Retribution (An Assassin's Creed III story)

Six: The Love We Hate

Davenport Homestead, 1770

Ratonhnhaké:ton

I am used to Naomi being bossy, superior and always trying to make me do chores that were actually her responsibility. So it was quite a shock for me when she not only did my part of the work, but also prepared my meals.

"Is there no chance of a stew?" I ask, eyeing the bowl of soup and bread Naomi places before me. Two weeks of being nursed have made me very fond of bossing her around for a change.

"Be glad I didn't make you corn soup," she retorts, knowing my dislike for the vegetable. I scowl, but eat the meal obediently.

Despite our squabble, Naomi's voice holds no bite—not since my injury. She hasn't stopped teasing me, but I realize she is much less snide in her remarks. Another effect of her guilt. I couldn't complain about it, though.

After spooning a few mouthfuls of the warm, thick soup, I look up and see that she hasn't left. "I can eat on my own, Naomi," I say, struggling to hold back a smirk. Every time she brings my meals, she always watches me for a while, as if making sure I haven't forgotten how to eat. I know she does it because she wants to help—but I have to admit it gets rather amusing over time.

Naomi scoffs. "I wasn't thinking of feeding you, and don't think I don't know how much you enjoy this!" she adds, walking away.

I smile a little to myself. I won't deny that I am enjoying the treatment, but my sarcasm has nothing to do with teasing Naomi. Rather, it is my way of reassuring her that I don't blame her for my injury, at all. I doubt she has completely forgiven herself.

*

The injury has its perks, such as being nursed by Naomi and exempted from training; but one major downside is that I couldn't do pretty much anything. Though the pain has subsided, Achilles insists that I stay in bed, lest the wound gets torn open again. It's extremely frustrating.

I can't stand it anymore. Seeing as restlessness has robbed me of my sleep, I get up and put on some thick clothes, aching for a walk in the woods.

The cold, night air steals through my garments as soon as I step out the front door; but the chill is a welcome respite after long hours of being cooped up in the manor. I gulp in the night air almost too greedily, making my wound ache slightly from the deep breaths. Not that I cared—I wasn't going back inside before spending a few hours in the woods. Carefully, I take a few steps down the porch—only to see a familiar figure striding across the yard.

It does not surprise me to see Naomi outside at night; I've always known she has a habit of wandering around when she can't sleep. What does surprise me, however, is the way she's walking—tense and hurried—unlike someone who is just wandering around. Probably against my better judgment, I decide to follow her.

The injury had indeed taken its toll on me. I wince as some leaves rustle beneath my feet, the sound amplified in the quiet of the woods. I slide behind a tree, just in time to hear Naomi sigh loudly, her shoulders drooping almost dramatically.

"I really thought you were better than this."

There is no point in hiding now, so I step out from behind my tree. "I'm injured."

She scoffs loudly, then turns to face me with a resigned expression. "If I told you to stop following me, would you listen?"

"No."

Another scoff. "Well, don't expect me to wait for you."

And then she breaks into a full-out run, her feet finding footholds in branches as she leaps from tree to tree.