#fortrivmph

[honorhearted]

@fortrivmph liked for a short starter!

Benjamin flexed his hand, shaking out the stinging pain with a curse. "Sorry for hitting you," he muttered. "Next time, perhaps you should lead in with 'I know Connor' rather than skulking into a man's private quarters uninvited."

[forlibcrty]

@fortrivmph asked: "go inside and clean that up. you're getting blood everywhere."

typical. no sign of concern, no fatherly sympathy — just concern for the inn's front stoop. with an irritated little grunt, connor limped his way inside, one hand pressed tight to the wound in his thigh, and dropped himself down in the nearest chair. if he bloodied the floorboards, so be it; blood was easy enough to wash out. that much, he knew a little too well.

from within his pocket, he fished out the usual rag he used for these occasions and clapped it over the gash. he'd bound it back at the mercenary camp, but the makeshift bandage had come dislodged in the ride back to new york, as he'd feared it might. "this might not have happened," he grumbled, "if you had not pranced away in the middle of a fight you began."

[songandflame-archived]

"To dream the impossible dream, that is my quest."

Answered here!

[wolfkcst]

Unhinged Sentences -Accepting!! @fortrivmph

Well... That was certainly an interesting way in starting a conversation. A light huff of bemusement falls from scarred lips, arching an eyebrow as they looked the stranger over with slight intrigue. ❝Is that so? Is this problem going to be directed to me, as well?❞

[dairsmuids]

a headcanon brought to you by aurora and sam: haytham has a tiny pillow in his pocket that he pulls out when he needs to muffled scream about the state of his life

[vicemirror]

THIS IS WHAT YOU MADE ME LOG IN FOR @fortrivmph

[forlibcrty]

@fortrivmph. / new york, 1777.

it had been several days, since their first encounter in the church, and yet connor was far from settling on how he felt about this little arrangement between them. working with a templar was troubling enough, but haytham swung so quickly from one extreme to another — at one turn, he was abandoning connor in the thick of a fight with some snide remark about his abilities, and at the next, he was proudly proclaiming connor as his son in front of a host of guards. it was positively dizzying. the solitary ride back to fetch the aquila gave him ample time for thought, but by the time he hitched his horse and stepped up to the helm, he'd succeeded only in running his mind in circles.

in the end, it mattered little. time was of the essence now, if they had any chance of catching church. everything else could wait. the wind, thankfully, was on his side, and manning the helm gave him blessed distraction — within a short while, the peaks of new york's rooftops came into view, followed presently by the pier. before they even lowered the sails, connor recognised the distinctive red flash of a familiar coat. his father's. he decided not to acknowledge the rush of something like relief that brought on.

he waited in carefully-measured silence as the rowboat carried haytham across to the ship. when he clambered up the ladder, however, and came into view, connor stepped forward to offer a hand up from the last rung.

"welcome aboard."

[forlibcrty]

@fortrivmph asked: ❛ well, look who remembered my existence. ❜

haytham's particular brand of acerbic humour had taken some getting used to. at the start of their little arrangement together, connor had bristled at every snide remark; inclined as he was, by upbringing and by nature, to take words at face value, haytham's painfully british circuity grated on him. close quarters aboard the aquila, however, had given him enough time to learn the man's habits and temperament. connor watched him, when he thought haytham wouldn't notice. for the most part, the templar kept to himself, but daily life on the ship required enough interaction among them all for connor to begin finding his patterns. he took note of the way that pursed lips followed an order or question he didn't like, how a tilt of the head betrayed genuine interest, and how a loud laugh meant less actual mirth than a sharp exhale from the nose.

and this remark now, snide as it was, had a tone to it that connor had only ever heard directed towards him. it was not warmth so much as an absence of cold, but with haytham, that counted for enough. just above the crow's nest, connor hung effortlessly from the rigging, one arm looped securely around the ropes and both feet balancing by the arches for stability. "perhaps i would remember it more if you did not hide up here so often. you are surlier than the ship's cat."

[songandflame-archived]

Various Literary Prompts

@fortrivmph asked: "to dream the impossible dream, that is my quest." (thank you!)

"Yes, because you find it in the slums of Montreuil," she retorted, her mocking echoing from rain-dampened walls.

She would hardly ever be so bold, but after reading how her daughter was dying, Fantine had to allow her anguish some relief. Perhaps the man would strike her; even better, perhaps he would involve her pimp like the coward most men were. Either way, Fantine would feel something other than all-consuming grief. She did not care if it came as a foot to her ribs or the back of a hand to her cheek.

"You'll be more likely to find it between my legs, Monsieur." She paused, only to drink whatever watered-down brandy remained. "I assure you, a good woman is far better than any dream. Come, let me be your quest."

[forlibcrty]

@fortrivmph asked: i knew you'd haunt all of my what ifs.

that was... surprisingly candid, for haytham. perhaps it was the gentle rocking of the crow's nest lulling them both. perhaps it was the questionable amount of rum they'd partaken in. or perhaps, out here with the sea air around them and the rumble of shanties below, far away from the battlefields on land, they both felt the presence of something familial.

he remained silent for a moment, eyes up on the stars above them. the sentiment was achingly familiar. no matter how much he tried to keep his eyes focused on the future, those what ifs always nipped at his heels, and sometimes, they sunk their teeth in too deep to ignore. what if istá had never sent him away? what if he'd been there to save her? what if i'd gone to find him instead of achilles? what if there was no war to be fought and no sides to choose? he hadn't paused to wonder whether haytham considered the exact same questions.

whether it was the rum or the sea air, something brought down his usual defences. saying nothing, he leaned aside until he could rest his cheek on his father's shoulder. that, he hoped, conveyed the things he couldn't find words to say. i know. i understand. maybe 'what if' can be for the future, too.

[forlibcrty]

@fortrivmph asked: it would seem your friend is in distress.

even on a battlefield, haytham was seemingly incapable of reining in his dry humour. it was truly beginning to grate on connor's nerves. he shot his father a withering glare, then lifted his pistol and fired a clean shot at the redcoat grappling lafayette in the mud of the trench nearby. once he was certain that the frenchman had regained his feet and launched back into the fray, connor retreated until his back struck haytham's. "we are outnumbered here!" even at this short distance, he had to raise his voice to a near-shout over the din. "we need to call a retreat."

[forlibcrty]

no one prepared me for how much the assassin's creed lineage short film fucking whips ass

[forlibcrty]

it's my birthday!! @fortrivmph and i are going to the assassin's creed symphonic concert in london tonight, so i'll be around on discord 🎉

[forlibcrty]

blaming @fortrivmph for putting these brain worms in me but if we have to think about it so does everyone.

no way — altaïr don't lose ur head — ezio heart of stone — connor get down — edward all you wanna do — haytham i don't need your love — arno

[dairsmuids]

feeling especially emosh about my irredeemable old man this evening

gonna listen to ttpd while rereading some of my fav @fortrivmph's essays/rps just to feel something

[forlibcrty]

@fortrivmph. shell jewellery for the birthday boy.

he hadn't expected anything from his father today. frankly, he hadn't expected anything, full stop — given the manic frenzy of the war, he'd scarcely noticed march slipping into april, to say nothing of his birthday creeping close. his father's presence on the homestead was as much of a shock as his subsequent request for a moment alone together on the cliffside.

and yet, without question and with a bit of gladness, he went. their time aboard the aquila sailing to and from martinique had been as tumultuous as the seas they rode on, but it had given them enough time together to establish something like kinship. like wary cats, they'd batted at each other, but always with claws sheathed. and in quiet moments, they'd put aside animosity altogether. by the time the roofs of new york came back into view, connor had been sorry to part.

at the edge of the cliffside, connor balanced the weight of which question to ask. haytham never did anything without reason, and that certainly extended to making the journey here. before he could string together the right words, however, haytham made the first remark, with that same playful tone he'd first used in that old abandoned church.

weren't you twenty-one last week?

connor's slack-jawed expression was comical enough to draw a little exhaling laugh from haytham. whatever connor had planned to say fell to pieces in stammering, and haytham once more picked up the slack. close your eyes.

wordlessly, connor did. a cool, light weight settled on his left wrist first, then his right. then something settled around his neck, hanging just below the necklace that had once belonged to his mother. when haytham bade him open his eyes, the sight on his wrists that greeted him did more than knock the words out of him — it knocked the breath, too.

the bracelets were crude, to be generous. clearly haytham had fashioned them himself, and clearly he was no artist. uneven bits of shell, packed close, white and spotted brown — the sort of thing that wouldn't fetch more than a penny.

but to connor, it was more than gold. dimly, he was aware of haytham babbling on to explain that he'd picked the shells up at various places in the caribbean, but the words beat dull against his ears. he reached up with both hands to trace the necklace, barely registering that it bore a little more colour than the bracelets. he couldn't fathom the words to express what it meant, these simple gifts. the fact that haytham had made something for him, fashioned out of something so inexpressibly sacred on so many levels, put a lump in his throat that was hard to swallow. his thumbs continued to stroke along the jagged shells, until, at last, he could speak.

"niawen'kó:wa." he didn't have to raise his eyes to know the head tilt that accompanied haytham's reply. i don't understand. "it... means thank you."

ah.

you're welcome. happy birthday, son.