Retribution (An Assassin's Creed III story)

Seven: Stones of Memory

Boston, 1770

Naomi

Despite my thick travelling coat, the cold of a Boston winter still seeps through the material, sending a shiver along my spine. I cross my arms, hoping the gesture warms my body a little. Beside me, Ratonhnhaké:ton stares out at the bustling streets and crowds with wide eyes, his jaw hanging slightly. It strikes me then that this must be his first time visiting the city.

"Don't stare," Achilles scolds, hitting Raton with his walking stick after catching him gaping at a woman.

"Sorry."

"Come on."

I spare a moment to elbow Raton lightly, before falling in step behind Achilles. The older man seems like he's trying to get to wherever he wants as quickly as possible. His stooped shoulders and hunched posture makes him look smaller than ever in this wide, busy street.

Raton, however, was almost skipping with excitement. "This place is incredible," he all but exclaims. "The people, the sounds, the smells—I could walk these streets for days and know not even half of its wonders."

Achilles shoots me a funny look, clearly amused at Raton's fascination. "I thought the same as you upon a time," he tells the boy. "These days, I much prefer the quiet of the countryside."

I agree. In the outskirts, everything was...open. Spacious. The fields and forests stretched far and wide, unlike the crowded streets and maze-like structure of Boston. I understand where Raton's wonder is coming from, but I don't share the sentiment. I have my own reasons to dislike the city.

It's the place where my mother—

"But there is so much LIFE here," Raton continues beside me, snapping me out of my reverie. "So many opportunities."

"For a few, my boy," Achilles sighs. "For a few."

He then stops in his tracks, turning around to face the pair of us. "There's a store close to here. You're to buy the items on this list. Tell them where the carriage is—and they'll see that it's loaded. Understood?"

"Yes."

"You're also going to need a new name," Achilles tells Raton. "Your skin is fair enough that you might pass for one with Spanish or Italian blood. Better to be thought a Spaniard than a Native..." He shakes his head, smiling sadly. "And both are still better than I."

"That's not true," I say firmly, though sense tells me that there is truth in Achilles' words, however cruel they were. I remember the rare trips to town Achilles has taken me on before this, where the men would shoot him sidelong glances and the storekeepers demand he pay extra for 'taxes'. The thought infuriates me. Not only because people cannot accept others who look different, but also because they have made Achilles believe that he shouldn't be accepted.

Belatedly, I realize that Raton and I had said the same thing at the same time. We look at each other, bemused.

Achilles just waves a hand in the air. "What's true and what is aren't always the same. Naomi, you'll come with me," he adds, "I need you to get me some supplies elsewhere."

"What would you call me, then?" Raton asks.

The older man didn't need to think. "Connor," he says, "yes, that will be your name."

Raton—I mean, Connor—glances at me once more before turning away. He doesn't see the sorrow that flickers across Achilles' features, schooled into an expression of blankness within a split second. "Alright, then," he says, nudging Connor with his walking stick. "Off you go."

*

It turns out that the 'supplies' Achilles wanted me to get were actually just some apples for the horses. I shrug the sack off my shoulder, placing it at his feet with a thump.

"He should be back by now," I say, dipping my head in the direction Raton went. "Do you think the storekeeper's giving him a hard time?"

Achilles only chuckles softly. "You worry too much, Naomi." I scowl at him without real anger before sidling up next to him, leaning against the wall. From this angle, I cannot see his face, shadowed by his hat and the way he bows his head. What's true and what is aren't always the same. I wonder how many times Achilles has had to tell himself that.

"Does the name hurt?" I ask suddenly, catching him off his guard. It takes me a second to realize that the question might've seemed rude. I try to amend my sentence. "I mean, giving Raton that name, does it remind you—"

"It was the first name that came to mind," he interjects, his voice a low rumble.

Achilles has never told me about his family. Nor has he explained the gravestones outside the manor, overlooking the Homestead. But I remember the inscriptions. Abigail Davenport. Connor Davenport. They aren't difficult to figure out.

I inch closer to the man hunched with years of despair, and gently wrap my hand around his forearm. I pause, giving him time to shrug me off if he wanted to, but he doesn't move away. "But does it hurt?" I ask again, and my voice comes out as a whisper. Not to push, not to demand answers, but to show that I care.

"It is a reminder," he says, and his eyes finally meet mine. Eyes that have gleamed when I first disarmed him. Eyes that have watched me grow stronger each day. Eyes that tell me the words he never says.

"To remind me of what I've lost, and why I must continue."