's too much. And besides, Twopenny's paintings are rubbish, anyway. But Arno-not-Arno won't leave. He's lingering at the paintings, eyeing the details of the brushstrokes with light interest. He always was incorrigible when it came to purveying the arts.

Jacob tries to sneak past him -- Arno-not-Arno's ears practically prick, sharp as the man Jacob married, and Jacob finds himself grabbing him from behind, knocking him out gently.

He lingers just long enough to prop him up by the painting, smoothing out his hair, tucking him in with a nearby tarp because it's winter, Arno will get cold. He can practically hear Arno scolding him for his poor choice of fabric. "That barely insulates anything," he would say.

"It's the thought that counts," Jacob says.

He tips his hat, and escapes the building.

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freezingwhitefire · 9 months

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This is honestly just a random thing I put together after thinking about Altair and how he changed between the first memory in Revelations and the first game. It is also a nod of sorts at the book the Secret Crusade which I have not actually read in it's entirety yet. Also the dialogue at the end was from memory and may not be entirely correct but was from the memory in Revelations.

What makes a thoughtful man a proud arrogant one? Praise? Admiration? Something else?

Altair knew what it took. It was none of those things, it was pain. An anguished betrayal. A loss so deep and profound that nothing could fill the gaping hole except that haughty veneer and yet despite that he remembered how desperately he had craved for someone to notice and to reach out to him. It hadn't happened though. Altair had pulled himself from that darkness and agony. Perhaps someone would have helped if they hadn't had the total disconnect of that time he spent hunting.

As it stood Altair had been bleeding to death internally, emotionally, and no one had truly seen. Rauf had noticed something, that was something Altair noticed later, but at the time one friendly face and hand was only just enough to keep him from drowning. If he could change anything it would have been that the one person actually trying to draw him from his own darkness would not have died as a result of that shade. Kadar deserved better.

Now, sitting in a chair so far from his true home, Altair wondered if perhaps he should have tried to open up to the Da'i and Rafique that had tried to help and guide him. Darim would possibly have his mother and brother still, Malik would be berating Altair himself for being driven from his home, and Altair himself would be… better perhaps. Not as worn and broken down as he felt. Not as haunted by so many dead, his parents, Adha, Maria, Sef, Malik, Rauf, and so so many others. Golden eyes closed in grief, in silent guilt for more than just taking possession of the Apple of Eden.

Darim walked into the room, Sef's wife behind him looking anxiously at him. It was almost ludicrous how the two of them seemed uneasy around him, an old man who was past the age where he could truly have stood against them. Seeing his son shift nervously Altair smiled softly and stood.

"You wish to seek those who remained behind."

"Yes." Darim replied, squaring his shoulders, a gesture that echoed Maria so strongly Altair saw her there instead for a moment.

"You have my blessing to go." Altair reached forward and set his hands on his son’s shoulders giving an affectionate squeeze.

"Come with me."

"I-"

"Father," Sef's wife interrupted, "please, do not waste away here. It is not what Sef would have wanted."

Altair sighed and closed his eyes once more. He wanted to but could he? Could he face those ghosts again? Malik would have laughed at him letting something like that stop him. Rauf's voice speaking in support of him seemed to echo from his memory too and Altair's shoulders… they relaxed as he reopened his eyes, an easing of tension he had not even noticed lingering there.

"I will need my blades if we are to go."

Relief lit Darim's face, his blue eyes filled with tears, prompting Altair to pull his son into a hug. If Darim's hands clung to his robes Altair would never admit to it, and if he clung to his son too then that was their secret too.

"I have them ready for you father. I also have some clothes for you to wear so we are less conspicuous."

"Good, very good."

Pain lingered but looking at the two children, his children now, Altair thought that perhaps pain could do more than drive to darkness and perhaps sympathy and kindness could lead to greater places still. Smiling grimly he decided to try and see. Even Abbas deserved some kindness despite the agony he had dealt to others. Unbidden words he had spoken with one whom he had loved and been betrayed by came to mind, this time without the grief that they typically carried and Altair resolved to follow through on his own words once again.

'You gave him a chance to reclaim his honor.'

'No man should pass from this life without knowing some kindness.'

'Yet he rejected your grace.'

'As was his right.'

#altair ibn la'ahad #altair ibn la ahad #darim ibn la'ahad #darim ibn la ahad #assassins creed #assassin's creed fic #my writing #please forgive me if this is trash #but i love them so #even if only the versions that live in my head

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rawwkingrimmie64 · 6 months

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Broken

"Your mind, Desmond. It's...broken."

"Broken? I feel fine."

Clay projects himself to be closer to Desmond, only inches away from his face, startling his successor onto the sand.

"So did I!" he laughed, as he faintly recalled what his life was like at the start of it all. In time, it wasn't long, but in the mind? Well, there's a reason he wasn't the same person anymore.

"But who are we kidding, Desmond?" he coldly asked. "No one else is here except for you and me. Nobody that can hear us, anyway. I've been watching you over the past few weeks from right here on this cold little island."

Desmond stood up, trying to comprehend everything that's been thrown at him. It felt every day led to some new crap coming about before he could even make sense of the last

"So you've been here," he asked, looking around "the entire time?"

"Yes, I have. And it feels nice to at least have some company in the flesh now. Metaphorically, anyway. I've been able to see everything you've seen from inside the Animus. Only, instead of a first-person horror, it's been more like a third-person thriller."

"More importantly than that, though, I've been able to feel your emotions and hear your thoughts. From your dreams of Altair to seeing ghosts of Monteriggioni, I could experience it all when you weren't just Ezio inside the Animus, but something...in between. I know you, Desmond. Your fears, your anger, your doubts. Not only have I gone through my own personal Hell ten times worse than yours, but I've experienced you as you see yourself.

"So, no, Desmond, you don't feel fine. You haven't felt fine in years, but that's all a cakewalk compared to the last forty days, isn't it? Burning hot flames, cannon fire, the hollow echo of a gunshot, and sickeningly warm splatter of blood. That's what it meant to be an Assassin during a time of war back then, and you've experienced it all."

"But now? These days? Being an Assassin just means you get thrown into a box for hours on end until your brain breaks apart and you end up losing everything. Your humanity, your sanity, your life, and your very own existence, in that order. It happened to the fifteen Subjects before, then it happened to me, and, if you're stupid enough to stick around long enough, it will happen to you. So do yourself a favor, Desmond. If you ever see an opportunity to get the hell out, take it. Go out knowing that it was your own choice, before someone inside that microscopic Hell helix makes the choice for you."

#clay kaczmarek #desmond miles #subject 16 #subject 17 #assassin's creed revelations #assassin's creed fic #cw: gore #cw: war #cw: torture #cw: mental health #cw: death #cw: suicide #cw: guns #cw: fire #cw: ptsd

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buckymcbuckbarnes · 1 year

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I feel like one day I will find a fic that has a Cross over of Assassins Creed and The Avengers, like Assassin reader that follows the creed and just casually fuckin with the avengers? With it being Bucky x reader? Yeah I'd die for that.

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sammylikesyaoi · 2 years

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Prompt Day 9 -> It's not Me, it's You

Fandom: Assassin's creed

Ship: Ezio Auditore da Firenze x Leonardo da Vinci

Summary:

"Era ormai notte fonda quando Leonardo tornò nella sua bottega. Dopo un'intera giornata di rifornimenti per le sue opere e i suoi studi, l'uomo venne accolto dal silenzio e dall'oscurità accogliente di quelle mura."

#sammy'spost #fanfiction #writober #fanfic #fanwriterit #Writober2022 #assassin's creed fic #assassin's creed #ezio auditore da firenze #leonardo da vinci #ezio x leo

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redhairedmuses · 1 year

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so i wrote another thing. and it's a fic. oops?

ya girl has had this idea for many, many moons and it has finally taken shape. i blame @tkwritesdumbassassins for this one. this is all her fault.

basis is this: ac: syndicate meets steampunk.

enjoy!

#assassin's creed #ac: syndicate #assassin's creed syndicate #ac syndicate #jacob frye #evie frye #assassin's creed fic #ac: syndicate fic #fanfiction #ao3 author #ao3fic #au fic

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my-soliloquy-chamber · 1 year

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Pain has but one Acquaintance And that is Death — Each one unto the other Society enough.

Pain is the Junior Party By just a Second's right — Death tenderly assists Him And then absconds from Sight.

The story follows Kassandra and Brasidas through the events of the game and beyond.

#kassandra #brasidas #kassidas #Assassin's Creed #ac odyssey #assassin's creed odyssey #assassin's creed fanfiction #assassin's creed fic #fanfic #morning reblog #anthologia

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teecupangel · 3 months

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[Desmond Miles has successfully saved a Levantine village during the Third Crusaders after waking up in the past.]

Grateful civilian: Thank you, stranger! You have saved our village from the cruelty of war. May we ask who you are so we may know the name of our savior?

[Desmond Miles believes he cannot say ‘Desmond Miles’ because that might accidentally create a ripple effect in the future.]

[Desmond Miles believes he cannot use any of the names of the ancestors who haven’t been born yet especially the Kenways because of how important they are to his history.]

[Desmond Miles has not yet processed the shock of dying a painful death and waking up in the past and his brain is blanking.]

Desmond: Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad.

[The people Desmond Miles have saved now believed their savior’s name is Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad.]

[Desmond Miles has committed identity fraud.]

[… and he will continue to commit identity fraud.]

#we interrupt teecup’s attempts to replying to all the pending replies + asks #to post this half-crack(?) idea #brought by joongdok identity fraud love language #im sorry guess ive been taken in by orv #one day i might even get an actual orv x ac idea #for now…#assassin's creed #desmond miles #teecup writes/has a plot #fic idea: assassin's creed #altaïr ibn la'ahad

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gococogo · 4 months

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A New Day for a New Year | Shaytham New Years Special

Synopsis: Having been invited to party for New Years, Haytham drags Shay along. He wishes he was at home instead of here where there's no prying eyes. Watching him. Judging him. Not being able to hold onto the only person he adores at this party.

But little does Haytham know, everyone watches the fireworks. Watches their colours against the dark night. Everyone but Shay, who is only looking at him.

Word Count: 2.3K

Pairing: Shay Cormac/Haytham Kenway

Genre: Fluff/Angst/Assassin's Creed Rogue

Notes: I wish you all a happy new year! 2024 is here! Scary haha

The last time Shay Cormac was at Two Bends, he had assassinated Lawrence Washington.

Haytham would have known that already as far as Shay’s knowledge of him goes. Information around the Templars seems to travel quite quickly. He’s just glad that he doesn’t speak about it to Shay. The guilt of killing a sick and dying man still weighs him down some nights. Despite what Liam had said all that time ago, it hadn’t of help.

Twin Bends hasn’t changed a bit. Still the same old housing, same old dock and same old mansion and garden sitting up on the hill overlooking the bend. People bustle and laugh in the streets and on the dock, all here for the New Years party Haytham has dragged Shay along to. He was hesitant to come at first, but Haytham was persistent. He didn’t say it out loud, but it seemed like the Grandmaster didn’t want to attend alone.

The ship that brought them here wasn’t the Morrigan but instead a private vessel that the host of party had sent out. Mr Shaw -Shay has found out- is a supporter of the Templar cause. He isn’t apart of the Order, he only maintains a friendly relationship with Haytham so that he can stay above the rest. Stay in power and in kindness to that, Haytham receives information and money.

He’s the one hosting this New Years party and the same one that has invited Haytham along. In celebration for this upcoming year for the Order. But that celebration is only for Haytham and Mr. Shaw to know about. All Shay knows is that Mr. Shaw is an acquaintance. A very rich one.

Haytham leads Shay into the manor’s garden, the Irishman keeping quiet and to himself. The Grandmaster doesn’t bother asking why the normally mouthy man is holding his tongue, he knows the memories these gardens must hold. He can only imagine though, the report on Lawrence’s death had told him everything he needed to know.

And something like that night, the garden is lit with soft orange lamps and flowers bloom on the bushes that line that fences. Everyone is dressed formally, even Haytham and Shay have changed from their usual attire to a couple of suits. Haytham still wears his cloak over his shoulders while Shay has just adopted for a simple black suit with red accents. His hair is done up nicely with a little red bow tie keeping it up. It’s cute but that is something Haytham would never say out loud.

A butler walks past with a tray full of voul-au-vents and with a delicate hand, Haytham picks off two. He holds one of to Shay, but the man’s attention is somewhere else entirely. The man doesn’t normally phase out like this but when he does, he gets caught in his own head very easily.

It takes Haytham twice calling his name to get the man’s attention, “Shay.”

“Hmm?” Shay hums as he looks to Haytham then down at the voul-au-vent being presented to him.

He takes the small pastry from Haytham with a small thanks. It’s gone within a single bite. His nose screws up the slightest but keeping to his good manners at the party, he swallows the voul-au-vent without a word. Haytham takes a bite of his own and silently agrees with Shay, the small pastries aren’t the best.

Haytham peers around the garden with a furrowed brow. Leviticus Shaw is nowhere to be seen. There are some men and women that Haytham recognises but other than that, everyone else are strangers.

“Do you think it’s best to socialize?” Shay asks suddenly.

He keeps his attention on Haytham instead of his surroundings. It seems to help him keep him from diving too deep into old, repressed memories.

Haytham hums to himself as he takes another look around before coming back to Shay with a short, “I think it would be. We should go for a wonder and find the host of this event.”

Shay nods, “Sounds like a plan.”

Despite them looking for Mr. Shaw, neither of them move quickly. They plod through the garden with conversation on their lips. Shay asks of Mr. Shaw, more curious than anything and Haytham is more willing to tell. At one point in their talk, Haytham snatches two glasses of champagne from a passing butler and hands one to Shay without a pause. At least the alcohol is better than the food Mr. Shaw is providing.

“Mr. Kenway!”

Both men turn quick at the sudden shout. Shay looks Mr. Shaw up and down with a hostile sternness in his shoulders. The man is tall and stocky, his suit fitting him snuggly. Shay can almost smell the wealth coming from him and it makes him turn his head away slightly. But he keeps formal for Haytham’s sake.

The Grandmaster and Mr. Shaw shake hands firmly as they greet each other. Haytham looks small compared to Mr. Shaw, the other man as thick as a tree stump. Shay keeps quiet as the two catch up on their lives, then the stocky man’s bright blue eyes lock onto Shay. Like a blood hound looking at a hare.

“So, who is this handsome man you’ve yet to introduce me to, Haytham?” Leviticus asks with a devilish grin.

With a gesture of a hand, Haytham announces the Irishman formally, “This is Captain Cormac, one of my finest to the Order.”

Shay’s chest swells at the small praise from Haytham. He never would have received such words in the Creed.

“It’s nice to meet you, Shaw,” Shay says with a short nod of his head.

Mr. Shaw’s eyes slightly widen. “What accent is that? Can’t quite place it.”

“My parents were Irish,” Shay explains.

“Both immigrants?”

At this, Shay is a little hesitant before answering a short, “Yes.”

Within the second, Mr. Shaw’s demeaner changes towards Shay. It’s a subtle change, but Shay picks up on it straight away. It’s the slight curl in Shaw’s lip and the tilt of the chin upwards that tells him all he needs to know.

Shay wishes to leave. But he doesn’t wish to make a scene in front of everyone. Not while Haytham is right next to him. That’s the last thing the Grandmaster of the Templar Order needs. One of his subjects spewing a bunch of shit in front of someone he respects. Last thing Shay wants is to be muzzled like a dog.

Mr. Shaw turns his attention back to Haytham, his features instantly brightening again. He clasps his hands together in front of him as he asks, “How are you enjoying the night so far?”

“It’s good to be here, Leviticus,” Haytham answers back.

“Good. We have fireworks planned when the new year turns over. Will you still be around by then?” Shaw pushes.

“Of course.”

“Wonderful!” Shaw grins. “I’ll come find you later, I have other guests to find and greet,” Shaw explains, his eyes flittering to Shay for a split second.

“That’s alright. I’ll meet with you before I take my leave,” Haytham instructs.

“Good! I’ll see you then!” And with that and a small nod, Mr. Shaw is wondering off into another part of the garden.

In the distant, in the gazebo, a band picks up a soft tune that fills the night. A complete opposite of the blazing annoyance Shay has buzzing around inside his chest right now.

“Can I speak informally, sir?” Shay asks with a low voice so no one can hear but the man beside him.

Haytham looks to him with a single raised brow. “Not here,” he murmurs.

Shay exhales through his nose and calls a butler over instead. Within three seconds, Shay downs one glass of champagne before grabbing two more and passing one over to Haytham. Shay downs the second champagne without a second thought and gives the butler the empty glass. With a wordless look, the butler offers a third glass. This, Shay eyes before accepting and shooing the butler away.

Out of curiosity, Haytham says, “You may speak informally.”

Brown eyes blink at him. “He’s a prick,” is all Shay says.

Haytham bites his tongue to hold back a smile. “I’m sorry?”

“Is he British?” Shay asks. “Couldn’t tell because he doesn’t have an accent like yours.”

“Like mine?”

“Is he?” Shay pushes.

“Yes.”

“Explains a lot.”

At this, Haytham scoffs lightly at the sudden attitude Shay has developed. Shay sips at his champagne as he looks about the party, trying not to down this one glass. But he fails, his glass tipping up, up and up until it’s all gone. He places the empty glass on a passing butler, scaring the man a bit.

Haytham should be a little hurt being a British man himself. But in all honesty, he finds this amusing. He’s well aware of the conflict between Irish and British and he has never fancied himself to be a part of that. Too much effort to hate someone over their birthplace and birthright. Effort he could put towards the Order. But Shaw, Shaw seems to have some effort to use it.

“Don’t let Leviticus get under your skin, Shay. He’s a rich man that only wishes to be known and liked by everyone,” Haytham says as he gives a small pat to Shay’s shoulder.

This, the simple touch seems to calm Shay down a tad. Enough for his gaze to return to Haytham and enough for his shoulders to slouch a bit. At this moment, Haytham wishes that he could bring Shay closer to him. To hold the back of his head as Shay’s face rests in the nook of his neck. But there are eyes about. And so instead of this, Haytham gestures with his head to continue their walk in the garden.

“Let’s walk it off, Shay,” Haytham softly says.

The Irishman straightens himself up and follows Haytham with a newfound will of bliss. As they walk, Haytham slowly sips on his own drink. The two of them keep to themselves, not too particular in conversating with anyone else but themselves. The only company Haytham wants tonight is Shay. That is enough.

Tonight, almost never happened. Shay had business in Albany that he was set to sail out for. He had celebrated Christmas loudly with Gist and his mindset had quickly come back to the Order. So, skipping New Years was something he could put up with. But with Haytham’s stern invitation -the only reason he was stern is because he didn’t want Charles Lee joining him- Shay had come along.

Being so deep in the garden, -only a few people pass here and there- the first pop of a firework has both of them looking up to the night sky quick as anything. Red shimmers across the sky, then another pop and a bright blue joins. Haytham watches with a softness for a moment. For he finds his gaze turning to Shay.

Big brown eyes are lit up with the colours of the sky. A small smile is spread across his handsome features, something that is infectious. Feeling the gaze, Shay turns to meet Haytham, his smile widening.

For the second time tonight, Haytham wishes he could embrace Shay. Wishes he could hold him in his arms like so many other couples tonight. He wishes he wasn’t someone so high and respected so that he could reach out to Shay in a loving way. But instead, all Haytham gives is the slightest of smiles, a twitch of a lip, before he turns his attention back to the fireworks.

An ache comes to his heart. A jealousy that he cannot outwardly love like everyone else in this garden tonight. That everything he and Shay share can only be shown behind closed doors and shuttered windows. He isn’t watching the fireworks, his mind thinking of other things.

A faint touch comes to his lower back under his cape that brings Haytham out of thought very quickly. Shay pulls him closer and Haytham reacts with a hand pushing on the other man’s chest. His heart beats in his own chest like the popping of the fireworks overhead, but he can feel that Shay’s is steady as anything. A hand covers his on Shay’s chest and squeezes softly. Shay’s face is so close, he can smell the champagne on his breath.

“Everyone is watching the fireworks,” Shay whispers out with a sheepish grin.

Haytham looks around and the few people that are in this part of the garden, their eyes are up to the sky. No one is looking at them. No one cares for their surroundings. Yet still, a twisted paranoia gnaws at Haytham. What if someone is watching.

All worry is swept away as a small kiss is placed to his temple. He blinks at the touch, his eyes still on everyone. But no one shouts. No one gasps in horror at the act. No one utters a word but at the awe of the colours blooming in the sky.

With a little relief inside of his cold heart, Haytham looks to Shay who hasn’t taken his eyes off of him this entire time. He squeezes Haytham’s hand again, a wordless assurance.

Under the fireworks, for the new year that comes, the two share a kiss in the blooming garden. Haytham doesn’t care that all he can taste is champagne. He doesn’t care that Shay’s lips are a little dry from talking in the cold night all evening. He kisses him softly with a hand on the back of his neck before anyone can spot them. They hold onto each other while the short moment lasts. While no one is watching. No one will know. No one will see. Only they will know of this moment that they both will keep to their hearts for the year to come. For the next day will hold something special. And the coming year will be held with all kinds of surprises.

What a happy new years indeed.

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