Chapter 1 – Old Wounds

1784

There were days that the old wound in his side did not pain him, and Connor could go about his regular tasks at the manor with relative ease. This was not one of those days.

As he swung the axe toward the log on the chopping block, the injured muscle pulled sharply in protest, stealing the power from his swing and forcing a grunt from him. The axe head missed the log he was trying to chop, lodging itself in the tree stump, instead. Trying to pull the tool from the wood, he felt his side threaten to spasm again. Sometimes he would stubbornly try to work through his body's protests, but he decided this was not one of those days, either. The chopping wasn't going anywhere soon, anyways.

Wincing, Connor stood up and gingerly tried to stretch out his body while surveying his surroundings. Tall weeds, small shrubs, and sprouting saplings dotted the cleared area around Davenport Manor. Landscaping and grounds maintenance had not been a priority during these past several months of recuperation. Although sometimes Warren came over to help clear the yard, the wild forest was slowly trying to reclaim the settled land, as it had always done. Hack it down, push it back, but it always returned in the end. Who was that more emblematic of: the Assassins or the Templars? He pushed the thought from his head. Such questions were useless, and wasted time and energy better spent on other matters.

Yet, as he walked back to the house, he couldn't keep himself from mulling over familiar pains and frustrations that had plagued him. There were no more missions to distract him, and no Achilles to lend sage and sarcastic advice. This was the end of the road. The Templars were gone, but so were his people. Those he had worked to protect, who he had murdered his own father for, had turned on him. And, all he had to show for it, all he had left after years of training, effort, and sacrifice was a crippled body that could barely chop wood.

Stomping inside in frustration, he paused just inside the doorway. No, that wasn't fair. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, trying to push away the bitterness he felt. They were still alive, his people, and for that he should be thankful. They had moved, but survived and would continue to do so. Most of them anyways. A sharp lance of pain and guilt lashed through him, as he remembered Kanen'tό:kon, and the blood that still stained his hands. This could never be made right, not even if he killed Charles Lee a thousand times over. The problem was he wasn't sure who hated more. Charles Lee? Or himself? Lee may have been the one to deceive his friend, but Connor had been the one to slit his throat. He could never forgive himself for that. Moreover, did he truly want to?

For the first time in years, life was peaceful.

And, for the first time in years, he felt completely and utterly alone.

He was alone, and as much as he hated to admit it, he missed being an Assassin. At least when he was wearing the robes, he had a clear purpose for his existence. He missed that. However, during that time, he had never given much thought to what he would do once he had accomplished his goal. It had already been six months since he had finally taken down his wall of revenge and burned it all. At some point, he would have to move on…but to what? His tribe was gone. The homestead also felt less and less like home, even though he had helped build it to what it was today. It wasn't a question of whether or not they accepted him as part of their life. The residents there held nothing but respect for everything Connor had done for them over the years, and he had come to regard them as trusted friends. However, while they all had worked to start families, he had spent years tearing others apart. Even Templars had loved ones, many probably innocent, who thanks to him had probably been left behind to fend for themselves. The disconnect between the homesteaders' experiences and how they viewed life were something he didn't know how to reconcile. His heritage was something he felt more and more at odds with, each passing day. Colonists saw his features, the color of his skin, and declared him one of the "native." Yet, having failed his people, he felt even less now like a Kanien'kehá:ka than when he was a small child, chased and tormented by other children in his village calling him, "half-breed."

Not Assassin, not colonial, not Kanien'kehá:ka. What was he?

Connor marched upstairs stripping off his sweaty work clothes on the way. Feeling sorry for oneself never got anything accomplished. If he couldn't do any house work today, he was at least going to get some of his furs to market in Boston. Splashing his face with water, he scrubbed his neck and torso with a damp towel before changing into more town appropriate clothing.

A few hours later, he was winding his way through the city streets making his way to one of the trading posts on the South Side. It was still cool, but spring was starting to warm enough to bring more people outside to enjoy it. Outside a nearby tavern, he heard an angry shout. "YOU!" the voiced snarled. Connor instinctively reached for his tomahawk, just in case "you" meant him. However, the man who had started the commotion was scowling accusingly at his tablemate, "I buy you a round, and this is how you repay me?"

"Wot are ye goin' on about now?" the other man drawled.

The first man had greasy brown hair drawn back into a ponytail, and the look of a man who enjoyed picking fights. His red-headed companion did not appear much better, with a criss-cross of scars running the length of his forearms. Both had had just enough drink to be trouble, but not enough to be easily subdued. "You know what! Give me back my coin purse!" the first man shouted back.

"I ain't got yer damn purse, ye dumb git! I've been right here with ye the whole time! 'Ow would I have got it from ye?" the second man countered.

"Exactly! You'se is the only one who was with me this whole time. It had to have been you!" he reasoned.

"Fock off, mate! It weren't me, and ye've 'ad too much t' drink. Go walk it off," the second man waved his hand in dismissal.

"Oh, I'll fuck something up alright," the first man growled, while drawing a knife.

Connor groaned. He would have been happy to let the two men brawl out their disagreements on their own inside the tavern. But outside, the appearance of the knife was a threat to innocent passersby if their 'friendly disagreement' got out of control. Much to his own chagrin, the internal battle of whether to intervene or pass by quietly unfortunately did not last very long, and he found himself changing direction. Pulling his horse up to the tavern, Connor dismounted just in time for the man with the knife to lunge at his comrade. The other man threw his chair down in front of himself between the two, and swore, fumbling for his own knife. Before the first man had a chance to react, Connor came up behind him, grabbing his knife hand and twisting it sharply to the side. The man dropped the knife with a yelp and Connor quickly kicked it into the alleyway to the right of the tavern. "Who the fu-HURK!" gasped the man as Connor used his right hand to twist the man's arm behind his back, while throwing his left arm across the front of the man's neck in a warning chokehold.

"Sir, you should learn to have better table manners," he calmly stated to the struggling man in front of him.

"Hey! Get yer 'ands off me mate!" the second man cried, right before slugging Connor directly on his old wound.

Connor sank to his knees as his vision narrowed to a pinprick of light, wondering dully what kind of bizarre friendships involved knife fights, and if his injury could possibly have reopened from the impact. It certainly felt like it. Through blurred vision, he saw the man he had been holding wheel around to advance on him. Just as the man was about to attack, he suddenly jerked to the side. "AAH! What in the blazes?!" the freed man yelled. Spewing a coarse string of obscenities, he clutched the back of his head.

A small rock about two inches long tumbled to the ground just in front of Connor's kneeling form. The freed man wheeled around, looking to see where the rock had come from. "'AY!" his compatriot cried, clutching the side of his face.

Another rock tumbled to the ground to join the first. "Who the bloody devil is raining rocks on us?" the second man demanded.

A peal of giggles erupted from the rooftop to the right of the tavern. The assailants turned and looked up to see a few young boys with the faces of cherubs, and the laughter of devils begin pelting them with pebbles and small rocks. A larger stray rock glanced off Connor's shoulder, and hit him in the cheek. He winced. His small saviors could stand to work on their aim. "Why you little beggars! This is the last time you fuck with me! When I get my hands on you, I'm going to pull your insides right out your ass!"

In the midst of all the confusion, Connor felt strong hands reach under him and hoist him to his feet, dragging him away from the men while they were distracted. These same hands half-helped, half-threw Connor's body over his saddle, before slapping the horse's rump. The angry men turned around with a furious shout, just as the horse, already antsy from the brawl, took off. His vision still blurry, Connor couldn't get a clear look at who had been holding him, but managed to make out the form of another young boy with dark, shaggy hair in a grey cloak darting back down the right alleyway next to the tavern. The sounds of the ruckus faded as the horse galloped away, the motion causing the saddle horn to jostle his side painfully with each gait from where he lay across the horse's back.

Well, that had certainly escalated quickly. Connor fumbled blindly for the reins while trying to keep himself from falling off the saddle. The horse continued its speedy gallop down the main road, pedestrians fleeing from its path to avoid being trampled.

Ah yes, Connor thought to himself, the exciting life of the retired Master Assassin. There really is nothing like the exhilarating rush of riding ass-first through Boston in the middle of a fine spring day, after being saved from drunkards by children. He finally managed to get a secure grip on the reins, forcing the horse to a dead stop before sliding off the saddle, and sprawling unceremoniously in the dirt. It took a minute for his vision to clear. People were staring. Perhaps, it would be best to walk his horse to one of the trading posts on the other side of town, then take a different route out when he was done…

Some time later, a very tired, very sore, and very grumpy Connor limped into the General Store on the North side of Boston. "Good afternoon!" the shopkeeper greeted. "How can I help- goodness, Master Connor! What on earth happened to you?" she inquired, as she took in his disheveled state.

"Good afternoon, Miss Smith," Connor greeted, placing his bundle of furs on the counter, "I am sorry if my appearance is…unexpected, but I would rather not explain right now. If it is alright, I have goods for trade, then will be on my way."

"Tsk, tsk, always the staunch businessman," Miss Smith tutted, as she untied the bundle he had placed on the counter. Miss Smith was a short, cheerful woman with plump rosy cheeks. The daughter of the owner, she was a sharp business dealer, and formidable in how she ran a shop. "And how many furs do you have for me today?" she asked, as she began spreading the merchandise onto the counter to examine their quality.

"Fox, beaver, hare and raccoon, ten of each," Connor quantified.

The shopkeeper's brow furrowed in response, "I'm sorry Connor, but I think you're mistaken." Connor's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Not that I'm calling you a liar, mind you, or think that you're trying to pull one over on me, but you're a couple short. Perhaps you miscounted?" she replied.

"I do not understand," Connor truly did not, "what do you mean?"

"I mean you've only got nine of beaver and raccoon skins here. See for yourself," she gestured to the piles on the counter.

Connor stepped forward and counted each of the piles himself. Indeed, there were only nine each of beaver and raccoon skins. "My mistake," he said, confused, "It has been a long day. I must have miscounted, as you said."

Miss Smith chuckled, "Oh that's fine, dear. Happens all the time! I'm sure it's quite understandable, in your case. And, from the looks of things, I'd say miscounting is the least of your concerns, right now."

Connor blushed as she counted out the total sales to pay him. Before settling out the exchange, he picked out a few items requested by the Homestead residents: a couple spools of ribbons for Ellen, some herbs and a tonic for Dr. Lyle, gunpowder for Norris. Miss Smith packaged the items for him, and paid the remaining balance to him in cash. Even if they were a bit higher than the other store he had originally planned to stop by, the prices at this establishment were fair, so he did not usually bother haggling – a small blessing in light of the day's events. He thanked her for her help and went on his way.

As he saddled the horse with his new supplies outside, Connor felt the strange sensation of someone watching him. Fearing the tavern men from earlier might have found him, he did a quick scan of the area, and contemplated using his Other Sight to view his surroundings. He quickly dismissed that idea, since he was already tired, and using that vision was a bit draining. Mounting his horse, he decided to keep his guard up, just in case, riding away from the edge of town into the forest.

Today had been a rough day.