Retribution (An Assassin's Creed III story)

Ten: Deadliest

Davenport Homestead, 1771

Naomi

I trod down the gangway eagerly, glad to finally be rid of my sea-sickness and cramped living quarters. The days spent aboard the ship were a bore, with nothing to do besides climbing the mast and beating Old Gaffer at checkers. Raton—Connor and I still barely talk, avoiding one another as much as we can.

I don't know why can't I just pick up the courage to apologize or something. Part of me really wants to. I miss talking to him, our banter and arguments, cold humor and jests. But another part of me—the part that's clearly winning out—doesn't want to, because then I would have to tell him about how my mother died. How my mother killed herself.

"Are you going to tell me what happened back at the tavern?"

I turn around reluctantly, unable to hide from Connor any longer, and also unable to bear our silence. He stands a few yards away, his chestnut eyes burning a hole in me. We are halfway back to the manor, and there is no one around us. No sailors yelling at us to move, or passengers eyeing our dirty clothes with distaste. The quiet is both peaceful and intimidating.

"My mother died there," I blurt before I can change my mind. She left me and died there, is what I do not say. What I cannot say. The shame and guilt of not being enough for her still festers within me, and I cannot bring myself to face what Connor would think of it.

His eyes soften, and I steel myself for the pity that is to follow. But it doesn't come. Not from the boy who watched his mother burn.

Connor walks closer to me, each step careful and measured, and I feel my heart pound. He's going to ask me how she died. It's suddenly very difficult to breathe.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" he asks instead.

For that I have no answer. "I'm sorry."

He shakes his head, dismissing the apology. "Forget about it," he says, and I can tell that he means it. Maybe he's as tired of our silence as I am.

"Y-yeah," I stammer, almost falling over with relief. He offers a small smile, and continues trudging up the hill. I trail behind him, allowing the normalcy of my surroundings soothe me a little. Just a little.

I wonder how long I can keep the truth hidden.

*

Achilles is sitting in a chair when we enter, his face serene and smiling. "Welcome back."

"You left us in Boston!" Connor bursts.

"The training that we've done here is all well and good, but experience is by far a better teacher."

I snort, annoyed but unable to deny the truth in his words. "You could've at least left us a note."

"What of my father?" Connor presses on.

"Into the wind, I'm afraid."

"We have to find him!"

"And for what?" Achilles continues with maddening calm. "If you found him, you are but a boy with few months of training. He's a man full of years and skills. You cannot hope to defeat him now.

"If you two are going to stand any chance against the Templars, you're going to need these."

Connor stops his pacing at that, and I straighten in my seat. Achilles retrieves two wooden chests from the table, handing us one each. We open them wordlessly, stunned as we are at their contents. Two bracers lie side by side, both marked by a silver insignia of the Assassins. I don't need to pick them up to know that these are hidden blades, deadly weapons that emerge when triggered by the ingenious mechanism.

I remember my father wearing these. He would humor me by piercing apples with the blades mid-air, earning himself a fit of giggles. In fact, these look so much like my father's, they can't be...

"Are these...?"

"No," Achilles replies, shaking his head sadly. "They are lost."

Of course. They couldn't find his body. How foolish of me to hope.

"Go on, then," he says, rising to leave the room. "Before I change my mind." He pauses to squeeze my shoulder lightly, and I hold his arm. Thank you.

Connor has already fastened the buckles on both bracers. He holds them out for us to see, as if asking How do I look?

For once, I find myself at a loss for snarky remarks, because Connor looks good with the bracers. Not just good. Lethal. Dangerous. An Assassin born and bred.

I put on my own hidden blades, flicking both wrists to test the mechanism. The blades snap out with blinding speed, terrifying even to my own eyes. I've never used the weapon before, but it feels oddly familiar, as if it had been crafted for me. Aching to try them out, I look to Connor, who is grinning, and I know he feels the same.

"Care for a duel?"

Author's Note

A really short part, I know, but WOW! 100 views? I know it's nothing compared to others, but it means a lot to me. Thank you for reading, and I hope you stay tuned :)