(Assassin's Creed Reader Insert) Begin your new life as a student now attending Primrose High, the islands' local high-school. Who will you meet along the way? What trouble will you get up to? Find romance with you BOC (Boy Of Choice).
Second club activity~! This chapter contains the love interests Connor and Altaïr. Thank you ScreechingLife for giving me the idea of what should happen with Altaïr~
Deep within the vastness of the forest the sky is close to vanishing, only a mere splattering of blue fragments remaining. The air is thick and rich with the heavenly fragrance of flora and loam, combined with a faint dampness; rain had cleansed the island late last night, and even after so many hours, the soil remains wet, slowly releasing a heady fog. Outside is the daylight of late afternoon, the penetrative rays of early Summer, but in amongst the trees everything remains cool, the colours bearing an intimate softness of the time right before twilight. The only movement is the occasional brightly coloured bird native only to the island flittering from one branch to another or squirrel fleeing up the trunk of a nearby tree in fear of danger. The sound of running water in the brook has the same hypnotic quality as music, entrancing all those whom would stop and drink in the sound. The path beneath your Converse twists and curls, snaking around the base of ancient trees. Thickening roots criss-cross, gnarled and uneven- as beautiful as any picture book illustration.
But as is the story of your life, there is always something to emerge from the darkness and shatter the momentary happiness which had been so blessedly bestowed upon you.
Your hand shoots out with a speed unrivalled, ending the sadistic life of yet another blood-sucking monster that had chosen you to dine upon for the evening. What an unfortunate mistake that was. You wipe the innards of the little bastard on the front of your jeans in disgust before carefully wobbling up the rocky hill to where the other club members were gathered.
Kesegowaase, the silent and brooding club sponsor and guide, surreptitiously scans his surroundings – perhaps he is keeping an eye out for danger? He doesn’t speak much. In fact, he hasn’t spoken a single word since leaving school property, so it’s startling when his deep resonating voice carries across the whisper of breeze snaking through the trees, singling you out.
“Make haste, Ms Stillman; to stray from the group is an invitation to nature’s infinite dangers.”
You huff an incomprehensible expletive both from irritation and exertion as you stagger towards them, slipping a bit on a rock hidden beneath the sward. Damn. You never realised how unfit you were until arriving at the Island and having everyone around you excel at physical activity. It made you feel lazy. Debilitated. And you were more than a little embarrassed, nay ashamed, at having your fellow club members watch and silently pass judgement on the pathetic attempt you were making in trying to match their flawless synchronised pace; even Altaïr, who has yet to extinguish the cigarette hanging precariously from scarred lips, seems to possess an unnatural energy and has been a few paces ahead of everyone else – you’re fairly certain Connor could more than easily traverse these forests faster than all of them combined, however he lags behind, remaining a few paces in front you. You can’t help but wonder if the reasoning behind such relaxed sauntering was to provide aid in case you required it.
A pair of large male hands are reaching out and taking possession of your elbows in order to stabilise you. A face appears in front of yours. It was Connor.
“Are you alright?” His voice is low, soft, and genuinely concerned.
At first you don’t respond. It takes every ounce of concentration to keep from succumbing to the dizziness that has been threatening to topple you ever since arriving at the forest. You were quite ready to collapse, but somehow you manage to straighten the curve of your spine and feign a vitality not possessed – you did not want Connor discovering how much of a toll such a relatively undemanding hike was taking on you, though you suspect he already has a fairly good idea.
“I’m...I’m fine.”
“You do not look fine.”
Clearly your appearance betrays you and provides insight to the impending death chiselling away at your features. It felt as though unconsciousness was imminent, and Connor, obviously sensing this outcome, inches closer, tightening his grip to prevent you from sliding down onto the ground. To your surprise, he pulls you closer until the skin of your cheek is pressed flat against a hardened chest hidden underneath the flimsy fabric of a flannel shirt; the rhythmic beating of his heart provides an odd, yet delightful, sense of tranquillity.
Connor speaks again though this time it is directed to someone else. The teacher, you conclude, since he uses a language you don’t understand, but Kesegowaase offers a stiff nod. Whatever was said must not have been something he necessarily agreed with, yet deemed it worthy of acceptance without need of further question. With a less than pleased ‘come along’, Kesegowaase turns sharply and slinks further into the forest, the other club members following obediently.
Gazing up at Connor you find his gaze refocused on you. There is still concern in his eyes, and it is intense, so much so that you can no longer maintain eye contact with those lovely chocolate buttons; your soul felt as though it was being penetrated, scrutinised, the Native American’s expression turning curious.
“Perhaps it is best you take a break?”
You knew it was supposed to be a command yet was smoothly posed as a question. Connor didn’t mean anything by it, you knew, so there was no need to feel offended. And maybe he had a point. Perhaps it would be beneficial to take a break, replenish your health. But your pride would not allow the luxury. You wished to prove yourself to these people. Prove yourself to him.
“A break? Hm, oh, um, no. I don’t think that’s necessary.” You wave off his concern. “Let’s keep on moving, yeah?”
Connor’s brows pull together to form a disapproving frown. That wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear: he indubitably wished to argue, to warn you of the risks obtained from pushing one’s limits, but rather than risk causing you upset, he thins his lips and concedes.
“If you insist, but please do let me know if you need to stop.”
You never took much notice of Connor’s voice until now; soft and rich with each syllable carefully pronounced, indicating English is in no way his first language and is still relatively new – he must have spoken in nothing but his native language back home. And yet, abashedly, his speech is far better than some individuals whom claim to be fluent yet have difficulty stringing a sentence together.
You provide what you hope to be a reassuring smile. “Cross my heart.”
A brief quirk of full lips is the response given and he turns back to the trail, continuing onwards and motioning for you to follow.
Which you do.
Connor keeps pace with you the entire journey, though you know he could go a lot faster. If you weren’t mistaken, it seemed as though the pair of you had taken an easier path, most likely for your benefit, but it wasn’t necessarily the quickest; Connor’s eyes would occasionally ghost along the trodden path to where the dirt had recently been disturbed – the groups chosen direction – before flittering to a smoother, more accessible trail. Whilst you appreciated the sentiment, you did feel guilty. You were holding him back, and though he didn’t seem to mind, you certainly did. However, it’s not like you could voice your guilt for Connor was too much of a gentleman and would dismiss your apologies without so much as a second thought.
Following Connor through the woods, you come to a clearing, the other club members already settled in the grass, hanging on Kesegowaase’s every word; the topic for this week appeared to be ‘shelter’, which you assume was one of the more important aspects of survival. Though thinking realistically, were you ever in a situation where you did get stranded somewhere desolate and needed to survive, your first objective would be to find food – lots of it. What can you say? When hungry, you’re a beast.
Connor forces a canteen into your hands, reprimanding you for not being completely prepared beforehand as he does so. You flush underneath his scrutiny and take a sip of water to distract yourself. You should have been better prepared, yes. But survival was a new experience for you. Hell, this entire Island was a new and unfamiliar experience. And whilst you did your best to adjust, it was still going to take time to fully settle in and feel like a Primrose native – until then you were still a stranger trying to avoid stepping on the wrong toes.
Kesegowaase abruptly stands. The man never smiles, you notice, silently counting the frown lines carved deep into his forehead. Half of his face had been burned, and though appeared to be years old, the scars remained red and relatively painful in appearance. You shudder to think of how such an injury could be inflicted.
He began to demonstrate the construction of something called a Wicki-Up, which is basically a tipi made of vegetation. Suitable for most climates and large enough to light a small, well contained, fire. Once finished, he clapped his hands thrice, signalling for everyone to spread out and attempt to reconstruct his example.
>>Fast Forward>>
“You’re doing that wrong.”
Such helpful advice – note sarcasm – comes from somewhere behind you and is said with such smug arrogance that you know instinctively who is responsible for the misery now contorting your features.
As predicted, Altaïr stands there, well, lounges would be the more appropriate term, against a tree with crossed arms. Amusement dances in golden orbs, scarred lips quirked at one corner. Bastard found humour in your failings.
You scowl vehemently, hoping to will him away using the power of your mind. Unfortunately such a feat was unachievable today, but hey, there was always tomorrow. Turning back to the task at hand, you do your best to ignore him; you aren’t in need of or want his help nor opinion.
“I said you’re doing that wrong.”
The amount of enjoyment woven into those words makes you want to turn around and punch him. But that’s probably what he wanted. Masochist.
“I think I’m doing just fine, thank you very much.”
What did he know anyway?
A derisive snort escapes him and no doubt he even rolled his eyes. If you were so much of an annoyance, why was he hanging around? Was it to bother you? Possibly. But shouldn’t he be focusing on his own shelter rather than pestering you about yours? Surely his was no better.
Altaïr is unexpectedly crouched beside you. Oddly the close proximity has you flustered. Your nose crinkles at the smell of cigarette smoke trapped in the microscopic fibres of his clothing, but there’s another scent attempting to cover it up. Cologne maybe?
“Don’t you have your own tipi thingamajig to finish?” You snap, your inability to craft even the simplest of shelters making you crotchety.
He was amused again. “Thingamajig? I believe the name you’re searching for is ‘Wicki-Up’.” He meets your eye and smirks. “If you’re going to be rude, at least try and be intelligent whilst doing so. ”
Glaring, you try to ignore every bit of his conceited superiority but also the fact that right now he was surrounded by an infuriatingly attractive air; so full of himself, so cocky. It never occurred to you, but maybe that’s what you like. Perspiration has gathered around his hairline, causing the tightly cropped sandy brown hair to curl at the base of his neck and a few stray wisps to stick to his forehead. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple and comes to a standstill upon a flushed cheek.
It’s really no surprise as to why he appeared close to suffering from the effects of heat stroke – who in their right mind wears a hoody in Summer whilst hiking? It was ludicrous. An act of insanity. Though to be honest, you really were no better; jeans, you find, are not an appropriate form of hiking attire, and during the torturous trek up the insufferable trail, you did nothing but try and keep your underwear from being devoured by your cheeks. You could also feel the beginnings of chafing.
Altaïr snatches the clump of chaparral from your hands and finishes what you started. “Hey, I was doing that!”
“No, you were failing.”
Talk about being blunt.
Within a matter of seconds the Wiki-Up is completed and looking far better than how you had left it. Altaïr, knowing he had done a more than flawless job, looks to you expectantly, as though waiting for some sort of reward for his assistance. You begrudgingly provide him with a less than gracious ‘thank you’.
“Are you always this appreciative to those that help you?” He mocks with that infuriatingly attractive smirk, his very intention being to goad you into a reaction.
And stupidly you took the bait.
“Are you always this much of an asshole?”
“Yes.”
He sounds incredibly proud of that fact.
Before anything more can be said, Kesegowaase calls for everyone to gather around. You, along with the others, obey the command; Altaïr has disappeared however, but you failed to notice which direction he went. Perhaps he required a bathroom break.
Speaking of which...
Resisting the urge to prance from one foot to the other in a flamboyant display of urine retention, you move, ungainly, towards Kesegowaase. He stoops at the gesture of your hand – not everyone needed to learn that you had to pee. The corners of his mouth tug down into a frown at your request but he couldn’t actually refuse you. Well, he could, but fortunately he doesn’t.
You make a break for the area where the coverage seems thickest; the voices of fellow club members fade completely, confirming you were now alone and safe to pee at your own pace. Yanking your jeans and undies down, you squat behind a scant thorn bush, grimacing as the sun pokes through the leaves overhead and strikes your bare bottom like a flaming whip; you can’t help but wonder how much simpler life would be had you been born with a penis.
Finishing up, you fix your clothing with a contented hum. That was much better. Nothing worse than running around with a full bladder.
About to head back, you come to an abrupt stop at the feel of something carrying a considerable amount of weight drop upon your back. But that wasn’t the worst part. Oh no. The worst part was that whatever it was starts moving. Moving!
With a cautionary over the shoulder glance, your eyes widen to the size of frying pans. There, clawing its way onto your shoulder, was the epitome of everything wrong with the world: the biggest, ugliest, most terrifying bug you have ever laid eyes upon. Nothing but eyes, legs, and pincers.
You blink.
It hisses.
You scream.
Your shirt was removed and thrown into the dirt faster than Lucrezia’s underwear – or so you’ve heard from a little birdie called Rebecca. Stumbling backwards, you nearly trip when the demonic creature emerges from a crease in your abandoned shirt and scuttles in your direction. Was it always that size?!
You hop, back and forth, side to side, hoping that in some bizarre way the constant movements would cause the bug to flee in the opposite direction. And guess what? For once, fortune smiled upon you; the bug went skittering underneath a bush, never to be seen again.
“Aw, hell yes! Sayonara, bitch!”
The celebration is short lived when something streaks across your vision in a blur of speed and motion. It pauses beside your abandoned shirt. A racoon. It was pretty cute, but you knew that it was up to mischief, the mask around his eyes providing insight as to its true intentions.
“Don’t even think about it, you hairy shit,” you practically growl, taking a threatening stop forward in the hope of appearing intimidating.
It didn’t work.
Guess only your mother possessed that gift.
Before any further action could be taken, your shirt is snatched from the dirt, clutched possessively in a pair of tiny hands which are disturbingly similar to those of a human. It raises itself on its hind legs and shrieks at you – oh god, horrific clearance sale flashback. And then it’s gone. Devoured by shrubbery.
Well...this is a right tit of a situation.
No shirt and stupidly no replacement. How could you have been so stupid as to not plan ahead? Though in your defence, bug attacks and raccoon thievery were not normal occurrences. You wonder if that excuse will satisfy Kesegowaase? Probably not.
Oh, wait. Kesegowaase....the other club members...Altaïr and Connor...
You can’t face them without a shirt!
“That was hard to watch.”
Your undignified yelp of surprise at the masculine voice from somewhere overhead echoes through the clustered trees. Heart hammering with more than just surprise, you turn your eyes to the trees and find Altaïr perched atop one of the thicker branches, a cigarette hanging from his lips.
Your mind races for an excuse, any excuse, but your lips remain moulded together. It felt as though someone had stuffed your mouth with cotton wool. Your eyes slink, fearfully, to the imperfection tainting your skin. The mark. A birthmark of strange and intricate appearance. It begins at the hip and ends at the top of the ribcage. You hadn’t a clue as to why it would be so horrible for the mark to be seen, but, as seems to be the norm, no answers were given. Just a command meant to be obeyed.
Altaïr’s golden gaze drifts downwards also, only his isn't full of trepidation and shame like your own.
A small frown crinkles his brow as he studies the mark for a few brief seconds before his eyes eventually slide back up and reconnect with your own. He raises an eyebrow, an expression of curiosity passing his features while you stand frozen, brain screaming for you to do or say something.
Altaïr descends the tree with the speed and finesse normally possessed by a cat, catching you off guard. He closes in, his hawk-like gaze never once wavering. You consider stepping away, creating some distance, but think better of it – he’d probably make a grab for you in order to keep you in place.
For a while the pair of you stand there silently appraising one another. It was never easy to tell what the Levantine student was thinking or feeling. Always his face remained impassive. A blank canvas. Maybe one day you’d be the artist to give life, colour and beauty, to that canvas, but it wouldn’t be today. Today you’d keep a safe distance – close enough to learn more about him, far enough to keep from getting bitten.
He drops the cigarette on the dirt and snuffs it with the toe of his Doc Marten. “You’re an embarrassment,” is all he says.
Damn, talk about a gut punch.
“Geez, Altaïr, tell me what you really think.”
It’s difficult to keep the bitterness from your voice, but even so, Altaïr doesn’t appear the least bit affected. Instead he does something completely unexpected; you don’t bother to hide your surprise as Altaïr removes his red hoody and offers it to you without an explanation.
“Unless you enjoy parading around in your underwear, put this on,” he says after a few seconds of you staring as though he had just carved out his own kidney and gave it to you.
“I...don’t know what to say...”
“Who says you have to say anything? Just take it before I change my mind.”
You hastily accept the proffered clothing and slip it on over your head. Strangely, it smells more of cologne and a natural masculine musk rather than cigarette smoke, and you resist the urge to bury your nose in the fabric and take a whiff. You don’t want to come off as creepy.
Before anything can be said, Altaïr turns sharply and slinks away into the trees, heading back to camp. You scramble after him, not wanting to be left alone and risk further misfortune.
Following silently in his wake, you can’t help but smile to yourself. Seems there was more depth to Altaïr than you thought. He was still brash and rough around the edges, but there was also a compassion there, a sense of empathy, one that he clearly doesn’t care to reveal very often. You were flattered.
“Thank you, Altaïr,” you say once arriving back at camp, “for letting me borrow your hoody.”
He huffs and crams both hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Shut up.”
All you can do is giggle as he stalks away in a sulk.
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