Retribution (An Assassin's Creed III story)

Twenty Seven: Deserve

Achilles waves a hand in the air, smiling sadly. "Your words were harsh, Connor, but there was also truth there. I failed the Order. Allowed the Templars to take control..."

Not wanting to intrude, I turn to leave. But just as I round the corner, Connor's words catch my ear, and I can't help but eavesdrop.

"But now their hold is weakened, which makes me believe there is a chance for peace. Imagine what might be accomplished if we were to unite."

"Why the change of heart? Where is this coming from?" Achilles' voice sharpens. "You've met your father, haven't you?"

"I do not claim to trust the man, or even like him," Connor retorts. "But... I would be remiss to ignore this opportunity."

"Haytham may listen, but will he understand? And if he does, will he agree?"

"Even he must admit that we can achieve more together than we do alone!"

Achilles doesn't agree, but he doesn't argue, either. "I assume you're off to find him?"

"Yes. I ride for New York to see what might be done."

I take that as my cue to leave before Connor finds me out. Sure enough, once I pretend to grab an apple from the kitchen, his broad figure looms in the doorway.

"I will head for New York to find my father," he says, leaning against the wall beside the stove. "See what can be discovered about the Loyalists' movements." Then his lips curve into dry half-smile. "But you already know that."

I straighten at the implication. "And you know I didn't kill Shay Cormac."

He's been listening, too, and doesn't deny it. Connor takes slow steps towards me, drawing out a long breath. When he speaks, he doesn't sound disappointed, only confused. "Why did you not tell me?"

Because I left you to kill him, and then I didn't. If our places were swapped, you would've finished him. Would I condemn him for that, knowing what I do about Cormac?

But "You didn't exactly ask" are the words that come out instead.

It is the truth. Connor had assumed Shay was dead, and for some reason, I never felt the urge to correct him. He arches an eyebrow at me now. "I suppose I did not."

A moment passes before he speaks again. "Are you happy now?" he asks. Not an accusation, thankfully; just genuine curiosity.

Happy. I never dared give the word a thought. Happy seems so impossible for someone like me, whose every breath could be her last. Whose loved ones' lives hang by a thread. Happy is not a word you ponder upon during war.

"I wouldn't say 'happy'," I reply carefully, "but at peace, yes."

"Then I am glad for you."

He breaks our gaze then, turning his eyes to the blaze in the hearth. I watch the fire paint his features in light and shadow, and suddenly he is all iron and stone—impenetrable, just like his resolve.

"Do you think it's possible, Connor? Peace?" I hear myself ask, the words woven with weary. Weariness of blood. Weariness of death. Weariness of this life that chose us.

His gaze returns, intent and searching. Reading me like he always does. "I think it is, when the war is won."

"And what happens after?" I continue, though I know he has no answers. "Whose victory will it be?"

He sighs heavily. I can tell that it's a question he's asked himself, perhaps more than once. "I do not know. Washington promises freedom and equality, though it seems one must look and talk like you in order to benefit," he nods at my pale skin. A contrast against his copper tones. "But as for my people, or those of color—I do not know what place we will have in the new world."

"Then why do you still fight for them?" I ask, the words tumbling out of their own accord. "Don't you think that perhaps they don't deserve you?"

My nightmares have changed ever since I met Shay. Instead of his face, I see Connor's, bloodied and lifeless. Dead for those who only see him as their weapon.

But Connor's expression shifts, his jaw tightening. Again I am reminded of stone. "It is not about deserve."

Then he rises sharply, ending our conversation. He doesn't meet my eyes as he walks away. "Are you coming?"

"No," I answer, though it pains me to. "I think you should speak to your father alone. Work things out with him."

His shoulders sag briefly—with disappointment or relief, I do not know. The sight claws at my chest, but I resist the urge to reach for him.

He nods curtly. "Look after Achilles."

"Connor!"

I call him just as he's about to leave the manor. He spins around, his face softening a little. I want to make him see that Washington is using him. I want to tell him that it is pointless to reason with Haytham, so set is his mind. I want to save him from the hurt both men might cause.

But the look on his face ties my tongue. It is the look of a boy who could not crush his hope; a man who will die before he gives up.

So instead I say, "Be careful."

He smiles a little at that. Words we tell each other but never really follow. "I will."

Author's Note

Hey readers, I hope you're staying safe and healthy in these mad times. Just so you know, I'm only left with a few more chapters before I finish writing the whole story (it's taken a long while, I know), so I'll be publishing them all together once I'm done. Again, thank you so so much for spending your time to read these words of my imagination. You're amazing.