Retribution (An Assassin's Creed III story)

Nineteen: An Easy Decision

Davenport Homestead, 1776

Naomi

Connor didn't even say goodbye.

A man named Benjamin Talmadge brought news of Thomas Hickey's whereabouts a week ago, and Connor was all too happy to ride for New York with him. Achilles was the one who told me about this. If he is puzzled by our parting ways, he doesn't question me, though I suppose he put two and two together when I told him about Italy.

As I stand at the docks now, gazing out over the sea, the hurt from Connor's words resurfaces, making my heart tighten unexpectedly. I am no stranger to our arguments, but this doesn't feel like one. This isn't something I can fix with words and an apology. I'm not sure if this is something I can fix at all.

Though guilt resides within me, I feel no inclination to apologize. Connor, out of all people, should understand. He should understand my desire for vengeance. He should understand the need for retribution.

But he doesn't, and his absence now only cements the fact. I exhale a long breath, expelling all thoughts of Connor with it, and turn to bid Achilles goodbye.

"Take care of yourself, Achilles."

He frowns at me in disapproval, eyes boring into mine. "Is this really something you want to do?"

I don't allow Achilles to sow his seeds of doubt, as he's been trying to for the past few days. "It's something I need to do."

"Revenge cannot fill the hole in your heart, Naomi," he continues. I've heard the words many times, but they do little to sway me. "Revenge is a void."

"Then maybe it can engulf all my bitterness," I counter. "And my rage, and—"

"Shay Cormac did not kill your father out of spite." I expect Achilles to be frustrated, angry—maybe even disgusted like Connor, but his voice only carries a deep sense of disappointment. Somehow, I'd prefer the former. "His grief over the fallen cities blinded him."

I don't look at Achilles; I cannot allow my face to betray anything other than determination. The story is one I've known since childhood: Achilles, as Shay's mentor, wanted him to recover Precursor artifacts, but shifting the artifacts caused the destruction of whole cities. After witnessing the death of thousands, Shay's anger burned against the Brotherhood, so he vowed to kill every single one of them. And he did, with the help of none other than Grand Master Templar, Haytham Kenway, who is also Connor's father. Our families seem to be intertwined in the worst way possible.

"Then maybe my grief for my father blinds me," I reply coldly.

"Your father would not want this!" Achilles exclaims, and I think he's really starting to lose his temper. Yet I cannot bring myself to care. How can anyone compare losing one's temper to losing one's family?

My voice is harsh and icy, unrecognizable even to my own ears. "My father isn't here."

I hear Achilles sigh as I cross the gangway to board my ship. I think about my father's body in the depths of the Arctic ocean, my mother heaving her last breaths on the ground, and suddenly killing Shay Cormac tempts me more than ever. The idea erases Connor's rage and Achilles' disappointment from my mind.

"Naomi! NAOMI!" a voice shouts suddenly, stopping me in my tracks. "They're going to execute him!"

I whirl around to see Jacob, one of my Assassins, sprinting across the docks towards me. "What?"

"Dobby sent word. Connor's accused of plotting to murder Washington." He enunciates every word, willing me to understand. "He's headed for the gallows tomorrow."

I thought my thirst for vengeance had hollowed out every other need in me. I thought there was no room left in my heart for anything else besides the everlasting fire that can only be quenched by Cormac's death. It seems I am wrong. If Connor's life is the price I have to pay for my revenge, it is not a price I am willing to pay.

It seems that my heart does have room for something else. Or rather, someone.

Suddenly everything else becomes secondary—even Italy and Cormac. There is no doubt in me as I ride for New York with Achilles and Jacob. The decision is not a difficult one to make.

It is no decision at all.