Retribution (An Assassin's Creed III story)

Twenty Nine: The Sun Shines Darkly

Davenport Homestead, 1778

Naomi

I could travel the whole world and never find a place I love more than the woods of the Homestead. Every path is fused with memory, every tree a childhood companion. I know the forest as well as the back of my hands, yet it still amazes me in the subtlest of ways. A patch of wildflowers, bursting with life. Silver streams, glistening in moonlight. I drink in its beauty with my eyes—a potion to calm my restless mind.

'Restless' is the only word fit to describe my current state. In the days since we returned from Martinique, I've been trying to busy myself with errands and missions. Helping out at Doctor White's. Corresponding with the Assassins. Yet none of these things soothe my unease. Connor's absence doesn't help, either.

I wonder if this restlessness is due to boredom. Or the knowledge that Connor is with Haytham right now, who could very well decide to kill him at any moment. I wish Connor would stop seeing that man as an ally. His betrayal is certain, and the aid he offers is not worth the risk.

Still, Haytham is his father. Even if he is vile and imperious. And though he will never admit it, I see a longing in Kenway, same as the one I see in his son. As hardened as his heart may be, there is still humanity in the Templar. I wish there wasn't. He'd be easier to kill that way.

A rustle of leaves. The sound of footfalls. I stop in my tracks, muscles tensing in anticipation. It doesn't take me long to find the source of the sound.

I don't recognise him immediately. He walks without his usual grace, almost dragging his feet. His shoulders are slumped and his head bowed. I've never seen him like this before. There is so much emptiness in his posture. So much despair. It squeezes the air from my lungs.

"Connor?"

He doesn't look up, allowing his feet to continue their trudge—slow, sluggish steps devoid of strength. I scan his body for a wound, the physical kind, almost hoping for one, because the alternative is so much worse. Then he stumbles, and has to throw out a hand to balance himself against a tree—as if his body can no longer hold up the weight he carries. A weight heavier than any young man should bear.

"I killed him."

The words come out hoarse, cracking apart at every letter. I approach him carefully, not really sure whether he wants me to or not. He still doesn't look at me. I want to hold him. I want to take his pain and make it mine. I want to yell at the world for being the way it is.

My voice is strangled, a small noise tight with ache. Choking out the words I don't want to say, but need to ask. "Who did you kill?"

"Kanen'to:kon."

The name is his undoing.

Connor falls to the ground, his knees finally giving way to the anguish. But he doesn't scream. He doesn't tremble in anger. The Assassin has seen too much death to break at another. Even the death of his friend. The only sign of his devastation is the void in his eyes. Dark and bottomless, distant and consuming.

I wrap my arms around him, so tightly as if I can meld my bones with his flesh and fill his heart with my soul. I don't say anything, because there is nothing to say. There are no words for a betrayal so painful. A kill so harrowing. So I just kneel there and hold him, until the sun rises and the world awakes from its slumber.

I never mention the teardrop I felt on my neck. But I remember it, always.