Retribution (An Assassin's Creed III story)

Six: The Love We Hate

I sigh. There's no way I can keep up with her—not with this cursed wound in my side. So, with a pace far slower than I liked, I start tracking her, using clues like footprints and disturbed branches. Naomi says that I have a talent for tracking, calling it my 'eagle eye'—I suppose she was right, because I eventually find her standing at the edge of a cliff, one that I knew looked out onto the sea.

The night air whips through her long hair, lifting the strands in all directions. Her clothes, which had always been too big for her lean figure, balloons around her body in the wind. Naomi looks impossibly small against the vast, starry sky.

"It took you—what, a half hour to find me?" she says without turning around. "My, my, how the mighty have fallen."

Her words are teasing, but her voice is empty, devoid of emotion. This isn't the Naomi I'm used to, the one who is always full of bite and life. This Naomi is still and blank, like a candle without flame.

"What is it, Naomi?" I ask, inching forward as carefully as I can. I'm suddenly reminded of approaching a spooked animal, and quickly chase the thought away. Naomi isn't an animal, you idiot.

She hesitates for a long moment, and I'm glad we aren't facing each other. This is clearly something personal, and I want her to have as much space as she needs to think.

"My father died today, many years ago."

Her voice is barely a whisper, but I catch every word. I'm closer to her now—close enough to touch. I feel like I should be doing something—put a hand on her shoulder, brush her arm, perhaps—but I don't think Naomi will appreciate it. Instead, I stand beside her wordlessly, offering her my silence, allowing her to share with me whatever she will.

"His best friend killed him, and his body was left at sea," she continues, surprising me. Naomi's never told me anything about her past, apart from the fact that she started training under Achilles when she was four, and I've never asked. I could never quite find the right words to do so.

"Though I suppose Achilles already told you this," she scoffs.

What? "He didn't."

"You've never asked?"

I shake my head. "I did not think he was the right person to ask."

"And yet you've never asked me."

"You've never asked me, either."

Her lips twitch a little. "Fair enough."

Naomi returns her gaze to the sea. The silence between us grows, and I dare not speak, afraid to ruin anything in this fragile moment.

"As a child, I used to come here every day, thinking that—thinking that one day I might see his body on the beach." She bites her lip. "I know it's impossible, but it's become a habit."

I swallow hard, struggling to think of what to say. Then I try not to show that I'm struggling, and shifting on my feet as a result. Naomi wasn't paying me any attention, but she is still an Assassin at heart. She catches the movement almost immediately.

"You don't have to say anything," she shrugs, and with every word I can see her defences rising up, like walls she builds to keep people out. She is ashamed of weakness, that much I know—but she fails to see that vulnerability is not a weakness.

"My village burned because of my father's orders." The words used to hurt, but now they only taste strange on my tongue. I don't know why I'm telling Naomi this—I doubt she wants to know, but I think it is only fair. Her story for mine.

Or maybe... Maybe because I want her to know.

"I watched my mother die. I couldn't save her."

The amount of vulnerability I hear in my own voice surprises me. It surprises Naomi, too. "You can't blame yourself for something that's not your fault," she says, and I feel her fingers flutter around my wrist.

"I should tell you that, too," I say, meaning it as a joke. But she clearly doesn't find it funny, and draws back quickly. My wrist feels strangely cold in the absence of her touch.

"I thought you would hate me, after—after I left you."

"I would never hate you."

But Naomi just shakes her head, smiling sadly. "You don't know that."

"I meant it—"

"Do you hate your father, Raton?" she asks, her voice almost like a child's. It is the first time I hear her call me that, the nickname my mother used on me sometimes. I pause, weighing my words carefully, knowing the answer could either build or break her.

"I want to, but I know I can't. I think I will never be able to until I knew him."

Naomi falls silent, seemingly considering my answer. Her head is bowed, her gaze fixed on the two small flowers clutched in her hand. She must look like the child Achilles saw ten years ago, when he took her in and trained her.

I do not know what forces compel me to ask this. My sense tells me to stay silent, but I hear the words tumbling from my mouth anyway. "Naomi, your mother, is she--?"

"She's dead," Naomi finishes, with a tone that indicated no further questions were welcome. This time, I have the good sense to keep my mouth shut.

"It's late, we should head back," she says finally, her voice softening. Slowly, she releases her grip on the flowers, allowing the night wind to carry them away. Then she looks up at me, smirking. The vulnerability from a few minutes ago is gone. "I'll walk with you this time."

I smile. It's probably the kindest thing she's ever said to me.