Retribution (An Assassin's Creed III story)

One: Colder Than Ice

O'Brien Residence, 1760

Achilles

I have never felt so heavy.

The weight of his death sits on my stomach like a giant boulder, hard and unyielding. It threatens to crush the air out of me as I drag my feet to the house, one sluggish step after another. The gunshot wound in my leg throbs painfully, torturing me still despite the absence of Haytham's bullet. The bullet that I dug out with my own hands. The bullet that made me a cripple.

The door swings open mere seconds after I knock. Madeleine O'Brien is wearing an apron, the white front stained with grease and dirt. The ends of her brown hair are soaked in sweat, curling wildly in the heat. Only then do I realize that I am sweating, too. The feeling almost feels foreign now, after spending months in the merciless cold of the Arctic. Distantly, I hear her utter a few phrases—things like "come inside" and "anything I can help with?".

I wanted to speak before she did. The words were on the tip of my tongue—the words I steeled myself to utter—but she spoke first. I was, once again, too late.

"Where's Liam?"

I watch as Madeleine's blue eyes widen, her mouth opening in a wordless gasp. Her vice-like grip tightens around my forearms, but I barely feel the pain. Her voice is rising now, the words blurring into each other. Everything is out of focus—like a drawing with smeared paint. The only thing I would remember after that moment, as I spoke the words one should never have to speak to another, is the way the light left Madeleine's eyes, as if one had simply pinched two fingers together and snuffed out a candle.

"Liam's dead."

Madeleine staggers back as quickly as if I had punched her. "No... He would never... He can't..."

"I'm sorry, Madeleine."

She sinks to the ground with a thump, hugging her knees to her chest. She holds her legs in a white-knuckled grip, her fingers digging dangerously into her skirt.

"If you need my help, I'll be at the Homestead," I hear myself say, surprised that I was not only capable of uttering words, but a full sentence. I turn to leave then, no longer able to bear the sight of Madeleine slumped on the ground, gazing at the world with unseeing eyes.

As I limp through the O'Brien's garden, I hear the sound of light, running footsteps, and the familiar cry of a child. I don't look back.

*

After months of sailing in biting cold weathers, my warm, comfortable bed should've made me sleep soundly. But it doesn't.

My joints crack loudly as I swing my legs over the edge of my bed, finally accepting that sleep will not come—and might never come again. Immediately, pain lances through my right leg, causing pinpoints of black to swim across my vision. Grimacing against the pain, I grip my now very-much needed walking stick and force myself to stand.

Moonlight steals through the windows, bathing the living room floorboards in silver. I limp across them, casting stark black shadows across the walls along the way, and settle heavily onto one of the few chairs in my living room. The fire in the grate has been reduced to embers, making the room rather chilly.

I don't know what I'd do in the living room; I don't know what to do with the rest of my life, really. I long to go for a run, for the release I found only in sprinting across rooftops and leaping between trees.

But that is a thing of the past.

I shake my head violently to dispel all thoughts of my old life, then got up to make some tea, mostly to distract myself from falling down the spiral of thoughts. And that is when I hear it—two loud knocks on the front door.

My shoulders tense involuntarily, my body still preparing for a fight, though I'm barely capable of one now. Even if anyone did visit the manor before, while it was still home to the Assassins, nobody in their right mind would pay a visit at this hour. Silently as I can, I reach for the crossbow lying on the mantel. The rapping sound comes again; this time more insistent. After notching an arrow, I swing open the door; my fingers steady on the trigger, ready to let the arrow fly. Only, there is no one there.

Well, no one at eye level, anyway.

"Mr Davenport."

I look down to see a child glaring up at me through steely grey eyes, with all the ferocity of a four-year old. My heart twists painfully as I recognize her small, thin frame and unruly brown curls. She is Naomi O'Brien, Liam's daughter.

She is also alone.

"Naomi," I say, trying to keep the alarm out of my voice. I would've knelt down and put my hands on her shoulders, if my leg allowed me to. "What are you doing here? At this hour?"

"Mam hasn't come home." Her voice is hard and set—harder than any four-year old's should've been. With fists curled at her side and small shoulders squared determinedly, she could've been any other child, pouting over a toy she could not have. Only she isn't, because any other child would not have ridden a pony through the thick of the woods in the middle of the night, all without shedding a single tear. "She's been gone for a week."

"Do you have any idea where she has gone?"

"She said she was going to town to buy fresh produce, but she should not have taken so long." At this, her little eyebrows crease together, as if realizing that her mother had probably been lying to her. I silently thank whatever heavens existed that the O'Brien's home was only a thirty-minute horse-ride away from the Homestead. I don't think I can stand the thought of Naomi travelling alone any longer than that.

"We're going to find her, Naomi," I say, hoping my voice sounds more reassuring than I feel. "Why don't you wait inside; I need only a moment to ready the carriage..."

*Author's note*

Ever since I first played the game, I've always imagined myself as a character in this universe. Ratonhnhaké:ton's story intrigued me then, and it still does now. I love the characters in AC3, along with all their conflicts and emotions, which have left me very emotional at the end, too. 

This fanfiction is something I've been wanting to write for 10 years now, and I've only just started learning how to. It's far from perfect, but I want to finish it, as a token of love for this wonderful story. I'm not telling you what to do, but I hope you stick around :)