Retribution (An Assassin's Creed III story)

Eleven: Welcome to the Brotherhood

Davenport Homestead, 1772

Naomi

"No, no, not the left foot! It's horribly bad luck!" cries Robert Faulkner, First Mate of the Aquila, the ship we've been rebuilding for the past six months. "Step with your right foot first."

Connor raises his eyebrows in disbelief, but obeys Faulkner. I linger before the gangway, afraid that the old sailor might start pulling his hair out if I board his ship. Every time I'm near the Aquila, whether to bring more lumber or speak with Connor, the man makes it a point to remind me that having a woman aboard a ship is terrible luck. The temptation to shove him into the water is real.

"She is...solid," says Connor, Master of Stating the Obvious. He runs his fingers over the sleek railings, even kicking it lightly once, as if to make sure that the ship wouldn't fall apart. I almost laugh at Faulkner's expression. He practically worships the Aquila, and the only comment Connor offers is 'She is solid'.

"Aye. Weatherly and sleek, she'll fetch 12 knots in a stiff gale. Ne'er a ship from here to Singapore can outrun her on her best day," Faulkner exclaims proudly. "Wha'dya say we take her out and show you what she can do first hand? We'll stop by the East Coast to get her fitted with some guns."

"Are you not coming?" Connor calls to me, realising I haven't boarded.

"Er—It's best if the young lady stays off deck," Faulkner interjects, raising his hand in a half wave towards me as a sign of apology. "It's bad luck to have women on board."

Connor frowns at him in distaste before walking down the gangway towards me. "I do not care for his superstitions," he says, careful not to be overheard.

"Best do as he says, though. We don't want to give him a heart attack." At this, Connor eyes me dubiously. He knows I'm not one to care about what other people think. "Besides," I add, "I don't quite like sailing." It's true. Not only do I get seasick, being out on the ocean reminds me of my father's death. The last time he sailed, he never came back. The thought makes me shudder a little.

Connor stares at me for a while, and I can't help fidgeting under his gaze. I don't like it when he does that, because I don't know what it means. I think I understand, though, when he finally says, "I do not know how long I will be at sea."

I swallow, and try to look happy for him. I fail. "I won't leave dinner for you, then."

My hand feels heavy when I wave goodbye to Connor, who returns the gesture from the Aquila. I watch his silhouette grow smaller and smaller, until it is no more. Though I try to ignore the feeling, gloom spreads in my heart, raw and icy. I don't know when I will see him again.

*

I don't think there's another sound I love better than the whistle of an arrow as it flies from my bow. Or the satisfying thud when it finds its target. Achilles spent the past thirty minutes throwing small bags of sand into the air, making me shoot each one of them in the centre. Sometimes he makes things more 'interesting' by hurling rocks at me, which I dodge to avoid. The practice is tiring, but oddly calming. It helps take my mind off certain worries.

A yelp escapes my mouth when a rock catches me in the stomach. I groan, annoyed at my mistake. "Fast, but you need to be faster," Achilles chides.

"I know," I snap. The old man's lips twitch, amused at my frustration. "Alright, that's enough for today," he finally says.

I sigh, and resign to retrieving arrows from the sandbags. Achilles retreats back into the manor, his shoulders stooped and back hunched. He takes one weary step after another, depending heavily on his walking stick. A pang hits me when I realize he must miss Connor as much as I do, maybe even more. The boy's been gone for three weeks now, and I can't help but wonder where he's been, what he's up to, or if he misses us at all. Each arrow I slot back into my quiver reminds me of him. I hadn't realized how big a part of my life he has become until now.

It is as if my wondering conjured him up. I did a double take, just to make sure I wasn't imagining things. But there he was, standing on the porch, looking at me with familiar brown eyes. The weeks at sea must have been good to him. He stands a little taller, his shoulders a little more squared, as if the ocean breeze had blown some confidence into him. His hair is longer now, drooping past his shoulder, and I'm tempted to run a brush through the tangled strands. Thanks to the sun, his already dark skin is now a few shades darker.

"Connor," I smile, and he beams back at me.

Achilles is less warm with his welcome. "Three weeks, and not even a goodbye before you left," he growls.

Connor's eyes widen apologetically. "Sorry."

I don't miss the sadness in Achilles' expression, however brief it was. Though he rarely shows it, I know the man cares for Connor, and not because the boy is his son's namesake. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

We exchange a glance before following Achilles. He leads us to the underground training room and pauses before the mannequin, upon which his old Assassin robes were displayed. "Put them on," he says quietly, looking over his shoulder at Connor.

I bite back the protests rising up within me. Why him and not me? The words sound awfully childish, even in my own mind.

But Achilles knows. He always does. I was a fool to doubt him.

"Did you think I would forget yours?" he asks softly, and I feel my skin heat with shame. But the sight of my robe quickly chases it away.

Achilles holds it out for me to see now, showing its full glory. And indeed it is glorious. The robe is made from an off-white fabric, and while Connor's is accented with navy blue, mine is dyed a dark pine green at the lapels. I gasp as my eyes roam over the beautiful garment, snagging on the metallic insignia fastened on a red belt. The symbol of the Assassins.

"I thought...I thought you only had one."

"Well, I had another made," Achilles replies. "As soon as I was certain you were done growing."

I laugh, blinking back tears of joy. The fabric feels sturdy in my hands, but soft enough to allow comfort. I can tell this will fit me perfectly just by holding it up. Only Achilles, who's spent more than a decade raising me, could have had the robes tailored to such precise measurements.

"Go on," Achilles says, after watching me gape at the robe for a little too long.

I don't need a mirror to tell me that I look impressive in the robe; Achilles and Connor's eyes tell me so. I can't help staring at Connor, too. The robe fits him perfectly, outlining his sculpted torso and strong figure. He looks every inch the Assassin Achilles trained him to be.

"Once upon a time, we had a ceremony for such occasions," Achilles says. "But I don't think any of us are really the type for that. You have your tools and training. Your targets and goals. And now, you have your title.

"Welcome to the Brotherhood."