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thetemplarscreed · 5 years ago

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Comfortable Moments of Silence

Summary: Never once have I hesitated in killing any of these women and men. The task has formed me into the shell of a man I once was. I am a stone cold killer… or so I thought I was. Today is the day I hesitate.

Word count: 14, 605

Link to work on AO3 ~ https://archiveofourown.org/works/25556491

I reach the end of the trail. The air is still, and I am a hunter.

Winter strikes New York. The tops of the buildings are covered in white, making the entire city look like a new world. People are scurrying about, seeking shelter in the nearest tavern or shop while the blizzard rages on. There is no one on the streets.

As I look around, the insides of establishments provide an entirely different life of their own. I see people happily dancing and drinking in the taverns without a care in the world. I see townsfolk hurrying their children into their shared homes to protect them from the harsh outside world. Behind me, the sun sets, attempting to push its last rays out for the people to see them, only to be blinded by the howling fury of the storm. Fighting fire with fire. Nature versus nature; it is the cycle of life.

Master Kenway assigned me a task yesterday. A new gang has established its stronghold in Stuyvesant’s Farm, the Grandmaster said. Take them down, and make sure they never even think of laying foot in New York. A simple task, really. This is something that I’ve done since years ago, after leaving the Brotherhood behind. Blow up the poison vats; kill the gang leader; burn down the Assassin flag; hand over the institution to the British regulars. It seems more like a laundry list than anything at this point.

A good time to strike the Assassin stronghold would be now, but the blizzard makes it ever more so difficult. I will seek refuge in my home and strike at the crack of dawn. Pulling my coat tighter around my shoulders, I begin my journey to Greenwich.

Stinging. My cheeks are stinging as are the tips of my toes and fingers and the entirety of my body. Winters in the east are entire monsters of their own. Though I’ve lived in New York for all of my life, I still find immense difficulty in fighting against the final months of the year. I feel patches of ice forming on my face despite having pulled up my mask. I feel a mock sense of frostbite assaulting my body even while wearing three layers of leather, cotton, and wool. At this point it may as well be real frostbite. Home is only a few blocks away, I reassure myself.

Hush. Hush. Hush. Whispers. I hear whispers. Through the howl of the blizzard and the whipping of the wind, I hear an ever faint sound ringing in my ears. Hush, the sound says. It’s all too familiar. Those damned Assassins are after me again, sending their foot soldiers to catch me off guard. They’ll never succeed. I’ve killed them like flies. Where could this one be, I muse to myself. I stop in my tracks and focus my vision, honing on the haystack a few meters to my right, the rooftops above me, and the vegetation to my left. There you are, little rabbit. A bright red outline catches my attention. It is a woman, as usual. It still perplexes me why the mentor would send lasses out to kill me. I can see the smirk on her face. She thinks she has gotten me. I don’t blame her; if I am her I’d be just as smug. She doesn’t know that I can see her, so I continue strolling down the alley to entice her.

A loud “I’ve gotcha now!” joins the screaming wind as the young woman drops from above the skies. Before she can even land on me, I’ve blocked her attack, using my leg to knock her tiny form over. The lass scrambles onto her feet with a look of surprise slightly obscured by her locks. She gasps in shock as she tries to stand, only to slip on the snow-covered ground. I flick out my blades and position myself into an offensive stance. She slips once again and I take the opportunity to run at her and sink my blade into her flesh.

I charge towards the Assassin, hidden blades ready and all. Just as I am about to end her life, she covers her face with her arms. Suddenly, I stop. What is that on her arm? Momentum, however, was not on my side, as I fall on the woman by mistake and slash my blade across her arm. The lass emits a blood curdling scream which was drowned by the blizzard. Red. Red drips down her arms. Red stains my leather uniform. Red covers my vision. Immediately, I press on the lass’s arm, trying to apply direct pressure to stop as much of the bleeding as possible. She is fading away. Her breath is becoming more and more labored as her eyelids begin to flutter close. Her groans are not stopping.

“Fuck,” I mutter to myself, as I remove her grey shawl and use it as a makeshift pressure bandage. After carefully tightening the cloth around her arm, I pick her up and sprint towards home. After running for a minute or so I spot the familiar gardens of the fort. Once I reach the door, I kick it open and immediately bring the woman to my chambers, where I place her gently on my bed. I have to cauterize the wound before she bleeds to death. I reach below the bed for the medical kit then rush to collect a basin of freshwater and a fireplace stoke. Blood spews all over the white covers as I remove the now crimson-stained shawl. My bed is painted in a vibrant red color, like a blood sunrise. The woman groans in pain continually as her eyes close.

I tear a piece of her golden dress and gag her mouth. “This is gonna hurt,” I say quietly, more to myself than to her. In her state of delirium, she couldn’t possibly hear a word of what I say or even fight back if she wants to. I immediately place the burning hot stoke onto the lass’s blood-drenched arm. A scream tears through the night, louder than the one from before. A scream of a thousand people, more like. Suddenly, I felt the familiar sense of guilt wash over me: just like in Lisbon. I remind myself, however, that this is for a different cause.

Buildings crashing and burning, people screaming and running for their lives, waves threatening to engulf the city. It is all too real. I can feel the perspiration forming at the nape of my neck. Why does it feel so real? Why is it so difficult to breathe? Why are the walls closing in on me, the room getting smaller and smaller? I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths, mentally reminding myself that those are merely figments of the past, that those events happened years ago.

The smell of burning flesh draws me away from my nightmarish thoughts. They help me focus on the woman. It is working; the wound is sealing. The blood, though staining almost the entirety of her torso now, is ceasing and drying. I remove the stoke and throw it into the fireplace before preparing the stitches. By now, the lass is unconscious, the pain having been too much for her form to handle. I place two of my fingers against her neck trying to find a pulse; a gentle but slow throbbing indicates that she is indeed alive. At least it would be easier to perform the operation.

A few hours, several stitches, crimson garments, and an unconscious woman later, I finally get to rest. I place her soiled clothes at the corner of the room. I will burn them tomorrow. For now, I must use the little hours of the night left to recover and prepare for the attack on the Assassin stronghold in the morning. I leave the lass to “sleep” on my bed as I have no qualms about taking the couch for the short night. Her silent, breathing form is so much different from the terrified and screaming one from earlier. I feel a sense of calm washing over me from simply watching her in this fugue state.

Some hair sticks to her forehead; I push it out of the way so it would not obscure her face. I do not bother changing my clothes as I walk to my living room. I sit on the sofa and release a sigh. Outside, the storm rages on, the wind causing a few tree branches to scrape against the window. It is nights like these that make me feel trapped. I am nothing but an ant in this big, cruel world. Yet, the presence of the young woman in the room next door says otherwise. This woman is like an anchor. She is subconsciously telling me that I have a duty, a purpose.

I normally defend myself quite well against these Assassin Stalkers, as they’ve been sent after me by the Brotherhood for the better half of several years now. Never once have I hesitated in killing any of these women and men. The task has formed me into the shell of a man I once was. I am a stone cold killer… or so I thought I was. Today is the day I hesitate.

The hunt has taken me to the forgotten edges of this world. Seasons pass, drawing me deeper into darkness, where I have found the truth.

Silence. Not a sound rings through my home. The quietness is unnerving compared to the cacophony from the night before. I lazily open my eyes and wipe away the grogginess. Taking a glance out the window, I see a faint glow of pink. The sun is trying to reach out once again. Nature reminds me that I must prepare for my mission. My feet, however, drag me into my chambers. Go check on the lass, my head tells me. And I do just that.

On my bed sleeping soundly is the girl. Her breathing remains the same as last night, not labored but not too slow. I check the wound; it has sealed properly, but in its place is a nasty scar stretching from her elbow to her wrist. A reminder of the night she tried to kill one of the most notorious Templars and turncoats known to the Assassin Brotherhood. A reminder of the night when she almost died, only to be saved by the enemy. I carefully reach over her body and for her hands. Her hands are delicate in their own unique way. Each ring finger contains the bleeding insignia of the Assassin’s Creed. The burn from the initiation is still fresh. Without time to waste, I leave the comfort of the fort.

The air is still. The silence pays kindness to me as it helps me clear my thoughts. I have to be focused in order to successfully take down the gang. Yet, my mind wanders back to the lass. Why would they send someone fresh out of novice training after me? After a man who has spent nearly a decade of his life training with and against both forces? Judging by her looks, the lass is probably four or five years my junior. Judging from her technique, however, she is decades behind my skill level. A fresh recruit taken in and sheltered from the evils of the outside world.

Before I know it I have already reached the border of Stuyvesant’s Farm and Greenwich. The stronghold is nowhere in sight. I’ll have to get to higher ground. Using the convenient rift next to the side of a worn-down apartment, I catapult myself on top of the building. There it is: the stronghold. The smoke from the hideout blends into the early morning glow of New York. Using my vision, I find that there are guards still on night shift: ten of them to be exact, all dressed in the same apricot uniforms. I can’t seem to find their leader yet; however, the snipers are still perched in their nests protected by the guard dogs on the ground floor. Behind the snipers is the flagpole and underneath that is the storage for the poison vats.

First, I will take out the snipers so as to not raise awareness. Then, I’ll destroy the poison reserves to create a distraction to lure out their cowardly leader. Finally, I’ll kill the sorry bastard and tear down their filthy flag. It’s all routine. I take a Leap of Faith and land in the pile of snow at the foot of the apartment. I have to keep a distance from the perimeter, or else the dogs will detect me.

No matter how many times I’ve rid New York of gang activity, I never tire of cutting down a gang’s flag. It is a symbol of failure. Of the dilution of the Assassins. One less gang means that the city will flourish. Before climbing down the flagpole, I take in the glory of post-storm New York on a grey winter’s morning. From atop, the city looks beautiful. The clouds are free flowing as the smoke from the Assassin hideout has been snuffed by the fallen flag. I see miles upon miles of buildings, all covered in white. Civilians are opening their shops as the day begins. I smile to myself as I jump down.

A squadron of the King’s men arrive at the entrance of the stronghold all wearing their red colors proudly. Their captain approaches me with his hand extended. The captain, powdered wig and all, firmly shakes my hand, “So you’re the soldier Colonel Monro wouldn’t shut up about, eh? Mr. Shay Cormac?”

“That’d be me, aye,” I respond. He should not be speaking so nonchalantly about Monro like that.

The captain gives a firm nod, “Well, I haven’t seen the city prosperin’ this well ‘fore your ‘rival. These gangs have been the goddamn bloody blight of New York.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Captain…?”

“Smith.”

“Smith. Captain Smith,” the soldiers around these parts know me quite well since their colonel and I had been so close, “well, sir, before I head on out, mind if I take a look at my organization’s funds?”

“O’ course not, sir,” Captain Smith says, “right this way, Mr. Cormac.” He leads me to an underpass where I spot a chest full of coins and silver sitting atop a mahogany desk. I thank the captain before heading over to check on the Order’s funds. With over fifty-thousand pounds and counting, it’s safe to say that the Order is more than capable. Before I leave, I take a quick glance around the compound to make sure no one is watching me. I withdraw a few hundred pounds. They wouldn’t suffer if I were to take just a fraction of the money.

In truth, I didn’t take the money for my own personal pleasures. I have all of the funds that I need for basic survival through industrial renovations in the coast and the frontier. What I did need, though, is extra petty coin to buy proper clothes and medical supplies for the lass. I wonder how she is doing. Hopefully she has not awoken yet… it would be quite a shock for her to discover her residence at a Master Templar’s home; the girl would probably go into shock again.

I leave the now British-controlled compound and make my way to the nearest tailor. New York is known for its fine fashion industry, most of the fabric materials having come from mass illegal trading behind the British Empire’s back. With the ongoing struggles of the conflicts against the French and natives, the British have been increasingly neglecting their trading children, allowing for the colonists to freely barter with foreign nations and not having to worry about interference.

After a good five minutes walk, I finally find a tailor who specializes in women’s clothing. I enter the establishment cautiously. An elderly woman wearing a clean, blue-checkered dress and white shift stands behind a counter with a welcoming smile on her face. Her eyes light up when they see me; I assume she is eager for more guests. I return her contagious smile and approach the desk.

The woman speaks with a Scottish lilt that even Robert the Bruce would be envious of, “‘Ello, dearie! What would you be needin’ today?”

“Good mornin’, madame,” I greet her, “do you happen to have anyone available to craft a pair of trousers and a blouse fitted for a lass about my age?”

The old woman gives me a puzzling look. I don’t blame her. It’s not often that anyone sees women wearing trousers.

“Well, aye, actually, we do ‘ave some people who can work on that for you, love,” the woman says, “but, I do ‘ave a query: why on Earth would any lass want to wear that?”

“She’s a special one, I suppose,” I say before I can even stop myself.

Rather than interrogating me further, the old woman simply smiles, “That’s mighty kind o’ you to consider yer woman’s own style of clothes, dearie. She must be a real important lass to you.”

I remain silent at her comment while awkwardly pulling out the bag of coins.

“How much would it cost to get it finished in, say, two hours from now?” I ask the woman.

“You in a rush, dearie?” the old woman chuckles, “I’d normally charge for less, but considerin’ that prices are droppin’ due to the bloody war… I’d say that the job’s worth seventy-five shillings.”

I remove the exact amount of money from the bag of coins and place it in her bony hands. The woman gleefully takes it and places it in a metal safe behind the counter. After storing the money away safely, she turns to me, “They’ll be finished with yer lass’s clothes in two hours time, love. Thank you for stoppin’ by!”

“The pleasure’s all mine, madame,” I bow, before leaving the shop. Well, that’s one thing off the list. I take a look at the liveliness of the city and begin my journey back to Fort Arsenal. Again, my mind wanders back to the girl. A recruit fresh out of training like her has no means to be sent out to assassinate one of the most dangerous Templars. Thinking back at her hands, I subconsciously remove my own leather gloves. My hands feel naked without the usual garments protecting them. The cold weather immediately attacks my exposed palms and fingers causing a shiver to run through my entire body. I run my hands over the scars on each of my fourth fingers, the exact same burn marks that the lass has, the only difference being her’s were fresh while mine were forged ten years ago.

I finally reach the front door of my home, the all-too-familiar establishment staring back at me. I take a deep breath before entering, opening and closing the door as gently as possible so as to not wake up the girl. After removing my boots and weapons and unstrapping the belts on my coat, I slowly enter my chambers, where the lass should be resting.

I release a sigh as I spot a familiar form still in the same position from the previous night and this morning. Her eyes and lips are both closed; she is sleeping peacefully. I notice, however, that her cheeks have a reddish tint to them. I approach her and gently place my naked palm against her forehead and then against her cheeks. She is burning. Her body temperature causes a nasty contrast between both of our skins.

“Shite, lass,” I curse. It is no surprise that she would catch a fever after that attack. The rusting of my blade is more than likely the cause of the infection. Luckily with the extra funds (and the extra time), I can find her a doctor. Once again, I prepare for another journey: this time, to the nearest doctor’s office.

“Give her these for the next few weeks and she will recover in no time,” the stout and portly physician orders as he hands me a large vial of foul-smelling amber liquid, “remember: her body can only handle small teaspoons every few hours. Giving her too much will send her into shock. It’ll hurt her even more.”

“Aye, doc,” I reply, “is there anythin’ else that I can do for her to speed up the recovery?”

The doctor sighs, annoyance plastered on his face, “If there were, I’d tell you, man. Unfortunately, there’s not much that can be done. I suppose that you can have her drink plenty of water and keep her clean as her wound will prevent her from getting around the house.”

I nod, taking in the advice of the sour man, “Aye. That I will do. Thank you for your help, doc.”

“Well, it’s my job ain’t it, mate?”

“‘Suppose so.”

I hand the asshole the coin before he takes his departure. Finally. My head is pounding just listening to that sorry excuse of a guy speak for almost two hours. More pressing matters are at stake here, however. I turn my attention towards the lass, who is still sleeping, albeit a little cleaner. While she was unconscious, the doctor and I replaced the sheets and cleaned her wounds. There is less blood, fortunately.

Suddenly, a thought appears in my head. “Fuck,” I swear to myself. I nearly forgot about the lass’s clothes at the tailor shop! For the third time today I have to leave my home. As the door shuts behind me, I decide to take a more direct approach to the shop. I spot a peaceful mare roped in front of a tavern. A cheeky grin slowly makes its way to my face. Surely the owner wouldn’t mind if I take his dear horse out for a run. Without any second thoughts, I untangle the reigns and hop onto the beast.

I’m back in my home… again. With the light, fabric package tucked under my arm, I tiptoe into my chambers to check on the lass. I round the corner only to find that my bed lays empty, except for bloodstained blankets. What catches my eye, though, is a trail of fresh blood on the wooden floor. To my right, I notice a bloody handprint plastered on my desk. The window is open as well, inviting a cold, saltine sea breeze into the room.

“Fuckin’ hell, lass,” I swear, “you couldn’t have gotten that far with that injury and fever.” After placing the package on the bed, I storm out the fort in search for the missing girl. Obviously she thinks that she can escape given that I was not present. I climb the windows of my home in order to get a higher vantage point. Using my vision, I spot the young woman hobbling towards the harbor clutching her arm. A poor choice, really. No one wants to assist an individual beaten to a pulp, lest they wish to suffer the same fate from whichever asshole caused the mess in the first place.

Well, there was really only one way to bring her back without causing a ruckus. I climb to the top of the fort and use the trees to my advantage. After freerunning to an area of foliage closer to the docks, I load my air rifle with sleep darts. The lass continues to walk, albeit slowly. People give her odd looks before she rounds the corner behind a stack of shipping crates. Unfortunately for her, she would have to end up in the hands of the enemy once again. I take a deep breath before adjusting the rifle to eye level. Click. One shot and the lass goes down.

It has been almost an hour. I do not see any signs of consciousness in the girl yet. While she sleeps, I ponder about why exactly I’m even helping her. What can I do for her, really? How would the Grandmaster react to this mess? What if she is a spy sent by Achilles himself? It makes sense, actually: trainees are expendable… to an extent. However, I believe that I am asking myself the wrong questions. Who is she? Why did she join the Brotherhood? Does she have potential to join the Templars?

She looks so peaceful. Her hair frames her beautiful, rosy face like a veil while the sheets cast a protective shield over her. The fever causes her lips and cheeks to be accentuated, covering her face in a red hue. Her frame, slightly visible under the thin duvet, is that of a strong and agile individual. It is obvious that the Assassins have trained her decently. Not well enough to kill a Templar agent, but well enough to pass training and to be sent on ground control missions.

My mind is focused on the lass’s face and body before I hear a soft groan from the bed. Before I know it, I’m face to face with her. She is frozen in fear. Her working hand clings onto the sheets until her knuckles are white. I feel as if I should say something to calm her nerves; the poor thing looks as if she would faint at any second.

“Easy, lass,” I say quietly, “I won’t hurt you.”

Her lips quiver ever so slightly before she asks in a meek, coarse voice, “Wh-why didn’t you kill me?”

Ah, the question that I have been thinking about for the past few days and still haven’t gotten a clear answer for.

I dodge the question, “How are you feeling?”

She shakes her head in fear; tears begin rolling down her pink face, “No- you can’t just… take me in like this! Why am I not dead? You’re Shay Cormac. The Templar. The Assassin killer.”

The girl begins to bawl, “Why am I not dead?” I can barely understand her through the hiccups and tears. Before I can respond, she goes at it again, “Why am I not dead while the others are? Brothers and sisters working for our Brotherhood to seek purpose in their lives… dead! And at the hands of you people, nonetheless!”

I let her grieve for a moment. Watching the lass cry, I feel a sort of pain in my chest. The pain reminds me of a time when I believed in the Brotherhood as well. When I sought out their cause in order to fulfill my life. I understand her loss. For a time in my life, I believed that one had to be dedicated to a certain cause, a certain creed, in order to have direction and motivation, else life would be meaningless. However, those thoughts have long gone now.

As the lass’s tears dwindle down to sniffles, I take a chance and speak, “I didn’t kill you because you were different. You have somethin’ that the others don’t. If you’ll allow me to show you, lass, I would be more than glad to.”

The girl looks at me warily while rubbing her eyes. Eventually, she nods and winces at the pain, knowing that there is not much else she can do. “Alright, lass. Calm down,” I reassure her.

I slowly reach over to her clean arm. As expected, she pulls back, so hard in fact that she accidentally hits the nightstand. “Fuck,” she mutters under her breath while hissing in pain.

I sigh, “I promise I won’t hurt you. Relax. Please, let me see your arm.”

Her eyes focus onto me as if I’m the bloody devil; she relaxes her working arm as I gently hold onto it, rolling up the cotton sleeve with delicacy. On her wrist and ring finger lay the fresh, bleeding symbols of the Assassin’s Creed. The blood sticks to my fingers.

I look into the girl’s eyes, “Tell me, when did they do this?”

She meets my gaze and answers in a quiet tone, “I was initiated into the Brotherhood three nights ago.”

If the look of disgust isn’t prevalent on my face before, it is now. I place her arm down and search for the medical kit.

“You know what that means, don’t you?” I ask.

Silence. She doesn’t say a word. I’m not sure if it’s because she doesn’t know the answer or if it’s because she is too fearful to tell me the truth.

I place the medical kit onto my desk and remove the roll of gauze. Before I wrap her wound, however, I look into her eyes, “Now, why would the Assassins send a recruit, fresh outta trainin’, after a skilled Templar agent, hm? ‘Specially a Templar that has hunted down and killed several Master Assassins? You know what happened to Master Adéwalé, right?”

I can see that the girl has difficulty containing her true feelings. She knows that she is expendable, that she is a pawn. Yet, she is too afraid to admit it. “You claim that your brothers and sisters have joined the Brotherhood to seek purpose and direction in their lives. Is that the same for you, too?”

Again, her lip quivers. She’s trying too hard to hold in her emotions. Alas, a few tears slip down her burning face as she answers me in defeat, “I- They told me that the Assassins needed someone with dignity, honor, and conviction. That their Brotherhood fought for the principles of freedom for the people against the evils of tyranny. Yes, I guess you can say that I did join them for the same reasons as the others.”

Damn him. Damn Achilles and the so-called leaders who blindly follow him. Damn them all. The Assassins’ power is beginning to dwindle in the colonies and he’s seeking any new and sorry souls to join the Brotherhood. To him, they are merely pawns, dispensable beings with no other purpose than to supply the Brotherhood with numbers so that they can daunt the Templars. He and the other Masters don’t care for these trainees at all. And this poor girl is simply roped into the centuries old war.

“Now you have your answer as to why I didn’t kill you,” I say, “it ain’t fair to murder someone who doesn’t have as much experience as me. Hell, how old are you anyway, lass?”

“I turned twenty last summer,” she says.

“Christ,” I mutter in shock, “you joined ‘em quite late.”

“I suppose so.”

An awkward silence fills the space. Neither of us say a word. I actually enjoy the silence, as it gives me ample time to think of a plan. After the lass heals, how should I bring her to Master Kenway? Should I even bring her to the Grandmaster? The questions linger in my mind, though I push them aside in order to focus on her health. Hell, another thought crosses my mind: I don’t even know her name yet.

“I’m gonna wrap your burns with this,” I bring the roll of gauze to her eye level, “don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.”

She does not put up a fight and lets me wrap her arm. She hisses as I gently place the fabric onto the burn mark, “God, my head’s spinning.”

“Aye, that’s ‘cause you caught a nasty fever,” I interject, “after I wrap your wound, I gotta give you that cursed drink over there.”

Both of our eyes glance at the amber medicine sitting on my desk. I catch her gaze and try to get a laugh out of her, “Doctor’s orders, love.”

I swear, I see her cheeks turn even more pink at the nickname. It’s nice to know that the lass has a sense of humor.

“You seem to know who I am. Now, pray tell me your name, lass,” I say.

She tells me her name. I repeat it in my head a few times; it’s a beautiful name that’s well-suited for a girl like her. Despite the tiredness present on her face, she still retains the beauty of youth, something that has been long gone for me. My days working for the Order have drained all my energy, leaving barely any time for me to deal with physical appearances.

After giving the lass her medicine and cleaning her wounds, I depart the room to give her more time to rest, turning around to give her one last piece of advice, “You need to stay in bed. It’ll be a few weeks until the fever dies down.” I can see the look of worry etched onto her innocent face. I know that she’s terrified of what the Assassins would think if they are to find out what has happened to her.

I reassure her with a soft smile, “You don’t need to worry ‘bout the Assassins. They won’t know that you’re here.”

“How can I trust you with that?” she asks.

“Why’d I keep you alive, then?” I counter.

She doesn’t know what to say and remains silent.

I sigh as I get up from the armchair, “Get some rest. I’ll be right next door.” The lass shifts in my bed, getting herself comfortable before closing her eyes and drifting off into a deep sleep. I respect her. I truly do. It takes a lot of balls to go on a suicide mission. Well, what other choice did she really have? I would not have expected her to turn down the mentor’s orders; hell, I didn’t turn down his orders when I served under him all those years ago.

I can see the glow of the moon through my windows. It’s about time I retire for the night. I remove my boots and begin the arduous task of unbuckling the millions of belts wrapped around my body. After a few minutes of mindless undressing, I’m finally in a state of comfort in a simple shirt and pair of trousers. The only remnants of my day’s clothes that remain on me are my hidden blades. I’m not yet ready to enjoy a night’s sleep without them yet. I close my eyes and drift into an endless sleep.

“Tell me a little ‘bout yourself, lass.”

A few weeks time has passed. The girl is well on her feet now, her fever having been completely eliminated. Unfortunately, her wound still remains. Though none of the wounds are painful, they are quite obvious: she has a giant scar stretching from her wrist to her elbow. Her fingers are bleeding less, but the Assassins’ insignia burns brightly on both. All of her wounds still remain. Not only the ones on her arm and fingers, but the one in her heart as well. The betrayal.

These past few weeks have been difficult gaining her trust. I don’t blame her. Who would trust the enemy? She is only now beginning to open up to me. She trusts me enough to let me make her meals in the morning, afternoons, and evenings. She also trusts me enough to sleep in my home, albeit with hidden blades equipped all day and night.

She twirls a lock of hair around her finger, “What do you wish to know?”

“Anythin’,” I say while filling a cauldron with water and lugging it over to the fireplace.

She ponders for a moment before drawing in her breath, “My family emigrated here years ago. We moved to Virginia. My father was a tenant farmer while my mother raised me at home.”

I take a seat beside her after getting out the cutting board and vegetables. As I dice the fresh produce, I make brief eye contact with her, signalling for her to continue. She says, “We were very poor. We were constantly moving across Virginia and sheltering near slaves’ cabins.” Her eyes show her sorrow. Ah, her story is one of an immigrant’s: like mine.

“My father decided one day that enough was enough. He managed to raise enough coin through cash crops to move our family to New York,” she says with a soft smile on her face. The way she speaks of her father brings a familiar feeling to me, one that inspires warmth in my chest.

“We lived happily there for a while in New York. I remember, I was about eleven at the time,” she draws in her breath again, “While my mother raised me in the home, my father taught me real world skills. Soon enough, I learned how to pickpocket, how to talk my way out of situations, and even how to handle a gun and blade. At the time, my father switched careers and was working as a deckhand and ship navigator which allowed him to gain all of his physical knowledge and pass it onto me.”

She pauses for a moment. The look on her face tells me that she does not want to speak any further. I don’t say a word, hoping that my silence would encourage her. Soon enough, she does. The lass stares at the coffee table and says in the quietest voice, “One day, he was assigned on a transportation trip. He was to help with the navigation process,” Wait. Transportation trip? Nine years ago? It couldn’t be… “the crew didn’t know that there was a storm that day. I think you can guess what happened next.”

There is a moment of silence between us. Eventually, it is interrupted by her sniffles. She shakes her head, “I will never forget the day the captain came to our house and told us the news. My mother was heartbroken.” I so desperately want, no need to know if this shipwreck was the same one that I lost my father to.

“Wait, love. Before you continue, I must ask,” I say quietly while placing down my knife, “was the ship that your father was assigned to a merchant fishing vessel captained by Mr. Connelly?”

She gives me a look of surprise and answers the question, “If I can recall correctly, yes. His name was Connelly. I know that it was a private merchant vessel, but the captain, Connelly, was to share a part of the proceeds with the British. My father had worked with those Brits, Scots, and Irishmen for a while. How do you know his name?”

That is all I need to hear. I can hardly believe my ears. I guess the world truly is a small place. Before I reveal to her the coincidence, I wish to hear her entire story. I tell her not to worry about it and to continue.

She regains her composure before finishing the tale, “Ever since then, it was only my mother and me,” she chuckles, a small laugh filled with venom, “work isn’t easily found for a single woman. She told me this, one night. This one statement. She told me: ‘Whatever you do, my child, don’t become a whore. A whore like me.’”

The lass purses her lips. I can tell that this is a sensitive topic. The most I can do now is offer my ear and shoulder. I do not know what women in her profession must endure.

“She died when I was thirteen,” the lass says quietly, “syphilis can be quite the killer.”

Again, a moment of silence. We seem to be able to share these moments of quiet together with little awkwardness. It’s quite natural. Two streams of tears flow from her delicate eyes. I so desperately want to tell her that it will be alright. I pick up the knife and resume chopping the vegetables. It isn’t until a few minutes later that the girl speaks.

“Apologies,” she coughs into her arm, “she was the only family I had after my father passed away. I made do with the little money that I had before it ran out. By then, the landlord kicked me out, after bargaining to sleep with me, of course. It took me a while to learn how to survive on the streets, how to pick pockets without raising awareness or how to hide in taverns and inns during closing hours. The years felt more like days, or even hours, to be honest. Until several months ago, life felt like a blur.”

I continue listening to her while at the same time preparing supper, getting lost in her story- or rather, the way she tells it. She really does have a way with words, weaving together a story like a distinguished poet. I can listen to her for hours. She inhales, “After seven years of living on the streets like a dog, a miracle happened. This man approached me out of the blue. I remember the day quite clearly, actually: right after I picked the pocket of a poor, unsuspected fellow, this brute in a grey hooded outfit slaps his hand on my back. I recalled my fear; I was afraid that the victim of my crime would have noticed. The mysterious man whispered to me, ‘Go pick seventy pounds worth of coin and bring it back to me.’ He had that musical Irish lilt, kind of like you. But then, I thought, to hell with that. I might as well just run off with the damn money!”

I know exactly who you’re talking about, love. There’s only one bloke that would go around testing folks.

“And that was exactly what I did. I picked the pockets of about ten different people in Greenwich before making a run for it to the countryside. I figured that the guy would make an effort to hunt me down and that this was how my life would end. I mean, the man was covered in weaponry and his presence radiated power and fear. Besides, who in his or her right mind would even consider asking a street rascal for money?” she scoffs at the last part.

A smile breaks out on her face, “Well, ‘lo and behold… the brute did track me down. In fact, he was at the abandoned farm before I damn well even got there! To say I was shocked was an understatement. Let me tell you, though, the guy looked terrifying. Yet, he had a sense of calmness to him. He didn’t look angry, even though I basically robbed him of seventy pounds. I’d go as far as to say that he looked glad. Relieved. He came over to me and said, ‘Congratulations, lass. You passed.’ I remembered being more confused than an immigrant in a foreign country. He introduced himself to me as a certain Liam O’Brien. From that moment on, my life was changed. He told me about the Assassin Brotherhood and how it sought to restore freedom in the colonies, to advocate, serve, and protect those who cannot support themselves. He said that it was the Templar Order which would guarantee the rise of the British Empire and the fall of the people. ‘We fight the Templars because we seek the betterment of these lands. Their belief is that tyranny is the only way for peace to occur,’ he said to me. Pretty words, all of it. I fell for it. I really did.”

I say, “Aye, them Assassins tend to sugarcoat the nuances of life quite often.”

She gives me a brief nod, “Yeah, and they’re damn good at it, too. Before I knew it I followed him to the Homestead, where he introduced me to the Mentor and the rest of the Master Assassins. Though, Shay, I wouldn’t say that their bogus rhetoric was the only thing that attracted me to the Brotherhood. The Mentor and the others provided me with a home. They welcomed me with open arms. I think that is what makes saying goodbye to them so hard.”

“I, for a time, felt the exact same way, lass,” I admit, “it, too, was Liam who brought me into the Brotherhood.”

She gives an understanding nod, “He spoke of you, but only briefly.”

“Bet all he had to say was bullshite, anyways,” I scoff.

“He said that you were a good friend, but that you were disillusioned by the grandeur of the Templar Order.”

“Funny comin’ outta his big mouth,” I say nonchalantly while bringing the cutting board over to the cauldron and throwing in the chopped vegetables.

She smiles again, “I guess it is funny. It’s also funny how he and the mentors decided that it was a fabulous idea to send me, a trainee Assassin, to kill you, a Templar known for his atrocities against his old allies in the Brotherhood.”

“‘Atrocities’ is quite a subjective way to describe my actions,” I retort, “”Justice’ is a better word to use.”

She does not look impressed. She sighs before continuing, “Anyways, a few months passed and all they had me do was train with the other novices and run small tasks in New York. Mostly eavesdropping missions. They claimed that my work was ‘vital to the destruction of the Templars and the British Empire.’ It wasn’t until two months ago that they assigned me to this suicide mission.”

I see the look of pain on her face. Her lips are ever so slightly drooping down at the corners, her eyes avoiding my gaze. It’s as if she’s ashamed to even be associated with them. It’s a special sort of pain, one that very few people can understand. I understand it. I understand her feelings because the Assassins did the very same thing to me. Sure, the procedures of their moral downfall weren’t exactly the same. The scenarios, though, are practically identical. We didn’t betray them. They betrayed us.

“What are you looking at?”

I quickly turn my head to look at her. She appears to be confused. I answer her, “Nothin’. Just thinkin’.”

“About?” she inquires.

“Us.”

She gives me a funny look. That came out wrong. I cleared my throat, “I mean- I’m just thinkin’ ‘bout how our circumstances are so similar.”

“Really? How so? Liam never mentioned your background any more than he did,” she pipes.

“Aye,” I reply, “guess he doesn’t want you knowin’ ‘bout the ‘enemy.’ I’ll tell you how we’re so similar. For one, you recall how I asked you ‘bout that shipwreck, aye?”

She nods.

“Well,” I say, “that very same shipwreck that your father was on… was also the one that killed my da.”

The look on her face. Her eyes look like they’re about to pop out of their sockets; her jaw is hanging down to the ceiling; her eyebrows are scrunched up. I’ll have to admit, she does look cute like that.

I bark, “Careful, else you’re gonna catch some flies like that.”

She closes her mouth.

“He wasn’t the only one on that ship, either. I was there, too.”

She opens her mouth again, this time, her hand flying up to cover it. She scoffs and says slowly, “Y-you… you can’t be serious… right?”

“I’m dead serious, love,” I say, “yeah, that’s why I was so damn curious when you brought up that event. Can’t believe the stars have aligned in such terrible circumstances like that.”

She asks, “Were you a deckhand, as well?”

“Aye,” I answer, “my da wished to train me to become a sailor. He thought it lucrative work, at the time. Since it was only him and me, I was more than excited to accompany him wherever the seas may take us. It was actually where I met Liam, too. Before Liam’s father passed away, they used to work on the docks with us.”

She swallowed, “You guys really did go way back, huh?”

I smile and nod. It’s so odd telling a stranger my story about Liam and my father. Well, I don’t even know if I should consider the lass a stranger; after all, we’ve both been through some pretty damning things.

“I remember how rough the waters were that day. I don’t normally get sick out in the ocean, but on that day, I was throwin’ up over the railings!” I exclaim, “Winds weren’t the kindest either. We lost our first man through the winds. Swept him right off his feet and into the dark abyss.”

The lass scoots her chair closer and leans forward slightly as if she has trouble hearing me. Her attentiveness brings a soft smile to my face. I’m surprised that she’d even want to hear anything from a Templar, no less one that almost killed her. She waits for me to continue.

“Soon after, we realized that it was impossible to transport the goods through the god awful weather. We had to throw some of the shite off board. Connelly wasn’t too happy ‘bout it. After all, he’d be the one they deemed responsible for it,”I breathe, “when we shifted courses to head back to New York harbor, the mast broke. Unfortunately, one of the younger deckhands was almost knocked off the ship; he was barely hangin’ onto the railings. My father rushed over to help him,” I pause to glance quickly at her. She still has the same look on her face, a look of sadness. Sadness for me.

“The gales took both of them. Just like the other poor sucker. Lost in the abyss,” I say. Suddenly, she shifts her chair. She is closer to me now than I remembered before. The lass extends a hand and gently rests it on my shoulder. I jump a little at her contact; I am shocked, to say the least.

She ignores my sudden movement and instead looks me in the eyes with a gaze that meant only empathy, “I’m so sorry.”

I give her a soft grin and clear my throat, “Quite alright. Not your fault. Unless you have the magical ability to conjure up storms like a siren… which I highly doubt is the case.”

She chuckles at the lighthearted jest before rubbing the area between my shoulderblades. The look on her face has not changed. We both lost our fathers to the same storm... I don’t know if she is doing this for me or for herself. Again, we share a comfortable moment of silence. It’s so odd how we are so similar yet different. Our experiences mesh as if we are the same person. Betrayed by those we once called family. Losing family a second time.

After a few minutes I look at her and say, “What the Assassins did to you was wrong. It shouldn’t have happened. I don’t know what’s goin’ on through their bloody minds, but they are only making things worse in the grand scheme of things.”

“I know. Yet, I think fate has a unique way of bringing people together at the most unconventional times,” she says.

“I guess you’re right about that.”

Before I can even stop myself, I blurt, “I think I should take you to our Grandmaster.”

The color on her face drains making her look like a ghost. She turns to me with a look of fear like that of a child experiencing a scolding. She says softly, “You can’t be serious, Shay. I- the man’s going to kill me. On the spot.”

I poke back, “Keep in mind, lass, that I was in the same boat as you once. I was lucky enough to be saved by a British colonel working for the Templars. He saw potential in me and brought me to Master Kenway. And I,” I take her hand in mine, “shall do the same for you.”

She does something that I did not expect. The lass yanks her hand out of my grasp and stands up with enough force causing the chair to fall. She says sternly, “I don’t even know if I want to join the Templars, Shay! You can’t just bestow a fate upon me that I didn’t even ask for! Do keep in mind that I was only just betrayed by my ‘family’ no more than a month ago.”

I take a moment to ponder. I should not have given her that option too soon. Unlike her, I was able to adjust into Templar duties at a slower, more natural pace. If only Monro were still here. How did he do it?

“You’re right,” I say, “that was a bit brash of me. My apologies, lass.”

She did not say anything. There is nothing to say.

“Lass, I think, though, that it is worth your time to at least learn what the Templars truly seek,” I attempt to compromise.

She raises an eyebrow. I explain to her, “The Assassins probably assume that you’re dead, by the looks of it. Which, in turn, gives me ample time to introduce you to what the Order really is about.”

The look on her face shows that she is still skeptical. She asks, “You can’t keep me a secret forever. Eventually, your superiors will find out about me. What then?”

“That,” I say, “is a problem for another time. For now, I will train you. And I will teach you. Besides, where else do you have left to go?”

I can tell that the question catches her off guard, as she sharply turns her head towards me. She knows that I am right. Her only family has severed ties with her. They were the turncoats, the turncoats to their own followers… not the other way around. At the same time, her face shows one of relief. I see the muscles around her eyes and mouth relax as she softly exhales.

“You make a valid point,” she concedes,” Very well. When shall we begin?”

The boiling of the broth in the cauldron briefly steals our attention before I turn to her and ask, “Why not now?”

That my redemption is found in ashes. That I must burn away the past to set things right.

The following months I spend training her. While the Assassins taught her the basic freerunning and assassination techniques, frontier survival skills, and sneaking patterns, she brings her own skill to the table: pickpocketing and lockpicking. I have yet to see a trainee master either skills so quickly like her. She tells me that she has a knack for both, as she was forced to spend many years on the streets. Her natural talent is evident.

Despite her adaptation to everything the Assassins have taught her, she still lacks the one thing that distinguishes the skilled from the dead: perception. Her lack of perception and awareness was what landed her in hot water with me a year ago. It is a natural ability that the Assassins rarely delve on. What she lacks in awareness in the senses, though, she makes up in dedication. The lass is one of the most dedicated initiates- no- people that I’ve ever met. I thought Liam and Hope were some of the most hardworking folks there were to be, but I was wrong. This girl has potential. Potential. Such a silly word thrown around by the ones seeking to bait those beneath them. I will be a different leader. If not for her, then for the future of the Order. I know that she will be vital for us.

At the same time, though, I don’t want her to join our cause. I don’t want her to align herself with the Assassins, either. I want her to be her own person. As the year runs its course, I realize something: the lass is who I wanted to become. She is given an opportunity to run away from the war, to run away from the deep, dark philosophy. The Assassins believe she is dead, and the Templars do not know of her existence. She is living a life of secrecy. She is given a second chance. This is a life that I wanted… that I want. And I am wallowing in my own self pity by dragging her into the depths of this centuries-old feud with me.

It is winter. The frontier is encapsulated in white. It is a beautiful sight that I will never forget. The white-tipped trees remain still as the winter sun shines down on us. The birds sing their song while the other animals of the forest carry on their typical days of hunting and being hunted. Despite the magical setting of the frontier, my mind is drawn to more personal thoughts. Exactly one year ago from this day, I encountered a young woman who was sent after skin. This young woman grows on me every day. I am unsure if she knows her effect on me. Though we have limited time to train together, I allow her to stay at Fort Arsenal for however long she wishes to. So far she hasn’t left, or should I say, made any attempts to leave.

Neither of us have made a move on each other. We have kept our relationship strictly professional. Does she want more? Do I want more? I don’t know. We have made one major decision together, however. The lass has agreed to finally meet Master Kenway. Now, this can go one of a few ways. Either he will accept her and my word and bring her into the Order, he will kill her or assign me the task of doing so, or he will let her go and chastise me for holding secrets against the Order and against him personally. I hope Haytham gives her a chance like he gave me all those years ago.

“Shay?”

I wipe elk blood off my coat, “Hm?” Today is yet another day spent in the frontier. The lass is learning more hands-on techniques in the outdoor environment. I am teaching her how to use an animal carcass as shelter. She sticks her hands under her armpits while shivering, the cold biting into her skin.

“What do you think the Grandmaster will say about me?” she asks, her voice laced in apprehension.

This is something that I have been thinking about for a while. I am unsure of how to answer her. Though I can often read the Grandmaster like a book, him having shared some of his darkest secrets with me, I know that Haytham can be unpredictable at times: especially when the circumstances involve the Order.

I give her a half-assed answer as I am cutting open the elk’s stomach, “Frankly, I’m not too sure, love. The Grandmaster takes the Order very seriously, obviously. He may think that you’re a spy. But one thing I do know for a fact about him is that he is open to new possibilities. Before I joined the Order, Haytham was skeptical of me. Yet, he took a chance to learn of my abilities and what I could provide for the Templars.”

After cutting open the stomach lining, I turn to the lass, “I am only hoping that he does the same for you.”

She sighs, “Well that’s reassuring.”

“I’m not trying to give you false hope. I am not confident that he will appreciate me keeping secrets,” I turn to her and notice her scared expression, “but, I don’t think you should worry about it too much at the moment. We still have a few days before our meeting with him.”

The girl nods in defeat as we resume our outdoors lesson.

A week passes. We are currently seeking refuge at the Green Dragon Tavern in Boston while we await the Grandmaster’s arrival. During the past several days, the lass has been incredibly quiet and reserved. It makes sense; I do not blame her. Haytham Kenways is a leader who demands the utmost respect and civility upon meeting. The man radiates class and intimidation. Though, under that skin of propriety is a man of puzzle. Of vulnerability. Haytham is a man of two faces- of two lives. I can only pray that she will be brave enough to meet the man face to face.

The joviality of the establishment brightens her mood, however. The sounds of the residents and patrons enjoying themselves provide a lighthearted atmosphere while the songs and shanties from the musicians make the tavern more vibrant. Earlier, the barmaid Catherine offered her a drink to which she denied. The girl claimed that she did not want to look too casual in front of the Grandmaster. A wise choice.

I spy from the corner of my eye the lass biting her lip so hard that it is turning white. I place a hand on her shoulder, “Relax, love. It’ll be fine.”

She looks at me and releases her lip from the confines of her teeth; she sighs and gives me a quick nod. As if her nod is a signal, the door to our shared room opens. The lass freezes; she holds her breath. I pat the small of her back before the door opens fully, revealing the Grandmaster himself. Haytham slowly closes the door so as not to disturb any residents and locks it- seems like the conversation in this room stays in this room.

“Master Kenway,” I nod to Haytham.

“Master Cormac, a pleasure,” he smiles at me, and then turns his head towards the girl, “and you must be her. The woman who Shay has delighted in my knowledge with for the past few weeks.”

The lass clears her throat and nods, almost as if she’s giving a bow. She responds, “Y-yes, sir. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, sir. Shay- I mean, Master Cormac, has spoken highly of you.”

Haytham raises his eyebrow before glancing at me with what seems like a look of contempt masked with feigned delight. He says, “Ah… yet, it seems that he has spoken less of you with me, miss.”

It is awkward, but true. I have not been entirely truthful with Haytham about my meeting the lass. Well, it’s rather a lie by omission. I had only recently told him about the girl’s existence two weeks ago. Both the Grandmaster’s and the lass’s eyes are on me.

I swallow before saying, “Only so you two could have a proper introduction. I didn’t want her being too intimidated by your presence and authority, Master Kenway. And I wish for you to see her potential and abilities first hand.”

Haytham seems to find my response acceptable. He and the lass trade some pleasantries and formal introductions before he explains the work of the Order.

“I’m aware that you used to work under the Assassins, but that your allegiance has somewhat shifted. And I’m also aware that Shay has furthered your knowledge on what the Templar Order is truly about,” Haytham says.

The lass straightens her back and answers, “Yes, sir. I was deployed in Greenwich as a Stalker, the men and women assigned to track down high profile Templars in the cities and the frontier. When Shay brought me into his home, he learned of the betrayal. The Assassins’ betrayal against me.”

Haytham nods but remains quiet. I can see the cogs rotating in his head. He is wary of her, as he should be. After a moment of silence, he speaks, “Funny that you bring up the topic of betrayal, miss. I’m not sure if you have heard, but Shay has actually experienced something similar to your little anecdote.”

I am surprised why Haytham would bring that up during our conversation. I begin to sweat a little. The lass looks at me in confusion before the Grandmaster continues, “However, that is a story for another time.”

Haytham takes a step forward, causing the lass to take a step back. He smiles at her, “Very well. You’ve given reason to at least consider you for the Order. Now, I need you to demonstrate.”

I knew that he’d say that. The lass swallows, but nods. I have trained her for this. I know that she will make him proud- will make me proud.

“What will you have me do, sir?” she asks with a little more confidence than before.

Haytham beckons the lass and me to follow him, “Follow me, and I’ll show you.”

Boston in the winter looks identical to New York. Once again, the buildings are topped in layers of snow while small flecks of white rain down on us. Though the sun has already taken its rest, the nightlife in Boston provides ample cover, as hundreds of folks are still out and about. Haytham turns towards the lass and says, “You see that lone pigeon over there? On the balcony of that inn?”

I use my vision and spy the little bird, happily perched on the railing of the building. I know that the lass sees it, too, even with her lack of the vision; I’ve trained her well. She confirms and asks the Grandmaster what to do next.

“Attached to the bird’s foot is a letter. I want you to extract it, and bring it to me,” Haytham says calmly with a smirk on his face. Shite. I have not taught her interception yet. The lass nods, but before she takes off, Haytham calls out, “Oh! I do not want any harm done to the little fellow, as well. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the girl says, her voice cracking a little. She turns to me one last time and we share a brief, yet silent exchange of encouragement. Use your skills, lass.

About ten minutes later, the lass returns with the letter in her hand and a toothy smile on her face. I reciprocate the same smile; I am proud of her. She has proven herself well. She has not let me down. Haytham seems to think the same as he takes the letter out of her hand.

The Grandmaster nods in approval, “Well, miss. I’m going to be completely honest: I did not expect you to succeed. You have, indeed, subverted my expectations,” he turns to me, “and you, Shay, have not disappointed me.”

Master Kenway asks us to return back to the tavern, as he has an assignment for us. As he turns his back, the lass and I share yet another quick glance and beam at each other.

I whisper to her in admiration, “You’ve used your skills well, love.”

“Only because I was taught by one of the best.”

Once an Assassin, now their pursuer. I must destroy those who I once called brother.

“Do you swear to uphold the principles of our order and all that for which we stand?”

“I do.”

“And to never share our secrets nor divulge in the true nature of our work?”

“I do.”

“And to do so until death, whatever the cost?”

There is a pause. Hesitation. A moment of silence. Is this the right choice?

“I do.”

“Then we welcome you into our fold, sister. Together, we will usher in the dawn of a new world. One defined by purpose and order. You… are a Templar.”

“Shay?”

“Yes, lass?”

The lass picks at her hand, a habit of hers that occurs when she is nervous, “Did you feel hesitation during your initiation into the Templar Order?”

It takes me a while to answer her question. In the past, I had dwelled on it all the time. Finally, I turn to the lass and say, “Well, I believe that everyone feels a bit uneasy durin’ such a life-changing event. Personally, I knew that I had to join the Templars in order to stop the Assassins. It was my calling, thus it wasn’t really ‘life-changing’ for me. Sure, I was nervous during the initiation, but what’s more important is how I felt after I made my decision. I was confident. I had no regrets. I ask you the same questions, love. Do you still feel hesitation? Like you’ve made a mistake?”

The lass shakes her head, “No, I do not. Like you, I think I’ve made the right choice to leave those who I once called family.”

Then, she asks me something that I have long waited for, “What happened between you and the Assassins, Shay? Every time someone alludes to it, you always shy away. Every time I ask, you always push it off. Please,” she takes me hand, “tell me what happened.”

It’s a story of pain. Of suffering. It’s something that I do not wish to relive again. Even thinking about it is making me nauseous. During moments of silence, my mind always manages to trail back to it. I can still hear, see, and feel everything. I begin to shiver and sweat.

“Are you alright?” the lass asks worriedly.

She needs to know the truth. I’ve kept it away long enough.

“I’m… fine,” I saw weakly, “i-it’s just a story that I really don’t divulge in often. But, you deserve to know what happened, love.”

I tell her the entire story. Of Lisbon. Of the Precursor Temple. Of the earthquake. Of the aftermath of the tsunami. Of the millions of innocent lives lost. Of the lies and treachery fed to me by the Mentor and Master Assassins. Of the betrayal that I experienced from those who I called family. Of the nightmares that have plagued me for years on end. Of how real it feels. Every. Single. Day.

I feel my face. It is wet. Since when did I start crying? I can’t look like this in front of her. But at the same time, I feel light. It feels as if a sliver of weight has been lifted off of my chest. Like I can breathe. Why? Why does it feel like that? I didn’t even feel like this when I told Haytham everything.

Suddenly, a soft hand caresses my cheek. Two thumbs wipe away the streams of tears. I turn my face slowly towards her. The lass’s lips are pressed together lightly, forming a straight line. Her eyes seem just a bit shinier than they normally are. They show sympathy. Not empathy… I know that she has difficulty relating to the severity of the Lisbon event. Few people can. And those people are long dead. Killed by the exact same betrayal.

How could I continue without her by my side? The girl is the light to my darkness. For the past year, she has been by my side, through missions of peril and through moments of joviality. I’ve felt more alive in the year of 1759 than any other years of my sorry life. She has grown with me. We have grown together.

“Shay… I didn’t know,” she whispers, “I’m so sorry you had to deal with this.”

I hear a few sniffles coming from her end. Even though she never had to experience Lisbon or Port-au-Prince, she understands how to care during the moment.

She gently tilts my face towards herself, “I can’t even begin to imagine how you dealt with it all these years. How you felt. This pain… no one deserves to go through this pain, Shay. One thing I want you to know, Shay, is that Lisbon is not your fault.”

“My conscience begs to differ, lass,” I snap unexpectedly. I didn’t mean to. Please don’t take it the wrong way, lass.

Thankfully, she does not. She keeps wiping away my tears, “I am in no position to say otherwise, for this is something personal to your story. I apologize if I overstepped any boundaries. I just want to at least bear some of this pain in order to lessen it for you. I don’t want you having to think about this anymore, darling.”

Darling. Now that’s a first. I perk up a little at the pet name. I feel my cheeks warming up a little, and I’m certain it’s not because of the lass’s hands.

I place my own gloved hands over her small ones, “Thank you, love. Thank you for listenin’ and for not strikin’ me down. This story is so hard to relive, but I know that it’s an important mistake to share, especially with the youth of the Order. It’s a shame that the Assassins never told you what really happened in Lisbon and in Port-au-Prince.”

She smiles, “Of course I will listen to you. Listening to all sides of the story is better than only listening to one. I learned that from you. Also, the Assassins actually didn’t tell the recruits anything about Lisbon or the other Precursor sites. They claimed that the earthquake was a natural event.”

I scoff, “‘Course they did. Connivin’ bastards, the lot of them.”

She nods in agreement, “Let’s go to sleep. It’s quite late.”

“Where is your boss?”

“I’ll never tell! She’ll kill me!”

The lass and I both walk up to the Grandmaster’s impromptu interrogation of one of the Assassin gang members. Haytham seems to have a knack for these types of “sessions,” given his intimidating demeanor.

“If you don’t tell, he’ll kill you,” I say with a smirk. The lass chuckles at the comment.

After extracting the information from the footsoldier, the Grandmaster slits his throat… with a Hidden Blade? The lass seems to think the same thing as she glances at me perplexed. The three of us begin our journey to Hope’s mansion.

“Sir, you didn’t mention that you had a Hidden Blade,” the girl calls out.

Haytham claims, “You two thought that you were the only ones?”

“Well, yes, I suppose… where did you get it, sir?”

“It was… donated by the Brotherhood, miss.”

Again, we exchange peculiar looks. We are both wondering the same thing. What does he mean by “donated?”

In front of the lavish abode, a skirmish unfolds between Hope’s Assassins and New York’s redcoat authorities. Master Kenway, the lass, and I assist the King’s men in subduing most of the gang forces.

“Our mission was a success. The army should make its move any time now,” I tell him.

Haytham agrees, “Good. We lack the resources in New York to handle these criminals ourselves. With a little luck, we might be rid of them once and for all.

I couldn’t help myself, “I make my own luck.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the Grandmaster and the lass both roll their eyes in unison. No matter who much it irritates them, I’ll never drop it.

“Now, let us cut off the snake’s head…” Haytham says, his focus honing back to Hope.

As more British troops head into the area, I conjure a plan of attack for the girl and me.

“I’ll go in and get Hope myself,” I turn to the lass, “and she’ll follow in behind me.”

“Very well,” Master Kenway says.

The lass and I stay low to avoid the rain of bullets from the gang and the soldiers. We are making our way through Hope’s garden while I explain to her my strategy, “Hope specializes in dangerous chemicals and gases that are known to incapacitate even the strongest of men. I need you to keep your distance between me while I deal with her. If anything happens, love, I want you to forget about me and use your skills to track her down and eliminate her.”

“What do you mean by ‘if anything happens?’” she inquires.

“I mean that if I become incapacitated, leave me behind to finish the mission,” I say firmly.

I know that the lass feels uncomfortable by this statement, but she will listen. It is for the greater good. We both know that Hope is dangerous to not only the Templars, but the city’s populace as well. It is difficult for me to admit this, though I must convince myself that what we are doing is right. Even though it involves killing one of my closest friends…

I dread this day. The day that I would have to kill Hope Jensen. The woman that used to be my anchor, that used to be the one I dreamed of to keep me afloat. The one that when even she was swayed by the Mentor, I thought that there is no hope left for humanity, no rationale, no reason.

But, I look to my side and see a familiar face. One that has been with me for the past two years. One that is my current lifeline. I really do care for the lass. Always and forever. Now, in the present, she will help me with one of the hardest missions of my lifetime. She’ll soften the blow.

“Okay,” she responds to me quietly, her voice wavering.

We stop under an overpass in the garden. I gently cup the lass’s face, “I’ll be alright, love. Quit your worryin’. I want you to stay at least several meters out of my sight so that the chemicals won’t affect you. After all, I can't risk losin’ my greatest soldier.”

She blushes at the compliment before sprinting to her position. I take a deep breath, and head into the snake’s den.

“You never do give up, do you, Shay?”

I hear her taunting voice ringing in my ears. The poison is coursing through my veins. It hurts so damn much. I don’t know what hurts more: the venom in my body or the fact that I have to kill someone who at one point in my life I considered more than a friend. Must. Keep Moving.

“No matter… the poison will kill you.”

Remember what I said, lass. Finish the job for me. Whatever the costs.

The streets of New York are just as crowded as I remember. Swarms of civilians are running to the sides of the road as I continue my hot pursuit on Hope. She weaves through the people, pushing unsuspected bystanders out of the way. Because of the poison, I could not afford to climb any structures: I had to chase her by foot.

Our chase continues down a dark alley, away from the populace. Suddenly, a figure drops on top of her. I know who you are. The figure slashes into Hope with her Hidden Blade. Hope manages to push the person off of her. The two fall down, only meters away from each other. The mystery person’s hood falls down to reveal a familiar, pretty face.

Hope snarls, “So you’re working for them now? Being their little lapdog?”

The lass doesn’t say a word. Rather, she reaches into Hope’s pockets and takes out the antidote. She throws the little vial of elixir at me before backing up and leaving me room to interrogate her.

After drinking the antidote, I walk up to Hope, “Not for us. With us.”

“I should have known…” Hope coughs, “you’re late, again, Shay.”

I kneel down to her level with a pained expression on my face, “Hope, I didn’t want to do this.”

“I trained you to do this,” Hope looks at the lass, as if she’s directly speaking to her instead of me, “I expected nothing less.”

I have to get answers. I ask her, “Then why-”

“To give Liam time to leave. Soon, Chevalier will be on his way to the Precursor site.”

“I will stop him.”

“He will see you coming. Pity… you had so much potential.”

She fades away right there, in front of my very eyes. Potential. A word that has so much to offer, yet so little to show. I feel a hand caressing my back. I turn around to face the girl. Her eyes are cast down, as if she is trying to avoid my gaze.

“She seemed very close to you,” the lass says.

I nod gravely, “Aye. Hope believed in me for a while,” I take her hand, “it’s in the past, now. We have what we need. Let us report back to the Grandmaster.”

She seems unconvinced. She wants to know more.

“Hope used to be one of the few people that I confined with during my time serving the Brotherhood. We had a close bond. It pains me to see her go like this, to see her go down thinkin’ that she is right,” I squeeze the lass’s hand, “but, overtime, my feelings have changed. Don’t get me wrong, I still saw her as a mentor. It’s just… that initial spark isn’t there anymore. I feel that for someone else, now.”

The lass gives me a pained smile. Now she understands. She nods to me before saying, “Come, Shay. Let’s go meet with Haytham.”

I raise an eyebrow. That is the first time I’ve heard the lass refer to the Grandmaster by his given name. I think that she is beginning to feel at home, once again.

The air is still...

“Hope was right… I do make a good distraction.”

In a fit of rage, I throw the sorry French bastard’s body off of the side of the ship. How could I have been so stupid? A fucking distraction? The Assassins are more clever than I thought, sending the Templars on a wild goose hunt across the entire globe. It only shows how desperate they are, now that half of their pathetic Brotherhood is dead.

Once I am at the helm of the Morrigan, I thank Captain Cook for his assistance. After our pleasantries, the man boards his ship, leaving Master Kenway, Gist, the lass and I to discuss our next course of action.

I tell the Grandmaster, “De la Vérendrye’s dead. I have the coordinates. I know where the Assassins are goin’.”

Haytham says, “Then, let us make haste.”

I believe that the Grandmaster made the correct choice. While he and I are to go after Achilles and Liam into the Precursor Temple, the lass and Gist are to remain aboard the Morrigan for behind-the-lines assistance. While Haytham was giving instructions, the lass was visibly upset. I was, as well. Though, we both know that it is for the best, in order to limit distractions and to end the Assassins as quickly as possible.

The freezing Arctic air pierces through my uniform. The scenery, though, contrasts the violence of the weather. The Arctic is a sight to behold: a different land, covered in white, just like New York, Boston, and the frontier during the winter. There is not a speck of color out of place. The inlet is littered with floating ice plates, allowing us to cross. I breathe and see my breath escape as a puff of white air; turning to the Grandmaster I say, “This would be beautiful if it wasn’t so damned cold.”

All of a sudden, one of the ice floes crumbles as Haytham places his foot onto it. He pulls back just in time before warning me, “Tread carefully… some of this ice is rather thin.”

“Is this the Apple?”

“No! Don’t touch anything. Shay was right.”

“What would he know?”

“More than me, apparently…”

I can hear them conversing. Fucking finally. Finally they understand how dangerous these Precursor sites are. It only took them years of pointless chasing to realize the danger of the natural world. Haytham and I reach Liam and Achilles.

Years. Years wasted for one simple realization. I cannot bear to listen to these fools anymore. I yell, “Finally you understand, Achilles. This is a structure to hold the world together, not a weapon to control it. This whole calamity could have been avoided if you’d only listened to me!”

The Mentor jumps as he hears my voice. Master Kenway and I are unexpected visitors, I presume. He quickly regains his composure and scoffs, “Disrespectful to the end.”

“Yes, we’ve been working on that,” Haytham chides, causing me to roll my eyes.

Liam steps into the conversation, a look of disappointment on his face, “Right or wrong, Shay, you betrayed the Brotherhood, Achilles, and me.”

“Says the man, the friend, who shot me in the back,” I snarl.

“At the Homestead?” Liam laughs, “That was Chevaliar. I don’t miss.”

What in God’s name are you doing, Liam?! Liam pulls out a flintlock and aims directly at me. He is a fool to think that that is a wise thing to do in a place like this.

Achilles lunges at him, screaming, “Liam! Don’t!”

It is too late. Liam falls onto the artifact, knocking it off its pedestal. The little spiked orb disintegrates into black dust. Well, we’re fucked. The temple begins quaking, slowly yet surely. Large icicles fall into the abyss and pierce the snow-covered grounds. The glowing First Civilization structures are falling, separating me, Achilles, and the Grandmaster. In the chaos, I spot Liam gaining a head start and running past me to the end of the temple. I guess it’s just you and me, old friend.

I give chase. Using one of the temple’s structures as cover, I dodge Liam’s stray bullets. As I am avoiding the crumbling foundation and ice shards, my mind goes back to the lass. Please… I pray that the earthquake has not reached the outside of the site yet; I pray that she is not hurt. If anything happens to her, I cannot live with myself carrying that blame.

“How could you do this to us? How could you kill Hope?!” Liam bellows in fury. I can hear the pain in his voice. I do not have an answer for him. Instead, I use this emotional moment to attack him. Our skirmish causes the platform to break. My heart jumps as we begin falling down the frozen waterfall.

I feel light as I, luckily, land into a pile of snow. Liam, however, isn’t as fortunate. I hear a loud crack as his body hits the cold, hard ground. Blood begins flowing from his head, seeping through his hood. The man can barely move his body. Yet, he makes out some words; Liam struggles, “That… was lucky.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, Liam? I make my own luck.”

Liam frowns, “And how’d you do that, you bastard? You broke the Assassins. Betrayed… everyone you knew… you sided with our worst enemies; you soiled our legacy; you molded our youth into blinded sheep, and for what?!”

Wait… ‘blinded sheep?’

“What are you talkin’ about, Liam? Who are you talkin’ about?” I ask, heat rising through my body.

He coughs, a cough laced with venom, “You know who I’m talking about. Damned fool. I hope whatever world you are oh-so valiantly trying to save… is a good one.”

No. A loud sound pierces through the freezing Arctic air. It is the sound of a flintlock. I bolt in the direction of the noise toward the shoreline in search of Master Kenway and Achilles. Instead, I see three people: Haytham, Achilles, and... no. It can’t be.

“No! What is going on here?!” I scream, breathing in exhaustion. My chest feels heavy. Constricted. Why did this have to happen? Why have my actions, once again, caused death?

Haytham sighs in frustration, “Shay, I am sorry to say this, but… she is no longer with us. You can thank your friend Liam for that.”

I can’t even look at her. Her bloodied, lifeless body lays beside the Grandmaster. There is a large tear on her torso where the blood seeps from. Her garments are stained in red. Red. Red just like how I first met her. Her eyes are closed and her arms are folded over her chest with her hands placed upon one another: a position of respect. My friend, gone. My protégé, gone. My lifeline, gone. How does a man feel in this position? What do I have left to live for?

In front of the Grandmaster lies a screaming Achilles with a bleeding leg. A man who I used to respect. Who I used to call my Mentor. A man who I cannot bear to see alive one more second.

“Allow, me, Master Kenway,” I growl, holding my hand out. Haytham hands me the gun.

“No! Shay! Don’t do this! You monster!”

Click. One shot and the monster goes down.

… and I am a hunter.