Retribution (An Assassin's Creed III story)

Twenty Seven: Deserve

Davenport Homestead, May 1778

Naomi

We sailed back from the Carribean to Philadelphia, where we made port and returned the supplies to the Patriots. Washington had plenty of appreciation for Connor, but less so for me, and safe to say, none at all for Haytham. Not that it unsettled both of us. I have long since grown accustomed to men who view me as less important simply because I'm a woman, and Haytham is, well, British.

We parted ways with the Templar then, who left with no more than a curt nod. I thought I saw dejection flicker across Connor's features, but he hid it so quickly I couldn't be sure. He's always been a master at concealing his emotions. The world has taught him the need for that.

We stood and watched the man stride away for a little longer than we should, taking with him the hope of unity. Of peace.

When I first met him, I thought it was possible. I thought Haytham was a different kind of Templar, one who valued peace above control. But that proved to be a dream—just like the dream of a ceasefire between Assassin and Templar. Haytham Kenway is as unyielding as he is ruthless, and he would not hesitate to kill his own son for his Order.

And I'm afraid Connor doesn't see that. It's what makes Haytham so dangerous.

As I stand on the porch now, looking up at Davenport Manor, emotions swirl through my heart, odd and confusing. Gladness, longing, and even sorrow. None of these I really understand. A light touch brushes my arm, making me jump slightly. Connor. He notes my hesitation, and tries to reassure me.

"Welcome home."

Home. I brighten at the word, squeezing his hand in response. We enter together, and Connor lags behind, claiming the need for a glass of water. I know he's really giving me time alone with Achilles, so I don't wait for him, and bound up the staircase to the study. Already I feel my lips tugging into an eager smile.

"Achilles."

The old man looks up at me from his desk, and I see the same surprise I saw on Connor's face. I close the distance between us quickly, and take his hands in mine—slight, calloused palms covering warm, wrinkled ones.

"Naomi." He grins openly, the smile bright and tender. "You've returned." And then his fingers tighten on mine, his eyes narrowing. "Is it done?"

"Yes." Though not the way I expected.

"But you did not kill him." As always, Achilles reads me like an open book.

"No," I breathe, "I didn't."

He urges me with his gaze. Why?

I hesitate, struggling to find the words to explain something I did more than a year ago. Or rather, something I didn't do. "Shay Cormac has a son. And..." Have I made a mistake in Versailles? "This world has seen more than enough death," I finish firmly, if only to silence the questions in my mind.

Whatever doubts I had about sparing Cormac's life vanish when I see Achilles' expression. He nods, slow and earnest, as if letting go of his own hatred for Shay with each tip of the head. If I thought I was the only one who had much to forgive, I was wrong. "You did well," he whispers, his voice catching.

I feel my heart swell with relief. "I had a good teacher," I grin.

The old man responds with a toothy smile. But it falters when Connor enters the room, and I watch his eyes shift from mine. "Welcome back. And how was Martinique?"

There is an odd stiffness in Achilles' voice and Connor's shoulders. A tension in the room I cannot fathom. "Achilles, I... I owe you an apology," Connor begins, surprising me. He didn't tell me they'd argued before he left. "It was wrong of me to say the things I did."