Retribution (An Assassin's Creed III story)

Twenty Five: A Warm Welcome

New York, January 1778

Naomi

I didn't know how much I missed home before today.

Not that New York is home, but it comes close. More than a year has passed since I last bade Connor farewell on this same harbour. It seems so much has changed, and yet nothing at all. Sailors still yell at each other as they load cargo onto their ships. Carriages rattle along, making people jump away hastily. British Redcoats still patrol the streets, a firm reminder of the ongoing revolution.

I stayed in Versailles for longer than I planned to—not because I didn't want to come home, but because I was afraid I'd become too attached to it. I wanted to explore the world outside the Americas, to live in a different city, learn the ways of their people. Anika was also another reason why I stayed. I have grown very fond of her, and I wanted to help out as much as I could. Our farewell was more painful than I'd imagined it to be.

Not that it compared to the pain of missing home.

I was headed for the stables, eager to get a horse and ride for the Homestead. That was when I caught sight of him. I thought the light was playing a trick on my eyes. I thought that perhaps because I missed him so much, it was simply a figment of my imagination.

But it wasn't. There's no mistaking that burly figure in his white-and-blue robe.

My pulse quickens with every step I take towards him. I worry that time will have built a divide between us. I'm afraid to see what would remain the same, and what wouldn't.

"Connor."

He hesitates at first, as if unable to believe his ears. When he faces me, I wish I could imprint his expression in my memories forever. Everything about him emanates familiarity—from the proud set of his jaw to the softness in his gaze—save for the lines on his face that have developed during my absence. They tell me tales of war and sorrow, of how the boy who marvelled at Bostonian streets was set aside, replaced by the man who fights for freedom and his people. But his smile transforms his face, softening the hard planes and sharp angles, until he is nothing but the boy I grew up with.

He closes the gap between us in a single, lithe step, wrapping me in his warmth. I tuck my body close to his, breathing in his scent of salt and gunpowder and Connor. His words are muffled by my hair, but I don't ask him what he's saying for fear of breaking our embrace. It is not until later that I realize what he was murmuring: My name. Just my name.

*

"Ah! Another Assassin. As if one wasn't enough."

Despite being late, Haytham Kenway struts over to us lazily. His eyes flick between our glares with amusement, as if we were little more than children. And though Connor and I would never admit it, the Templar does cut an intimidating figure. His weapons are minimal—a pistol, cutlass and hidden blades—but there is evident strength that thrums beneath his motions. A lethal ally and a deadly foe.

"I assume this is the O'Brien girl."

"The name's Naomi," I say flatly.

"Whatever." He waves a hand in the air, dismissing me. "Shall we be off?"

Why Connor would agree to work with his father is beyond me, and I clench my jaw to keep from wondering out loud. Connor leads us to a boat, which he rows to the Aquila harboured nearby. In the short time before Haytham showed up, Connor managed to fill me in on his pursuit for Benjamin Church. The man has stolen supplies intended for the Patriots, which certainly does not bode well for them at all. Connor didn't give me a graphic description of Valley Forge, but I can imagine the soldiers would be heading for a slow, freezing death if the supplies are not returned.

So I agreed to go with him. Of course I would, even though I long to see Achilles. Even if I have to put up with the pompous Haytham Kenway.

The Templar has already boarded, eager to escape our company. Clinging to the Jacob's ladder, I smirk at Connor before climbing. "Do you think Faulkner will faint when he sees me?" He knows what I mean: the man strongly believes that having a woman aboard a ship is bad luck. Not that we care for it.

Connor grins at me in response, his smile made brighter by its rarity. It makes my breath hitch. "I will be sure to catch him if he does."

"Ah, Cap'n. And..er, Master Kenway. Miss O'Brien." Robert Faulkner clears his throat, looking for a moment like the most uncomfortable man in the world. "What a pleasure."

"Pleasure's ours," Haytham cuts in, not looking pleased at all. "Now, Master Faulkner, do I need to show you the meaning of haste?"

Connor scowls briefly at his father, then moves to the stern, brushing my arm on the way. "Full sail!" he calls to his men, every inch the leader I knew he would be. The sailors step to with spirited motions—a sight I've come to associate with good captains.

My musing is cut short by a deep, curt voice. "Should you be so foolish as to try and kill me in my sleep, be warned that it will not end well."

The voice is Kenway's, but he doesn't so much as glance at me, arrogant as ever. Connor and Robert have left us, and we are alone momentarily. I consider his words. Now that he's mentioned it, the idea is tempting. But he is, after all, Connor's father. His life is not mine to take. I wouldn't say that Connor can't kill his father—he is capable, even if reluctant—but I know he is trying with Haytham. Connor's dream of unity between Assassin and Templar is one I've heard before, and while I used to think it was impossible, I'm starting to doubt that now.

"I'd tell you the same thing," I reply warily.

He snorts once, harsh and mocking. "You overestimate yourself. Besides," he adds, "I have better things to do with my time."

"Like plotting your son's ruin?" Ruin, not death. It is my way of saying that maybe all this doesn't need to end with one killing the other. But I'm afraid my implication falls on deaf ears.

"Like giving him the fastest headings." Haytham's tone is sharp, but he finally looks at me. His gaze is unreadable, a mixture of distaste and intrigue. Then he marches away haughtily, and I suspect he revels in the nervous glances the sailors shoot him.

I sigh. The days ahead of us are about to be very long.