Chapter Text
“If you’d like, we may negotiate to more agreeable terms.” What a thoughtful offer considering the circumstances. The man may as well have offered the option of losing your right foot or left foot – the choice doesn’t matter if the result is the same: you’re going to have a permanent limp.
Still, that honey-drizzled voice carries on with feigned optimism. He knows he has you trapped. He knows you have no choice. He knows you can’t say no.
Admittedly, the fellow has a fine voice, no doubt well-tuned and practiced from years of oratory experience. Even in this semi-open space, his voice carries evenly with a distinct timbre. Was it better to have threats served on a pleasant voice? The knot thickly forming in your throat suggests not.
This is not the first time he’s tried to charm you with his sounds. No, you had had that pleasure just four days ago. And every damn day since then.
The man and his melodically troublesome voice had been your companions for too long now, and they had begun to test your patience. There had been plans to politely, yet venomously, tell the gentleman which part of a horse’s anatomy he could speak to the next time he felt inclined to visit, but today you were surprised.
Today, you were stuck good and proper.
You shift in your seat, eyeing the piece of parchment centered on the table in front of you before returning your gaze to the men standing on the other side of it. What were their names again? You’d think you should remember after so many visits. Though now, with each of their faces a mask of deadly seriousness, perhaps it is better if names remain a mystery.
It had begun as an innocent enough event – it often does – an envelope had been pinned to your shop’s door one morning when you opened your bookstore for business. No name, no stamped wax seal. Just a slip of parchment, several bound dollars, and a request to translate what was inside. Odd .
Had you known what trouble it would bring, you would have burned it on the spot.
But curiosity got the better of you – it often does – and what had started as a curious time sink mutated into a maddening exercise of wits. Few of the texts you owned gave you a glimpse of things you couldn’t glean on your own. But persistence and time were things you had no small amount of.
The mystery of it, of this peculiar visual “language,” refused to rest.
Through the course of translation there had been more than a few skipped meals and sleepless nights spent pacing the cool floors; a self-indulgent day off from running the bookstore; at least a dozen hours spent bent over your desk, making all manner of inhuman groans and half-screams while pulling at your hair. Easily, the best three weeks of your life.
And the message you extracted was agonizingly simple and equally insulting considering how much time you had put into the effort.
‘Life is precious .’
Or of high value. Great importance. Something like that. There wasn’t a way to be completely certain since this was all you had of this infuriating language. It was a single page with a single sentence that had almost broken you. Almost.
Instructions within the original envelope had said to fasten it onto the door when, and if, the text could be translated. That would prove to be a bittersweet decision. Getting ready for bed that night, you were all smiles and triumphant strides. The next morning, though…
The next morning your doorstep darkened to the politely standing form of Haytham Kenway entering your shop. Hands relaxed at his back, his every feature a picture of calm propriety as he approached the counter and slid that familiar envelope across the counter.
He had spoken first, mixing few words as he questioned you and postured quietly; what other few shoppers you had paid the two of you no mind. Yes, you were the one to translate that wretched language. Yes, you had done it on your own – a rubbish bin full of unsent correspondences was proof of that. And no, you weren’t interested in being paid to translate more.
It had seemed rather foolish to accept work from the sort of person who stalks around pinning cryptic messages on doors. Having seen those weapons strapped to his sides, just visible under his coat, only cemented your decision. Your answer was a firm no.
That had been four long days ago. Haytham didn’t quit.
Each denial to the request for your services had been met with Haytham returning to your doorstep the following morning with less sweet words and more gruff-looking men. Four times you had turned them down, and four times they had shown up in their previous number plus one. There were five of them in your store now, looking a mix of imposing and impatient. As dangerous as they looked, your streak of stubborn uncertainty still wanted to refuse their offer.
This was not a day that they would accept refusal, however. So what else was there to do but spit venom over being strong-armed into working for them?
“You said you wanted to negotiate, but you’re not giving me any options.” Letting your displeasure remain secret isn’t your primary concern, leaning deep into one of the wingback chairs decorating the side office and crossing your leg at the knee.
“Either I am to adhere to your requests or suffer the consequences.” You implore while propping your cheek on your upturned palm. “Which were what, again?”
Haytham and his men had taken to standing — with the former rocking his weight fluidly from heel to toe and back again, likely in a mix of annoyance and impatience since this ‘negotiation’ had been going on for over an hour. Possibly perturbed at your unwillingness to accept the inevitable. “As I have said before, it is a simple matter of offering your expert—”
You tut-tut him loudly, shifting forward in your seat to feign devoted attention. “No, no. The consequences , what were they?”
He stops rocking. That low, stormy look of aggravation on his face had almost made the fearful drop in the pit of your stomach worth it. Almost.
It’s the first time he’s made that face. You make a mental note to repeat that folly at your own risk.
These men, after all, carried more arms than any decent person needed to carry. Soft clinkering of sheathed swords, holstered guns, and god knows what else had been ringing in your ears night and day since they had begun their morning visits. Terrifying as they are, here you are now being as catty and dismissive as possible, jaw clenched tight. You were facing the end of your livelihood – and possibly your life – if you chose poorly.
Whatever latent thoughts of your gruesome murder had been at the forefront of his mind, Haytham dismisses them to clear his throat into his fist and rests his arms behind his back. “I know it must be very exciting for you to run this…” A hand waves in the air, circling as he searches for the word. “… shop on your own. It’s just lovely, by the way. Very modest.”
The bait is obvious, but you’re sneering at him in response before you realize. The corner of his mouth quirks upwards, looking pleased that he can offer you back some part of your annoyance and continues.
“It would just be a terrible shame if your landlord raised your rent impossibly high. Or if this charming little shop and all its highly flammable contents were to be set alight and burn to the ground.” It’s almost unbelievable how casual he sounds, as though reading from a ledger or something equally interesting.
Fidgeting agitation had been your companion since these men first let on to threatening to destroy all you owned. Every muscle feels coiled and fatigued from the wasted adrenaline let on by the shock of it all. Willing death on them through stares isn’t getting you anywhere, though.
“And while it pains us so to endanger your… quaint life,” he was really rubbing it in now. You sit in fitful silence, glaring up at him as he savors the moment like some damned cat lapping up clotted cream. “Your services and knowledge are needed with us. Immediately.”
“Right,” you regret prompting for the refresher. The tightness in your body cannot be ignored now and you sigh, shifting your seated weight from one side to another again. It was hard to get comfortable under such demanding stares. “ Those incredibly reasonable consequences if I don’t drop everything I own to come do your bidding.”
“No, no.” He retorts, wagging a finger in the air. “You will be doing the bidding of my associates and me. Working under our close supervision.” He smiles warmly, looking much more pleased with himself than a few moments ago. No doubt satisfied with giving you a taste of your own medicine. It’s perhaps the first genuine smile you’ve seen from him, and for once you have no response.
“Now, if there are no further interruptions?” He gestures to the documents on the table with quill and inkwell nearby.
The whole affair of coming to terms with your livelihood ending has been… tiring to put it lightly. But if you are to bend to the threats of strange men, it will be on your terms. A quick glance up confirms that all five of them are still watching you, each in a varying stages of worn-thin patience, but with some looking more annoyed than others. You can use that.
“I’ll consider the offer gentlemen; however,” you motion to the table. “I fail to see the appeal or the wisdom in agreeing to work for people who have threatened me. If we are going to work together, I will require a contract to be drafted. And that will take some time. So, do make yourselves comfortable.”
You stand and straighten your clothes with feigned disinterest, looking up as one of Haytham’s gentlemanly cohorts barks out before his leader can stop him.
“Anything we’ve come to offer you is more than enough for the likes of you. Be wise and shut your damned mouth and accept our offer. You’ve wasted enough of our time!” The man is pulled back by another of the group, harshly whispering ‘ Charles !’
Ah, the one with the shortest fuse and the easiest to bait, if his blustering reddened face is any indication. As delightful as it would be to harness more of his seething rage, you have what you need for the moment. Your impartial routine continues with annoyance lightly sprinkled in your tone.
“My rate just doubled. Thanks to your friend’s outburst here.” The heavy rhythm of your heart feels deafeningly loud, beating against your breast and threatening to give out at any moment. It’s a dangerous game you’re easing yourself into now.
Your fingertips are skirting together spare pages of parchment now; you can barely recall walking to your desk to retrieve them before you’re already walking back under the gaze of five pairs of observant eyes.
“But we may set up some tentative terms and see where the morning takes us.” You add, but Haytham looks unbothered, raising his hand dismissively as he sits with a soft ruffle of his garments, practically ushering you back to your seat through gaze alone.
“I assure you, price is no issue. We are well-funded and equipped. Name what you need and you will have it.” His eyes stay unflinchingly fixed on yours as you take your seat.
Your mind swims at his words and you feel faintly dizzy. They hadn’t mentioned this before, and those words are not often mentioned for jobs you undertake. The life of an academic doesn’t pay the best. Hell, it barely pays enough , but the prospect of being able to come out of this a great deal wealthier is very appealing.
And yet there is still a voice in the back of your mind screaming. What kind of men are they to have weapons, money, people, and god knows what else for resources at their command?
You softly clear your throat and look up at your company – each and every last man is returning a calculating stare – they’re ready for you to submit. Sheer will rises through the nausea in your core; you need it to keep your voice from faltering. “Then this should be easy. Let’s get started, shall we?”
It takes several minutes, 30 or so, in which Haytham’s guard dog henchmen remain remarkably well-composed, until both parties are satisfied with the conditions laid out.
Your hand strokes some stray hairs from your sight, tucking them neatly behind your ear as your touch continues down the length of your braid, stopping to toy with the soft ends. It’s a half-hearted effort to keep your mind preoccupied by concentrating on something other than the stares your company was giving you.
And my, how they stare.
Throughout the discussion and signing, any time your gaze strays upward, it is returned in fixed concentration by one of Haytham’s men. The first few times feel like coincidence. After all, you were doing most of the talking. But after the next half dozen times, it’s apparent that their task is to intimidate.
Not that it’s necessary. You’re already well-defeated and signing your surrender. Fighting the feeling of bile rising from your stomach, you speak gingerly.
“Very good, gentlemen. I believe we have it now.” Reaching for the newly finished draft, you rotate it and offer it out to Haytham, though, not before daring another hasty glance to the others. They are still staring at you.
The document itself had been simple enough – you are well versed in covering your needs to keep from trouble. It outlined that you, Haytham Kenway, those under his command and further under his web of command would issue no bodily harm, injury, or death to each other under any circumstances for the length of the contract and thereafter, so long as there were no breaches.
Second, though you had tried your best to get out of it, the length of the contract would be fulfilled at Haytham’s estate or an acceptable secure location due to the delicate condition and security needs of the works you would be translating.
Next, reasonable requests for work-related materials or condition improvements would be provided from Haytham’s pocket. And last, that these terms were fluid, able to be changed by either party as long as both sides were in agreement.
It was a dangerous last-minute loophole for you and also one that Haytham now has access to.
“Yes, it appears everything is in order.” He only needs a brief glance over the document before he nods his approval and makes a move to stand, associates rising with him.
“Someone will be here around sunrise tomorrow to see to your safe arrival. Please have everything you’ll need packed and ready by then. The trip is not terribly far, but it would be best to only pack the essentials.” Was that a smile teasing on his lips? The bastard really is enjoying this.
You don’t bother to stand, only nodding in agreement. They could show themselves the way out.
It seems a much better option to turn your attention to the stacks of books that have been sitting aside from your last translation attempt. There were just so many . You couldn’t be sure how much packing would be allowed and since when had Haytham crossed the room to cloud your vision with his wide frame and dark robes?
You hoped you didn’t give hint to your surprise when you looked up – you’re fairly sure you did judging by the way his eyes crinkled – to meet his gaze.
“…yes?” You manage to say, that feeling of being feverishly hot under your skin becoming ever-present when speaking to this man.
“These may not be the friendliest circumstances, but I would like to formally introduce ourselves. We are partners now, after all.” Ever the formal gentleman, wasn’t he? You don’t know how much more you can stomach as you look at his proffered hand.
“Yes.” You say dryly as you stand. “Let’s.”
He’s still a damned head taller than you and his imposing effect hasn’t lessened. You take his hand and begin the motion to shake it only to feel your hand being turned and lifted. There’s barely time to voice your disapproval before his soft lips connect with your skin.
A shiver branches through your spine to your toes; although, you can’t place whether it’s from surprise or revulsion. And this smug bastard is still locking eyes with you all the while.
Your tongue stumbles over your own name and you curse inwardly for doing so, trying to pull your hand away. You cannot allow him anymore satisfaction than he’s already stolen.
But he has you held fast between forefinger and thumb of his bare hand, running the pad of his thumb gently across your bare skin. Is his only purpose today to make you as uncomfortable as possible?
“Haytham Kenway,” he muses softly and finally releases your hand. “I am sure working with you will be a pleasure.”
“Yes. Quite.” You reply flatly and rest your hands at your sides. The man is quickly developing a talent for getting under your skin.
“Now, if you’d be so kind, please leave. I have a lot of work to do.” His eyebrows shrug slightly in deference. At least there are some things he will listen to.
“Yes. I imagine you do. We’ll continue proper introductions tomorrow, I should think. Until then, good day.” The sounds of shuffling of boots against board, clinking metal weapons, and fluttering of thick fabrics rings in your ears long after your unwelcome company take their leave.
That insufferable hot feeling in your cheeks will not leave you either; you clap your hands against your face a few times for good measure. Just be smart about this and maybe you can make it out of this with no small amount of money and your life. Maybe.
-✩-
It’s certainly one of the groggier sunrises you have the pleasure of experiencing. Packing your things for the night had been long and bothersome, but there is time enough now for a quick breakfast – some eggs and bread to fill you up for what is sure to be an even longer day.
And, right on time, there’s the knock on your door.
Answering it reveals one of Haytham’s men from your previous encounter, but you can’t recall his name for the life of you. Though, if memory serves, he was the first selection for Haytham’s backup when it came to his subsequent visits.
The top bootlicker, no doubt.
“Ah, good morning to you.” You make no movement to hide your eyes raking him from head to toe and back again, a small smile forming. He looks about as pleased to be here as you are to see him.
There’s that glare you recognize from yesterday. “Charles, was it?”
“Yes, that’s right. Charles Lee.” From his ever-present stern demeanor, he appears to be in no mood for pleasantries and replies to your smile with a scowl of his own. “Are you ready to depart?”
“Just need to put on my shoes and coat. Why don’t you come in?” You step away from the door to leave him to his own devices, rounding into the kitchen to fetch your gloves and boots by the back door.
He has accepted your invitation, though he still stands by the door, stiff as a statue with about as much emotion. You roll your eyes and call to him from the kitchen, pulling on your boots with gloved hands. “I’ve a bit of leftovers from this morning if you’re feeling hungry as well.”
Expecting a reply, you round the doorway back into the main store front. Instead, Charles is browsing what you elected to leave out on display in the store: some historical documents, educational pieces, and religious texts to name a few.
“Well,” you exhale and watch his curiosity flourish. “The food is on the table. Help yourself while I get things loaded.”
“You are telling me you mean to move your things on your own?” His disbelief is poorly hidden.
“Well, they are my possessions.” He’s staring at you with all the thoughtful consideration he’d give a creature with a second head. And you return that stare in kind.
Charles still hasn’t moved from his position. You’re not sure if he’s stunned or insulted. Maybe a mixture of both. “Is there a problem?”
His mouth opens and silence spills out. He closes it, thinking a moment, before trying again.
“No. No, not at all.” He says softly, giving you another once-over before moving to the kitchen to eat.
Piling things close to the door earlier that morning made moving them to the wagon much easier. You receive some curious glances and offers for assistance as you load the wagon up. Being in shirts and trousers doing your own work isn’t something to which you were unaccustomed, but there is still some childish delight in seeing others silently disapprove such unladylike activities.
Loading your things and strapping them down isn’t a problem. No, that is simple enough on its own thanks to the foresight to package your things into manageable bundles. It is the biting cold in your hands and toes and your sniffling nose you are desperately trying to recover from once the wagon was loaded up and ready that is the problem.
“Charles, everything is…” Your voice trails off once you reenter the inviting warmth of your shop. You had raised your voice to call out to Charles in the kitchen, but here he is back in the center of your shop, browsing some of your sectioned off wares. “…ready now.”
“See something you like?” You try to sound bristly to keep him from touching things, but the sound of your stopped up nose just makes you sound sickly. His eyes are on you.
“Yes, I see plenty of interesting things. A number of oddities in your collection.” His gaze lingers on you for longer than what is comfortable considering the words he last speaks.
The temptation to sail one of your less valuable books into his head passes quickly, considering how minimal of a threat you are to this well-armed man. But the urge to see what this man makes of you is too great. “Consider me odd, do you?”
He chuckles lowly as he gives your wares a last look and joins you near the doorway. “Yes, I consider you a number of things for the moment: odd, a frightful nuisance, intelligent to a degree, a half decent cook.”
You roll your eyes dramatically before meeting his gaze again, tapping just under the corner of your mouth. “Yes, well, were I to have one, I’m sure I could at least eat without getting food in my mustache.”
Stopping to watch him worriedly cleaning his face doesn’t interest you, but there’s a satisfyingly long stretch of time that you spend securing the ties in the rear of the wagon before Charles finally joins you. And his mustache is looking remarkably well tended now.
“All ready now?” You cheerfully ask as he wordlessly passes you. No doubt he’s a bit sore from the embarrassing spot moments before. You put the thought out of your mind as you lock the shop door and return to the wagon.
He’s frowning now, shrugging his coat collar higher to keep out the biting cold as he waits for you to cross around the other side and get yourself situated. You lean back against the lightly padded seat, holding your scarf tightly to your neck. The look on your face tells Charles what he needs to know in wordless exchange and the wagon sets off.