Retribution (An Assassin's Creed III story)

Twenty One: I Do Now

New York, 1776

Naomi

"An arrow? You're telling me Connor's life depends on an arrow that may or may not sever the rope?"

Rankled, Dobby glares at me. "If you have another brilliant idea, I'd gladly hear it," she snaps.

"I'm going down there," I growl, already walking to the edge of the rooftop. This task is difficult enough with an arrow; the cursed rain makes it impossible. "If your arrow fails, my knife won't."

Dobby and the other Assassins are content to shoot from a distance, afraid to be seen saving Connor's life. I am not. I don't care if it sets a hundred Redcoats on my tail; I am not letting Connor die.

They are marching him to the gallows by the time I reach the ground, jabbing his body violently with pikestaffs. He looks worse than I've ever seen him, with blood staining his shirt and bruises blooming on his skin. The people jeer at him, their faces alight with a thirst for violence. Already they believe the lies Charles Lee spun. The sight sets my teeth on edge—though I understand they are not to blame. Lee is a master at weaving untruths, pinning the plan to murder Washington on Connor without raising any suspicion. But that doesn't mean I'm not mad at the woman who strikes Connor in the gut. To my delight, Achilles shoves her back roughly with his walking stick.

I'm still pushing through the mob of angry civilians when the executioner wraps the knot around Connor's neck. Charles Lee is announcing Connor's "heinous crimes", but I'm too busy clearing myself a path to pay attention. This crowd is so dense and immovable, I fear I may not be able to reach him in time. Anxiety builds in my chest, making me shove people aside in desperation. I feel their reproachful glares on my back, but they don't matter. Nothing else matters except getting to Connor.

And then his body drops.

Dobby's arrow sails through the air, slicing but not completely cutting through the rope, as we said it would. Quickly, I draw my hand, ready to let a throwing knife fly—but another flash of metal has already severed the rope. Bewildered, I look for Connor's rescuer amidst the throng. A man, dressed in dark robes, is worming his way through the crowd, struggling as several onlookers start grabbing at him. I try to get a glimpse of his face, but a cry draws my attention instead.

"GET HIM!"

Connor—who is, thankfully, very much alive—is running for Hickey, tomahawk in hand. No doubt Achilles gave it to him after he fell through the trapdoor. But several guards are already on his tail. I hurl myself into their path, buying Connor some time to finish the job.

The guards are all armed with muskets, not expecting a swordfight to break out at an execution. This gives me the advantage, and I deal with them easily. The other Assassins have also joined in the fight, cutting down enemy guards with lethal skill. When the battle is over, I realize that the crowds have evacuated, leaving the square empty but for us and some Patriot soldiers. I look around frantically for a familiar tan figure, and feel my blood grow cold when I spot him.

Connor stands over Hickey's dead body, surrounded by Patriots who are ready to fire.

Only Israel Putnam's voice stops me from charging at them. "At ease, men!" the general commands his soldiers. "At ease! Lower your goddamned guns! This man's a hero."

I release a breath I didn't know I was holding when the soldiers withdrew their muskets. "The Commander can be so stubborn sometimes. 'Piffle!'" Putnam spits, kicking at Hickey's dead body with poorly disguised hatred. "'Piffle', he said, when we told him something like this would happen."

"Stop," Connor warns, glaring at Putnam.

The man stares at Connor in surprise, but stills his leg. "He nearly killed the Commander, and you as well. He's a scoundrel."

"But still a man," Connor insists. His compassion will never cease to amaze me.

"Hmph. You're nothing if not consistent."

"Where is Washington?"

"Bundled away as soon as your execution went sideways. He's probably off to Philadelphia," Putnam shrugs.

"Then so am I," Connor grits out. "He is still in danger; Hickey did not act alone." And then he marches away purposefully, intent on saving the man who sat by and watched him hang just moments before. I feel my jaw clench at the thought. Noble, determined Connor will not stop risking his life for the Commander.

He is halfway across the square when he spots me, standing in the shadow of a building. For a brief, panicked moment, I consider turning away to avoid him. The rain is a perfect excuse that he would mistake me for someone else—but the set of his shoulders tells me otherwise. We stare at each other across the distance until everyone has left, and yet that is still not long enough for me to think of what to say.

But it is Connor who speaks first. "I thought you were in Italy." The stretch between us makes it impossible for me to read his expression.

There is none of the animosity that I expected from him. No anger, no hatred—only a deep sense of weariness. I don't know if this bodes well, or ill. "I couldn't let you die, " I say finally, unable to think of a better reply than the truth. The words are plain and simple, woven with a deeper meaning that I can only hope he understands. I need you to live more than I need my revenge. I need you more than my revenge.

I need you.

And then his shoulders slump. The tension in his body escapes, replaced by something softer. He is no longer the man who buried his blade in Hickey's back and shouted at me with unchecked rage. He is the boy who held me close on a starry night and accepts me despite my faults. "I'm sorry."

I'm running to him before I know it, wanting nothing more than to close the gap between us until I can feel his heat and hear his breath. He is alive. Nothing else matters. I see the forgiveness in his eyes as I near him, as he does in mine.

"So am I."

I never realized how safe it feels to bury my face in his chest, or have his sturdy arms wrap around me. I do now.