Davenport Homestead, 1769
Naomi
I've been tossing and turning on my bed for a good half hour, but sleep refuses to come. I think it was because I slept well the night before, and the universe decided I shouldn't be doing that too often.
After getting up and out of bed, I lace my boots and strap on my shortsword. I'm particularly fond of this sword, probably because Achilles said it was left there by my father. So I claimed it as my own. It has never left my side since.
In my opinion, sleepless nights call for a good session of knife throwing. So I make my way downstairs as quietly as I can, careful to avoid the floorboards that I know would creak. One would eventually have the floorboards memorized after many nights of sneaking around.
When I pass by the window, I stop to glance at the stables. I've been doing that quite regularly after knowing that the boy took shelter there. Just to make sure he's not dead, I tell myself. I still don't like him.
Instead of the boy's huddled figure, I see the silhouette of two men through the rain, seemingly arguing. They turn abruptly, and I think the boy must've hollered them. Sure enough, there he is, with his shoulders squared and feet planted into the ground, readying himself for a fight. I'm confident that he can handle two pathetic bandits, so I start heading for the training room—but then I hear one of the men whistling loudly, calling for reinforcements.
Without even thinking to grab more weapons, I tear down the staircase and out the front door, plunging into the uneven battle between the boy and ten other bandits. The rain soaks through my clothes almost immediately, but I shrug off the chill. The adrenaline coursing through my veins is warm enough.
As I cut down one of the unsuspecting idiots, I see that the fight might not have been uneven at all, for the boy had already dealt with two of them, and their bodies lie unmoving at his feet. Noticing me, the bandits begin to taunt: "Best get outta 'ere, li'l girl, 'fore we cut ya to pieces!"
If there's anything I hate more than cleaning horse dung, it's being called 'little girl'. I swat away the bandit's musket and pierce him through the heart before he can even say "breeches". Much to my delight, I am rewarded with newfound terror in the others' eyes. As the fight begins, I feel the coldness of battle descend upon me, drowning out all other noises. Amidst parries and slashes, I catch glimpses of the boy and his tomahawk, the deadly weapon hacking mercilessly into the bandits, wielded by a deadlier fighter. Soon, bodies are scattered over the ground, soaking the earth with blood.
Out of nowhere, a large something hit me in the head, just as I was dealing with the last of them—or at least, what I thought was the last. The blow isn't enough to render me unconscious, but dazed, definitely. Before I can recover, someone knocks me to the ground, and a large boot connects with my ribcage. I try not to think about the crunching sound my broken ribs make.
Then I hear the boy grunt in pain, and realize they have him cornered too. Another similar crunch reaches my ears, and I look away from the sight of him being beaten bloody. Instead, I look up and see a brute towering over me, his hair sparse and teeth rotten.
I want to wipe the smirk off his face with a punch. Unfortunately, he has me disarmed and pinned to the ground.
The brute drags me to my feet, delivering another blow to my already injured stomach. "You boys deal with the savage! This one's mine," he growls, eyes darkening as they trail their slimy way down my body. Though I don't have much practice, I manage to spit squarely in his eye. I almost beam with pride.
"You little— "
But I never find out what the brute had meant to say. A glint of metal materializes from his chest, and a patch of scarlet spreads over his torso until he crashes to the ground.
Achilles stands before me, dagger gleaming in hand, looking both relieved and furious. I brace myself for a scolding, but it never comes.
"He could have killed you," he says instead. Then, unexpectedly, he retrieves the dagger tucked into my left boot. "Next time, it would be wise to use this sooner."
I want to tell him that I would've used it eventually, but he is already helping the boy up, who looks as if he expects Achilles to trip him again at any moment.
"Clean this up," the older man says, turning to leave. "Then..." he adds, glancing over his shoulder at the boy, "I suppose we should talk."
*
The last of the bodies land on the pile with a thump. I take a large piece of canvas and throw it over the wagon gladly—the sight of mangled bandits is not my favourite.
"Do we just leave them here?" the boy asks suddenly, surprising me.
I turn to look at him then. It's the first time I can fully take in the sight of him. The boy has jet-black hair that barely touches his collar, a strong frame and broad shoulders. His skin is tan, a few shades darker than mine, evidence of his ethnicity and hours spent outdoors. The garments he wears are simple, unlike those I associated with the Natives. The tomahawk hangs unsheathed on his belt, and I wonder if he's ever accidentally cut himself with it.
The boy examines me curiously, probably wondering if I heard him. Blinking away raindrops, I ask, despite his previous question, "What's your name?"
I actually have so many other questions: Why are you here? Where do you come from? Where did you get your tomahawk? But I decided on the simplest one instead.
The boy blinks several times, evidently surprised at my bluntness. "Ratonhnhaké:ton," he replies finally, and I let out a low whistle.
"Try saying it slower."
The boy seems to be thinking whether I was worth the effort of repeating his name. "Ra-doh-han-ge-don," he enunciates, slowly and loudly, then prepares to wince before I repeat after him. But I manage to pronounce his name rather satisfactorily, and I think he might be pleased.
"I'm Naomi," I say, extending my right hand. But Ratonhnhaké:ton remains unmoving, eyeing me quizzically. "You shake it," I explain, but he continues staring at me as if I'd sprouted three heads.
"Never mind," I sigh, and begin trudging up to the manor. Fortunately, he has the good sense to follow me. "And to answer your previous question, Yes, we leave them there. Achilles will contact some of the...doctors who wish to...examine human bodies further."
*
"You can leave your mat there, and—Oh, careful!" I catch the coat rack before it falls to its doom. "This whole place is falling apart."
Ratonhnhaké:ton pauses at the doorway, water dripping steadily from his soaked clothes onto the floor. It wasn't until Achilles gestured for him to sit that he moved to take the only other chair in the room, which breaks under his weight with a loud noise.
"Ah," I say, breaking the silence that ensued the fallen chair. "I did say the house was falling apart."
"Sorry," Ratonhnhaké:ton apologizes, shifting nervously on his feet. He seems to have a newfound interest in his toes. I watch as he bows his head, his curtain of wet, dark hair falling forward to shadow his face.
"Not your fault," says Achilles, motioning for him to sit on the floor. "My furniture has served its years, and some of them are even older than I.
"Now, what do they call you?"
"Ratonhnhaké:ton."
Achilles sucks in a breath. "Alright, I'm not going to even try and pronounce that." I smile to myself, silently glad that I'm able to do something Achilles will not. "Now, tell me why you're here."
Ratonhnhaké:ton retrieves a piece of parchment from his pocket, unfolds it carefully and holds it out for Achilles to see. "I was told to seek this symbol," he says.
I move closer to get a better look. Inked upon the piece of parchment, amidst several lines and swirls I cannot comprehend, is a symbol I know so well, I could've drawn it with my eyes closed. It is the symbol of the Assassins.
"Do you even know what that symbol represents?" Achilles asks. "Or what it is you're asking for?" His voice seemed to tighten with emotion, but the moment was so brief that I must've imagined it.
The boy shakes his head. "No."
"And yet here you are."
"The spirit said—That I've— "
"These spirits of yours have been harassing the Assassins for centuries," Achilles interrupts wearily. "Ever since Ezio uncorked the bottle—Ah, but you don't even know what an Assassin is, do you?"
The boy hesitates before shaking his head again. I get the feeling he doesn't like to be proven ignorant.
"Well," Achilles says, "best get settled in, then. I've got a story to tell, and it's going to be a while to get it all out. You may go to bed, Naomi, if you like," he adds.
Ratonhnhaké:ton looks at me then, as if suddenly remembering that I was still there. "Gladly," I say, eager to be rid of this boy who keeps looking at me like I'm a different species. "Goodnight."
*
Before the sun has fully shown its rays, I awake to the sound of someone chopping firewood. Achilles usually makes me do the chore. Perhaps the boy isn't so bad, after all.
"Morning."
Ratonhnhaké:ton looks up at me uncertainly, as if unsure whether 'good morning' means 'go make breakfast' or 'feed the horses'. Achilles must've given him a fresh set of clothes, seeing as his traditional garments have been replaced by a faded shirt and worn cotton trousers. The pale sunlight falls on his defined figure, reminding of the lethal strength he displayed the night before. I make a mental note to myself not to get on his bad side.
"To you as well," he finally decides to reply.
"So, he said he'll train you?" I ask, tying my long, brown curls impatiently back into a knot.
"Yes." He looks as happy as one can be without smiling.
"Are you going to be doing this every day?" I ask, jerking my chin towards the pile of firewood on the ground.
The boy's eyes widen. "Am I supposed to?"
"Of course!" I reply, with a little more enthusiasm than normal. I almost skip back to the manor, eager to indulge in a warm bowl of oatmeal. Pausing on the porch, I flash a grin at the confused boy before shutting the door behind me.
Unfortunately, Ratonhnhaké:ton soon finds out that there are many tasks I claimed he simply must do, before I got told off by Achilles for "making a slave out of the boy".
Author's Note
Sorry for re-publishing so many times. I've only just realized that there were so many grammatical errors! Feel free to let me know how I can improve my writing, if you find the story boring, etc. Also, if you've never played or read AC3 before this, the next bonus chapter will explain more about the Templar-Assassin conflict and Ratonhnhaké:ton's background. Thank you for reading! Peace!