Category: Sylum Aesthetics
McFassy Fortnight: Master David
Master David Aesthetic
“When done correctly, there should only be pleasure.”
The words murmured in his right ear, struggled to make themselves understood against the sudden surge of pressure rising up within his gut.
No stranger to the ways in which men used men for their own physical purposes, he knew he was indeed far more than the chattel he once had been, yet in this new learning he again felt as helpless as he had been back then, trapped in all his weak smallness beneath the heaving flesh of a rutting Lord who cared nothing but for his own sexual satisfaction.
Sweat prickled down his back. “It is unusual,” he agreed, disturbed at how easy it had been to accept Harold’s instruction without thought to his own desires.
Sexual coupling had thus far in his few enough years, been in no way an experience worth describing as pleasurable, yet there he was naked, lying on his stomach across soft, warm furs before the fireplace in his very own room, discovering an entirely new degree of intimacy he could never have imagined.
Upon the nearby couch sat Rhys, watching the lesson he had confessed himself to have once learned at the hands of his Mate, whose own instruction in such matters had been far more brutal than there were words to adequately describe.
Knowing he was not alone in having experienced great sufferings in his youth, had endeared him to Harold most deeply, and impressed upon him the growing belief that men could in fact share themselves without recourse to shame, or fear, or torture.
For his part, Harold had embraced him almost as a favoured nephew, and so they had come to a mutual understanding no one else could really grasp who had not endured the abject humiliation of once being owned as a plaything to be abused at whim.
David gasped, finding his fingers clenching into the furs even as the gentle fingers inside him pressed once more into his aching flesh, and then repeated the same gesture not unlike a rampant man spearing his insides.
Heat far richer and more intense than that which the flames in the hearth could themselves provide, began to burn somewhere within him, not from the penetration of his entrails, but rather from a more internal source within his body, one only he could sense. It stole his breath, and as Harold placed his other hand firmly, palm down upon the curve of his back, so David found himself whimpering, urging from his thought every hideous recollection of times past when other men were not so kind, or so considerate toward him as to ensure he was pleasured by their ministrations.
In fact, it was a constant source of wonder once he knew that pleasure was permitted him, and that he was capable of receiving it.
When told of it, he did not believe until finally it was shown.
There.
In his own room.
Before the fire.
Safe.
Needed.
Wanted.
That he was being watched, mattered not at all.
They were naked, the three of them.
Equals.
Nothing hidden.
Nothing unexplained.
Nothing granted without consent.
All questions answered.
Without the slightest shame.
He squirmed as new sensations assailed him, the likes of which he had never felt.
There was no containing it.
No words could do it justice.
He was aroused, and increasingly in need of the relief that only a hand could otherwise have wrought upon his inflamed manhood.
But it was untouched, and so he wriggled against the furs, seeking release, unsure how to make it so.
The whine in his throat became a plea, though he knew not why, nor what he wanted to say.
Sparks akin to those on a badly balanced fire, illuminated his vision.
And while he wanted it to end, he wanted also for it to never end.
It was a strange insanity, and it took him a moment to realize that Harold was urging him quietly to let go of all the fears he still retained.
It was trust.
No more than that.
Trust in himself.
Trust in the man teaching him.
“I don’t know how!” he wailed, his face hidden in the furs.
“Stop fighting,” Rhys said firmly, remembering his own first explorations at the knowing hands of his Mate. “Accept that it is real.”
David let his fingers unclench.
Then his shoulders ease.
With deliberate effort, he forced his aching buttocks to relax and accept the invasion pushing up inside him over and over again.
When the moment of triumph came, it hit him so completely it was terrifying, and a cry burst out of him that spoke of his first real climax at the behest of another.
The warm flow of his own seed spilled copiously onto the furs, and it amazed him that he could be brought to such a response without his cock being stroked or even held.
The fingers gently withdrew from his body, and it caused him to shiver, yet Harold remained beside him, rubbing his back, easing him past the moment tenderly.
There was no embarrassment.
No shame.
Nothing had been demanded of him.
Nothing was required.
Catching his breath took him a while, but there was no rush.
He could lay there for as long as he wished.
He was permitted to enjoy.
There was much he still wished to learn about himself, now that he was free, and that night’s lesson was just the beginning.
He knew he was somehow liberated all the more by being allowed to discover a better, nobler dignity in himself.
“Teach me more?” he asked at last, blinking up at the sweet man he was so indebted to.
And Harold smiled wisely in return. “One thing at a time, I think.” He nodded. “Slow and steady with all this.”
David chuckled. “Thank you.”
“You are most welcome. Perhaps in times to come, you can then teach others too. You could help them also understand. You could show them that there is no shame or fear in being a whole, knowing, sexual person.”
It was an appealing concept. “I like that idea,” he agreed. “I like that I could help others be unafraid.”
McFassy Fortnight: Joshua Faraday
Joshua Faraday Aesthetic
He had left everything he knew behind. Started off on a grand adventure, to see new worlds, and experience life out of a saddle.
Joshua tip his hat, and gave the porter a smile as he settled the steamer trunk next to him. “I just need to go out front, pick up a carriage to get to my hotel?”
“Yes sir.” He motioned for a small boy, who looked to be about twelvish, wearing the uniform of the ship. “Billy here can show you the way.”
“Are you a real cowboy?” The kid stared up at Joshua taking in his jeans, button down cotton shirt, covered by a leather vest, accented by a long dark duster. Finished off with a cowboy hat and boots.
“Sure am. Born on the plains of the Wild West.” He squatted down to be closer to the kids eye level.
“You fight Injuns?” The kid asked in full wonderment.
“Actually, was good friends with a few. Good people.” He gave the boy a last smile, then stood looking down at him. “So where do we go from here?”
“My good man, I couldn’t help but overhear you, is the Wild West show back in town?”
Joshua turned to see a middle aged man wearing an expensive suit, with an actual Top hat and cane. “I’m not with Buffalo Bill’s show, just got off the ship, was seeking some culture and decided to tour Europe.”
“Well in that case, I’m Lord William Beringar, and let me show you London.” He held out his hand, smiling brightly.
Joshua took it, giving him a good handshake. “Thank you, I’m Joshua Faraday, just a simple cowboy, who’s not quite sure where to start.”
“First let’s get you settled.” He pulled out a few coins and looked down at the boy. “Make sure his trunks arrive safely and untouched.”
“Yes sir.” He nodded eyes wide at the extra coins. “Will do, sir.”
Joshua tipped his hat, gave his thanks to the Ship steward who was kind to help him, the past few weeks, and then followed Lord Beringar out into the streets of London. He ignored the stares, second glances, and comments as he made his way down the street, following William who was talking about his trip to New York, and how he had wanted to visit the West, but hadn’t realized how far away it was from the city.
“It’s a vast country.” Joshua gave him a small smile. “I’ve only seen portions of it, mostly the middle and from the back of horse. But there is still so much to see, once I’ve finished touring the old cities, I want to travel more of my home before settling down.”
“Do you have a little lady back home?” He asked with a grin, knowing he had gotten the western lingo accurate.
“No. My life wasn’t suited for marriage. I got some years yet, before … ” He suddenly stopped, turned and grabbed the hand of the teenager who was trying to take off with his wallet. “Nice try kid, but last I checked you’re not supposed to feel me up in the process.”
“Oh shite.” He stared at Joshua with wide eyes, as he backed up bowing his head. “Sorry Jake didn’t recognize ya’ in the cowboy get up. I had no idea the Rooks were out this far.”
“Who the hell is Jake or these Rooks?” Joshua asked with a frown.
“I get it.” The kid glanced at Lord Beringar, then gave another bow to Joshua. “I’ll be goin’ now, sir.” And with that he turned and disappeared into the crowd.
“Well that was odd.” Joshua turned back to William, giving him a shrug. “Show me this city of yours.”
McFassy Fortnight: Paul Mallory
Paul Mallory Aesthetic
(This snippet ties into The Russian Spy)
As Paul made his way through MI:6, he couldn’t help but think for a spy organization it sure had a lot of glass walls. He had got the call from M, early in the morning, requesting his presence. He couldn’t read her tone, or figure out what she needed him for.
It could range from a new mission as a Double-O, an under the table mission to break into some Nazi asshole house to go through their safe, or request for lunch. Either way he made sure to pull out his best suit, and look presentable.
He settled outside Moneypenny’s desk, giving him a smile. The latest assistant was tall and very handsome, M was probably enjoying the eye candy, he did look aesthetically pleasing in the designer jeans. He wondered if it had stopped James from flirting, likely not.
His older brother’s main mode was: Flirt.
“She’ll see you now.” Moneypenny gave him a reassuring look. “Warning, she’s annoyed about something.”
“Isn’t she always?” Paul put away his iPod and headphones. It was starting to get old, but it was perfect for him to concentrate.
“Get in here Paul!”
“I see what you mean.” He ignored the staring at his ass, as the door closed behind him. With a flick of the wrist he unbuttoned his suit and sat down in the front of her desk. “What can I help you with M?”
“I have a mission for you.”
“Official or unofficial?” He could tell by her tone, she was upset about something.
“Unofficial for MI:6, but officially for the Clan.” She leaned back in her chair, watching him intently, waiting for a response.
“Okay.” Though he had never been introduced to Arthur, or for that matter many members of the Vampire Clan he was involved with. He had been turned twelve years ago, and still hadn’t taken a trip down to Cornwall, he figured that was mostly due to M. “What’s going on?”
“A traitor rose up in Sylum, one who was attached to Camelot. His last communication was to another traitor here in England.” She had a small snarl on her face, if there was one thing she despised was traitors. “As you are not known in the Clan, I want you to follow them.”
“Who?” He asked shifting in his seat to take the file folder she picked up off her desk to hand him.
“Danny Blue.” She gave a quick intro of the Vampire, while Paul read the more detailed reports. “I need you to talk to Jacob Frye, it would seem the idiot pissed off the Rooks, and they’ve been keeping an eye on him for a while, it’s how we got most of the information.”
“The idiot who runs around the rooftops in a top hat?” He asked with a smirk. “He’s got style, will give him that.”
“He’s good, don’t let the ‘idiot’ play you.” She gave him a smirk. “Him and his sister have good control of the East End, and know more of what’s going on in this god forsaken city than us half the time.”
“I’m sensing a trip to the Rookery. James has stated a few times the food was good.” He finished memorizing the information, and then put it back on M’s desk. “Anything else?”
She slid a phone across the table. “Dump your old one. This will be the only one you use, it’s encrypted to the point even I can’t fathom. Don’t let Q see it, as he would want to marry it and have its babies.”
Paul picked up the phone fiddling with it a bit. A thumbprint was required to open the screen, he set his thumb on the dot, watching with a sense of dread and awe as it scanned and then peeped. The phone was nothing like he had ever seen, it was slim, sophisticated and had apps he was sure weren’t standard.
“Fancy.” He flicked through it, blinked a few times when the music section was filling up with albums he preferred. “Really fancy.”
“Don’t ask.” She stood, taking the file folder to the shredder. Took a second to give Cockatoo a pet, and snack. “Have you heard from Dr. Evan?
“He’s going to Rio, something about a Sloth Sanctuary. James suggested he stay at Sanctuary Clan, that they had lots of Sloths.”
“Oh yes, adorable creatures. I should send Vachon a note, it’s been a while.” With a last pet, she sat back down. “This could lead into places that no one is expecting.”
“I’ve been in weirder situations.” He pointed out, slipping the phone into his pocket.
“I know.” M hesitated, then gave him a rare smile. “Paul, you’re my youngest boy. I know you’re good at what you do, very good. You wouldn’t be a Double-O if you weren’t. Just be careful, and read up on the Illuminati while you’re at it.”
“Now you have me intrigued.” He stood, moved around the desk and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Do I have backup?”
“James or Craig, or your father. Trust no one else.” She patted his cheek. “Go talk to Jake, he’ll let you in on a few things.”
“I’ll head over there now.” He buttoned his coat, and headed for the door.
“Paul… be careful.”
“I will.” And with that he left the office, gave Moneypenny a smile, before heading towards the elevator. He had a feeling his life just got interesting.
McFassy Fortnight: Charles Victor
Charles Victor Aesthetic
He looks at me with disappointed eyes.
I see it.
And he knows I see it.
He has never made it secret.
Why should he?
Instead, it has taken me far too long to figure out the meaning in his expression, especially given that it wars so closely with my father’s.
Unlike Victor, Craterus is by far the more patient man.
His love for me runs deeper.
Hotter.
Yet there it is.
His disappointment.
What can I say to that?
Men have never talked in this house as they should.
Perhaps I am alone in recognizing it?
At times, I know when I am wrong. I am not so foolish however, as to imagine I am always wrong.
Men such as Victor are not required to either explain or justify themselves. They are simply a force of nature, and to get in the way of their endeavors is to face the brunt of their ire.
And so, again, I may say I am not always wrong.
I am, on occasion, in the wrong place perhaps.
Dearest Craterus does not see it thusly, nor does he recognize the moment for what it is.
Before Nature, can any man defend his right?
I am not a Shakespearean character that I might bellow fruitlessly at the coming storm.
At least as a Vampire, I heal the faster.
There is blessing in that, before some unfortunate believes me the victim of an entirely different fist.
Craterus asked me yesterday – at last! – why I permit myself to be so abused.
Whereupon I did reply with some haste, “Why do you permit it?”
And with that, my father may well have struck the same blow upon him as my words did cause.
It was a considerable shock to us both, I dare say, and my chagrin granted me to stutter and stumble over my own tongue as though I had become naught but a babe again.
I would not hurt darling Craterus for the world, but only then did I pause long enough, stuck in that awful moment, to realize my physical discomforts at being so struck had indeed been felt by him each time too, from as long ago as our Bonding, if not before.
Why would he not tell me this?
Did he think I already knew?
And why do those around about me assume I must always inherently comprehend what none have actually deigned to teach?
On occasion then, I am the fool my father sees.
And the disappointment that Craterus endures.
Where lies the future in all of this?
I was not gifted the precognition to know it, despite my other silent skills, but resolve from this moment forth to be the catalyst that at long last fires the dawn instead of following the dying day to dusk.
McFassy Fortnight: Craterus
Craterus Aesthetic
The first time he’d seen Victor backhand his Mate for some trivial and otherwise minor offense, it had taken every fiber of self-control he possessed not to rip the man’s head off and piss on his ashes.
For his part, Charles had stood there and taken it stoically, blinking back the stinging tears that sprang naturally to his young eyes.
That had been a very long time ago indeed.
And since then, Craterus had catalogued a considerable number of bruises inflicted upon his beloved, each met by that same determined stare in return.
He wanted to believe that eventually all that pain would reach its peak, and with it the years of resentment his Mate had surely to have been building.
For Charles never fought back, despite having been very well trained to defend himself by a pair of old friends who never gave him an inch when it came to developing the necessary skill sets for a whole lot more than merely self-preservation.
Craterus had reconciled himself by sheer force of will, to the obvious vulnerabilities that came from being so remorselessly tied to a man in his life who had made it abundantly clear that should the need ever arise, he would have no problem removing even his own son from the world, for the sake of maintaining all that he had built.
Thus it was, that he tolerated – albeit barely – the blows which inevitably followed that very first.
Much had been done in secret, away from Victor’s prying eyes and ever present, ever grasping reach.
Much was still to do.
And Craterus was disciplined enough to reach his goal, though yet again he was made very well aware of the power his own Sire could wield, as into their home Victor brought the bitch who would doubtless be the downfall of them all.
The blow that fell upon his Mate’s right cheek that day was loud enough to be heard from the lobby all the way upstairs to the shadows on the balcony, as it cracked with vicious fury and deliberate malice.
Once more, Charles said nothing, though Sidney snickered like the self-satisfied little asshole he had become.
Instead, it was Craterus who flinched, watching at the railing, waiting for retaliation.
It had to come.
One day.
Surely.
McFassy Fortnight: Karla
Karla Aesthetic
“She shot my son!”
Smiley just sat there and stared across the desk at his oftentimes elusive Mate, who had to all intents, just miraculously appeared in his office like a wraith on All Hallow’s Eve.
“She set him up!”
Still Smiley said nothing, knowing the best way with one who generally said little enough himself, was to play the same card.
“She doesn’t get to keep living for this!”
Several sarcastic comments on the nature of parenthood, lanced caustically through Smiley’s mind, but never once made themselves known upon his face.
“My own government wants her dead!”
Having deconstructed the material Lorraine had used to frame the Head of Berlin Station as the much sought after traitor known as ‘Satchel’, George had only a moment before put the phone down on M, after securing her agreement on a mutually beneficial deal that would ensure the cooperation of the Americans for quite some considerable time.
“I’ll kill her myself!” Karla snarled it with a particularly vicious tone that naturally reminded George of the manner in which his Russian nemesis was known to conduct daily business. “She’s murdered sufficient Russians to justify a death sentence from Moscow.”
“Moscow bought her cover just as much as London and Berlin.”
“My son is not a traitor!!”
“Very true, but then again he is no more like you than he is like me. David will inevitably have his moment to confront her before he goes back to work.”
“Insanity!”
Smiley pushed his glasses up his nose. “The Wall has come down. The world changed shape over night.”
Karla’s eyes narrowed nastily. “And one day we will truly be obsolete, but until then, I will see justice done!” He was about ready to thump his fists on the desk.
“It will be,” George assured him. “The real ‘Satchel’ is ruthless, efficient and quite brilliantly smart. At least for a female operative. She’ll be made to help train a different generation of spies for us in this brave new world we are creating.”
“For the Americans?”
“No. For us.”
“The Americans will simply hand her over? Are you mad?
“Yes, they will. And no, I am not. At least not today.”
“How will they do this?”
“Well now, that would depend on whether you trust your son to be more ruthless than you, more clever than me, and more efficient than our enemies across the Pond.”
“You just said he was nothing like either of us.”
“He’s not. He’s better than we ever were.”
Karla snorted, though it sounded more like a disgusted cough as he contemplated the future. “He can adapt.”
“Indeed. He’s very good at it.”
“While we are old and crusted over?”
George allowed himself the mildest laugh. “We do have our moments, don’t we?”
McFassy Fortnight: Guimar de Massard & Leigh Teabing
Guimar de Massard Aesthetic
“That is not my Mate! How can you even think of such a ridiculous thing?”
Guimar could hear the ranting from some considerable distance, given his sensitive Vampire ears, and though he knew it would be far better for his state of mind if he were to block it out and just keep walking, he honestly couldn’t bring himself to pretend it wasn’t happening.
He’d gone from the overwhelming elation of finding his Mate, to the crashing reality of being rejected, in less time than it took to boil an egg. And he’d not even had chance to say a word to the man he’d found lecturing a group of tourists on the history and mythology of Rosslyn Chapel.
“I should have stayed at home,” he whispered, slipping into his native French. “I should not have come.”
Cadfael couldn’t bear to see his Sire’s hands shaking so badly. “Come and sit in the car for a moment.” He was trying to keep an eye on his own Mate too, as Lord Beringar demanded a few answers courtesy of the very nice, but clearly very bored American from Knight Clan, who had introduced himself as ‘Hicks’ and claimed to be acting as de facto bodyguard to Leigh Teabing – a man whose presence in Camelot Clan territory should have been discussed between Clan hierarchies preferably before there was a problem.
“I don’t care, woman! This is not possible, and I refuse to accept further meddling in the issue!”
Cadfael already knew Teabing to be as vociferous as he was loudly obnoxious, having met him when he’d stayed for a few years at Camelot Castle after Romulus and Remus tossed him from Lealta.
Rome had refused to deal with the man’s obsession over Robert Langdon, and Venice had made it abundantly clear that they would not tolerate anything whatsoever, threatening their beloved Leonardo.
But the general consensus had been that once Teabing found his own Mate, the man’s belief that he actually belonged with Langdon, would naturally fade away.
A sad fact that suddenly seemed, under the circumstances, to be quite ridiculously naive.
Teabing had always maintained that Langdon was falsely Bonded to Leonardo, who had been psychologically manipulating him from an early age. It had led to more than one awkward assessment by Lealta Clan’s Ruling Council, as they struggled to determine the nature of such strange allegations, and whether there could be any real truth to it. Questions were raised as to whether Teabing was meant to complete a Triad with Langdon and Leonardo, but such a suggestion was fiercely and repeatedly refuted by all three parties.
Leonardo’s miraculous salvation of Langdon as a boy, when at a seven years of age he’d been trapped at the bottom of a water logged, abandoned well with virtually no hope of rescue, was called into doubt and re-examined.
Nicolaus Meridius, as Head of Sylum Clan, had been forced to get involved over it all. So too Arthur Pendragon, as Teabing, being British, had been a member of Camelot Clan at that time. It had been one almighty fuss after another until finally Teabing found himself a place in Knight Clan, where his particular eccentricities could be overlooked as long as he didn’t cause any physical harm or distress as a result.
It hadn’t helped that Alexander, as Leader of Sanguen and therefore Head of the Kin Clan Structure, repeatedly threatened to behead the man for being a self-righteous prick, should he ever show his face anywhere in the Mediterranean.
Hugh had snidely suggested back then, that Imenand must surely have bribed La Croix with a hell of a lot of money, for taking Teabing out of everyone’s way.
Not that anyone ever suggested otherwise.
Still, things were rather inevitable after That Night, and Teabing had been investigated ever more thoroughly as a Childe of Galileo.
While Langdon himself had found it impossible to believe that someone so much a scholar of art and history, could have had anything to do with an attempt at destroying the Vatican, it had been agreed upon that should Teabing ever have to leave the relative safety of Knight Clan’s territory, there would be warnings sent out to whoever else’s Clan might be on the receiving end of any or all potential trouble.
But apparently, Knight Clan’s leadership wasn’t giving too much of a crap about the niceties of interClan diplomacy any more.
Which didn’t shock Cadfael all that much, but certainly pissed off Hugh Beringar as Head of Camelot Security.
Doctor Teabing, as it turned out, was on some kind of lecturing tour with a group of people who had a specific interest in all things Illuminati, following on from the events of That Night. Such a thing was bound to have an impact on the public consciousness, and there had been a massive uptick in curiosity over all manner of conspiracy theories and secret societies.
Sensing a money making opportunity when it came their way, more people than just Teabing were taking best advantage. In 2007 alone, the volume of books on the shelves about similar issues, had quadrupled. And there were films, shows, and tours all over the world, claiming to have some connection to the ‘global terrors’ of secret sects and their power hungry leaders.
Cadfael really wanted someone to try and calculate the odds on him and Hugh dragging one of their oldest friends to a place like Rosslyn Chapel, only to have said friend meet hitherto unknown Mate.
Guimar was, however, not so much concerned with the mathematics as with his inability to see what the problem was. He’d never heard of Leigh Teabing, even in passing, let alone been aware of the scandal that followed the man like a virulent plague. But as his Childe sat him down in the car and explained the long history of such matters, it quickly became apparent that there were a few things in which Passion Clan had played no part, and remained blissfully unconcerned.
Which in turn, rather made him feel personally affronted. If not a little foolish on top of everything else.
“Perhaps I might seduce him, no?” Guimar had reverted to his native tongue and stayed there, but Cadfael chose not to tell him. “I am not without resources after all.” And yet the expression on his dear Childe’s face was not one to fill him with hope. “You have told me everything?”
“Yes. But I fear, given the reaction that your mere presence has evoked, that Leigh’s obsession may prove too much to break. If he had found you sooner…”
It had been an exceptionally long time since last Guimar shed tears, and though he wanted to deny what the Vampire inside him was desperate for, his slightly more rational mind told him Cadfael was probably right.
He could still hear the ranting and railing, never mind that it was being tempered by a woman’s calming, evenly measured tones.
Hicks had said that his wife, Lucy, often acted as Doctor Teabing’s personal secretary. She certainly sounded like a very nice woman, but Guimar could not tell whether she fully understood the implications in such a moment.
“I should know more of this Robert Langdon person,” he concluded.
“None of this is his fault, or his doing, old friend.”
“I believe you.” From somewhere de Massard drew a smile before running a hand over the ache that was forming between his brows. “Nevertheless…”
Cadfael sighed. “Do not consider him a rival. Please?”
“Right now, I do not know what to consider. I am rejected by a Soul I have never yet spoken with, and who in turns seems unable to entertain any though whatever of my existence.”
Around them, cars in the parking lot began moving out, leaving a patchwork of empty spaces.
Cadfael wondered how many were simply done for the day, heading for lunch, or fleeing from Leigh’s unexpected shouting that cast an almost hysterical shadow over so very dignified a place.
He could sense Hugh’s own tightly wound anger start bubbling to the boil, and struggled to send calm reassurance through their Bond so that matters wouldn’t lead to a visit by the local Constabulary.
And their day, that had been meant only as a mildly interesting diversion, was suddenly soured by the brutal reality of an old problem no one had ever really known how to fix.
He wanted to believe that a noble and decent man like Guimar, deserved better than a stubborn old mule like Teabing, but he kept that to himself too. After all, he and Hugh had hardly been the most perfect couple, and there were many others of his acquaintance who hadn’t exactly met the easy way, or been instantly accepting of one another.
“How many times do I have to tell you people? My Mate was brainwashed by da Vinci!! Never in a thousand lifetimes, was I meant to be with anyone but Robert!!”
The screeching got louder as Teabing stalked through the car park from where he’d been yelling at Lucy in the tour bus his group were using.
Guimar glanced away, growling harshly in his throat, and it made Cadfael wince at the kind of memories such a sound could dredge up. He had visions then of a vicious fight amongst the cars, with horrified but curious tourists capturing it all on their cameras for the evening news.
Arthur having a royal fit.
And The Bruce demanding whoever’s head got in the way first.
But that it didn’t actually happen at that point, didn’t mean it would never come.
Leigh Teabing Aesthetic
McFassy Fortnight: Callum Lynch
Callum Lynch Aesthetic
(You’re probably wondering … wait why is he also on this day – well you’re just going to have to wait and see *smirks wickedly*)
Hint: Reread – New Orleans Chronicles – Aiden Pearce
Callum woke with a start.
The ceiling wasn’t his home, nor Aguilar’s. It wasn’t the hotel he had been recently crashed in, after his latest mission. He had no idea where he was, and could hear Altaïr’s lecture on not being aware, feel Proximo’s twenty mile run in the desert just because he’s an asshole, and Aguilar’s disappointed yet scared expression.
He turned his head to see a woman sitting next to him.
“You’re awake.”
“Where am I?” He asked casually as one can, when they’ve been kidnapped.
“It’s not important.”
“It is, when I’ve been brought here against my will.” His instincts wanted to choke the life out of her, but he needed more information.
“You were brought here for your own good. There was an altercation…”
‘Bullshit’
“…The police figured some downtime would be better than jail time.”
‘Bullshit’
“So you were brought to our facility, to help with your anger management issues.”
“What because I’m Irish I have anger management issues?” He tilted his head, studying her intently. She was a scientist, or she thought she was. Her pencil skirt, ivory blouse showed her curves, but it was covered by the labcoat, to make her seem more professional.
She smelled like a Templar.
The small pendant on her necklace showed her to be one.
“Well they are known for their more violent tendencies. I mean the history of the IRA, and the attacks on innocent citizens,” said in a very European brisk accent, trying not to show she had been educated in Britain.
“I’m not going to get into a political debate with you on Ireland and the oppression of Britain on my mother’s country.” He sat up and shifted his legs over the edge of the hospital style bed. The room was grey, very institutionalized. He looked down at the grey scrubs and white t-shirt, it would seem they were going for mental institution … though the place lacked the screaming of the insane. He gently stood, still feeling the drugs run through his veins. He would need to Feed … he looked at her one more time. “I will be leaving.”
“You can’t.” She moved around the bed to block the door. “You’ve been committed for treatment.”
“You think you can keep me?” He used his body to back her against the wall, though never touched her.
“It would be for your own good, Mr. Lynch.” She swallowed down her fear, then opened the door leading him outside. “I’m trying to find ways to curtail violent behaviors.”
He snorted. “By holding me against my will.”
“It’s for your own good.” She repeated a forced smile on her face. “If you followed the path you were on, you could’ve ended up in jail or worse … dead.”
‘Already dead luv.’
“Aye, so ya’ going to study me like a rat?” He moved around her, voice dropping low. “Inject me with a new kind of drug? Watch me like a bug, to see how I tick?”
“Actually we’re going to show you a purpose.”
The voice was haughty, annoying, and every inch a Templar. Callum turned, to face the newcomer, he reseted flexing his hand, wanting nothing but his blade to slide down to shank the bastard.
“I have a purpose.”
“To club crawl and get into bar fights?” He asked with a disdain only someone who was rich and powerful could pull off.
“It works.”
It dawned on him they had no idea who he was. They saw him as a punk lowlife who had no focus. He swallowed the hysterical laughter, that he was standing in front of two Templars, who had no idea he was an Assassin.
“Come with me, Mr. Lynch.”
“Sure why not.”
He followed him into an huge open chamber. Everything painted dull grey, to the point it hurt to look at anything. He could see camera’s and hear equipment running, but wasn’t quite sure what it all was.
He wasn’t the tech Assassin.
That would Nico of late.
Maybe he should kidnap Clay’s Mate once this done, learn a few things. He didn’t like be unawares, and if they were going to move this war into the cyber world, he needed to up his skills.
“Do you know where you come from?”
Callum turned his head slowly, frowning at the question. “Aye, the green hills of Ireland.”
“No your family.”
“Potato farmers.” He could see the tick in the Templar’s expression, he was annoying him. Good. “I didn’t get your name? It’s only polite to introduce yourself, especially as you’ve had me committed to this Institution.”
“Rikken.” He answered, the nodded to the girl. “My daughter, Sophia.”
“Pleasure.” He gave them both a half smirk. “Cut ta’ the chase, why am I here?”
“To learn about who you are.” He waved a hand, and suddenly the world changed around him.
He recognized it.
It was a small town outside Madrid.
And if the uniforms on the soldiers were any indication, it was early 16th Century.
“Spain. 1492.”
He looked down at himself, startled to see the Assassin uniform, the one Aguilar mostly wore, though today’s was more updated. He moved his hands around to see the bracers and blades, touched his waist to feel the bola and red sash.
What the hell was this.
He then saw a young boy being dragged away from his parents, and tossed into a prison wagon.
This wasn’t right – he wasn’t here for this, Aguilar told him about this particular mission. He was still in Ireland, dealing with a corrupt church official with Il Duce.
Did they think he was Aguilar?
Wrong twin asshole!
“You’re seeing the world of your Ancestor.”
Callum’s head snapped up, he looked around, not seeing Rikken or his daughter.
Instead there were fellow Assassins on either side of him. Except Aguilar was one of the few in Spain, outside Maximus.
Who the hell was the woman.
“This is who you were, and it could be you again.”
He shook his head, this wasn’t real …
He saw one of the soldiers put a gun to the parent’s head … Instincts kicked in, and before he could think twice, the blade slide down and he jumped from the roof.