Retribution (An Assassin's Creed III story)

Two: Bloom with Death

Boston, 1760

Naomi

The soft padding of the horse's hooves turns to clopping as we transition from countryside to town. Our journey took the better half of the night, and traces of dawn are beginning to make their appearances in the sky. The townsfolk, however, are still fast asleep, leaving the roads empty and the stores quiet.

"Naomi, do you know where your mother usually goes to when she's in town?" Achilles asks from beside me.

"The marketplace near Old State House," I reply, rolling my shoulders to shrug off sleep. "Though Mam once brought us to a Dragon Tavern to stay a night or two."

"The Green Dragon Tavern," he says, more to himself than to me. Murmuring a few more words to the horses, Achilles urges them forward and towards the tavern.

*

The stench of liquor immediately overwhelms me as we step inside. The tavern wasn't actually open for business yet—the lamps are burning low, and chairs are messily arranged around tables, some of which had fallen over—but we entered nonetheless. I wonder what it was about liquor that made people do unusual things, such as knocking over a table.

Achilles peers over the bar, upon which several mugs lay, their contents spilled across the table top. "Good morning."

The bartender, lying slumped on the floor, continues snoring rather loudly. Achilles clears his throat. "GOOD MORNING."

The bartender starts, and hits his head on the counter behind him. He swears loudly before getting to his feet.

"Whad'ya want?" he asks groggily.

"I'm looking for a certain woman," Achilles says calmly. "Short-haired brunette, slender, and in her mid-30s. Her name is Madeleine O'Brien."

The bartender gives a hiccup. "We get a lot o' women 'ere, so ah may be wrong." Another hiccup. "O'er there," he jerks his chin in the direction of a back door. "Tha's where ah put the customers who pass out, and don't got a room."

Achilles gestures for me to wait in the tavern while he goes out the back door. I don't, of course.

The back door opens out onto an alley filled with people—unconscious people, lying on the ground. But they don't really look like people. Gaunt and bony, they're less human than soulless carcasses.

"Naomi, go back inside— "

But I already caught a glimpse. And a glimpse was all I needed.

"Mam?" I call, already freeing myself from Achilles' grip, pushing past him to a figure lying chest-down on the floor. Her dress is covered in dirt, bones protruding from her wrist. The woman's brown hair is matted in tangles, obscuring her face—but I have to be sure.

I prop the woman into a seating position to get a better look. I find myself both hoping it is my mother—for then I would've found her—and hoping it isn't her, at the same time. I cannot imagine my beautiful, healthy mother transforming into this brittle, wasted body.

"Madeleine?" Achilles says, shaking her awake gently. "Madeleine, Naomi's here."

Slowly, the woman blinks her eyes open, and the unmistakable blue of my mother's eyes peers back at me. But these are not my mother's eyes. No, they couldn't be. My mother always looked at me with love, and this woman—

She doesn't even recognise me.

"Liam?" she says. Her voice is hoarse and lost, like a void sucking away all my hopes of finding Mam. "Liam, is that you?"

"Mam," I choke, "Mam, it's me. It's Naomi."

"Liam," she growls, suddenly bringing her face too close to mine. From this distance, I can smell alcohol on her, along with the peculiar, pungent smell that filled the alley. "LIAM!" she shrieks, and her fingernails dig painfully into my shoulders. "LIAM, YOU BASTARD!"

"Madeleine!" Achilles shouts, prying me away from her grip with strong, deft fingers.

The woman is now crawling on the ground, reaching for a pile of what I first thought were leaves on the ground. Her thin fingers stretch out towards the object—but she never reaches them. A rack of coughs take hold of her body, causing her to curl up in a fetal position. Achilles moves forward to help her up, but when he reaches her she is no longer coughing. She slumps onto the ground, her hands and legs sprawling out in awkward positions.

And she doesn't move again.

*

"The doctors said it was a drug, derived from a flower. Your mother, she... she had too much of it, and her heart just...stopped."

I hear the words, but they make no sense to me, whatsoever. That thin, deranged woman can't have been my mother. No, Mam loved me. Loves me. She can't have left me alone now, with Papa gone.

Can she?

"Naomi..."

Achilles is standing on the porch now, looking down at me with worried eyes. I didn't realize we've returned to Davenport Manor—the carriage ride was a blur. I assumed Achilles would take me home—but that place is no longer home, though, is it? Not with Papa and Mam gone, with all that's left being the remnants of a once whole and loving family.

"Is there anywhere else I can take you? A relative's home, perhaps?"

No, I think, too tired to speak. I want nothing more than to go home—my real home—where Papa would be trimming the hedges and Mam sewing by the fire.

I'm distantly aware that Achilles is limping down the stairs and walking towards me. Everything is happening too quickly. What do I do? I ask no one, knowing no one would answer.

What do I do now?

"Before we left for the Arctic, your father wanted me to pass a message to you, should he—should he not survive." Achilles' voice is gentler than I would've thought possible. Only then do I meet his eyes, and surprisingly, there isn't a hint of pity in his expression. It makes me feel—relieved, to have Achilles believe that I am strong enough to endure this. Although I can't say the same for myself.

"He said he'd always wanted you to become an Assassin, but that you should not become one simply because of what he said." He takes a deep breath, and leans more heavily on his walking stick. "He wanted—and still wants—you to choose the path on which you will walk. And he believes that you will choose the right one.

"If you choose to fight, I will raise and train you, in all the ways I know; but if you don't, I will raise you all the same, as if you were my daughter." He smiles warmly, then gets to his feet. "You can take as long as you need to decide. In the meantime— "

"I will fight."

The words leave my mouth before I know it. But I didn't need to think, not really. I've always known—in the depths of my heart and the blood coursing through me—that I would become an Assassin, regardless of what my father wanted me to be. For centuries the war between Assassin and Templar has raged, causing countless men and women to give their lives for the cause. My father is one of them, and his life was given in belief. In hope to build a better future, a world free of Templars and their bloodshed. I cannot say that the same hope drives me, but a need in me burns, the kind that can only be quenched with a cause. A purpose in life, to have something to live and die for. If I cannot believe in the Assassins' vision, I can at least believe in Papa's.

"I will fight for what my father fought for."

Author's note

Here's part two! I know I'm taking quite a while to get to the parts that involve Connor, but I just really wanted to set the foundation for Naomi's character first. Hope y'all stay tuned!