So it's been a long long time since I updated anything and it seems I've lost my writing groove. With hope, this will get it back. Quick one-shot set after the events of AC3. Rate and review and I'll begin working on the other novels I've begun. Enjoy!
I don't own Assassin's Creed 3 or its characters.
It's any other day.
The knife cuts effortlessly through the flesh of the onion.
His side pains him but it's any other day. The wound will heal as Dr. White has assured him countlessly times. The ache will dull with time and it will nothing more than a scar. A lingering memory etched upon his skin.
It's any other day.
His hair has begun to grow, a prickly stubble covering the sides shaved symbolically before he faced his greatest foe. With time, it will be long enough to tie back with the rest of his raven locks. Or perhaps he will shave it soon. He does not have to decide now.
It's any other day.
He supervises the Assassin's Guild from afar in the comforts of his Homestead. He marvels at how large the Order has grown since its start nearly a decade before. Stephane reports to him the inner workings and details once a week. Perhaps once his side heals, he will journey to Boston to see the recruits himself.
It's any other day.
His mission is complete. Yesterday he burnt the remains of years worth of hunting and tracking his targets. Within those ashes lie the remains of the Templar Order and he finds satisfaction in this knowledge with no small amount of difficulty. He knows this was the only way for it end but a tiny voice constantly remains with him whispering, "It was a mistake."
It's any other day.
The sorrow he feels when he finds his village cold and abandon. West the stranger had told him. Sent west by the very people who were sworn to protect them from harm. Betrayal doesn't beginning to describe what he feels as he wonders through the empty grounds, stumbling upon a doll left behind. His heart mourns for the little girl as he picks her up. He promised with his life to protect and preserve his people and their way of life and he led them into the hands of those who wished to destroy them. Guilt can't portray how he heart constricts as he gazes at the large knoll where his mother's lodge used to stand. A small dusting of foliage covers the hill and he collapses before the burial mound.
Ista, I have failed you. They have succeeded in taking this lands. Our people are gone.
I am alone now.
His vision blurs and he struggles to contain his sobs, but they escape as gasping little cries of sorrow, tears slowly streaming down his face. He tries to keep his composure, to maintain the mask he hides behind to protect him from the horrors of this world, to resist the temptation to crack beneath the burden he carries. The wind whispers to him, its soothing voice holding the one comfort he was afforded in life.
Let go, my son.
Let it go.
The words trigger such a reaction from him and he nearly scares himself as he lets out a heart-wrenching wail of sorrow. How long had it been since he cried without abandon? He beat at the earth, digging his fingers in its brown warmth and flinging it everywhere, screaming every obscenity he knows in English and his foreign tongue. Cursing every instance and occurrence in his life to bring him where he is now. A bitter young man whose foolish vendetta to bring justice for all only succeeded in removal of his people and his consequent abandonment.
He breathes heavily, hands balled by his sides into fists and holding the russet soil of his people's lands. The doll remains next to the mound, untouched for the exception of freshly sprinkled dirt on her dark hair. He picks her up gingerly, cradling her in his large palms as he inspects the doll. Old but well taken care of, the owner must have been in a hurry to leave such valuable cargo behind. Another fact that doesn't escape him lightly and he sighs deeply before rising to his feet.
Forgive me, Ista.
He dries his face and wipes the dirt soiling his white robes in a pitiful attempt to forgo washing them in the stream in the Homestead. He carries the doll to his chest as he exits the place he called home for most of his childhood, passing the stranger in furs by the fire. The man eyes him with a concerned countenance, his mouth opening and then closing as if debating whether he should ask a question he already knows the answer to. He blushes contritely, painting high cheekbones a soft pink as he smiles softly and nods. The man returns the gestures and wishes him a safe journey back home to which he thanks him and he's atop his horse and riding towards Davenport, the corn husk doll resting at the very top of his saddle bag.
It's any other day.
The soup is almost done. He expects her within the next ten minutes to come bounding into the kitchen, eager to try his legendary rabbit stew. It's her favorite and he always prepares it when she comes to visit. He now has time to pursue a relationship with a woman and it overjoys and perplexes him that she reciprocates his attentions towards her. He finds her as thrilling as she is aggravating and one complaint he's never voiced is boredom. She keeps him on his toes, never truly predictable in her ways and method. He wonders if their children will inherit her vivacious personality and vicarious view of life. He shakes his head and returns his focus to cutting the last of the vegetables. Thoughts to dwell on another day. He hears commotion from outside the door in the dining room and smiles ruefully.
She's early.
She bursts through the white double doors, a gleam in her eyes and the corners of full rosy lips curled into a mischievous grin. He raises an eyebrow in question and she grins wider, approaching him as a predator does her prey. He doesn't even have time to flinch as she pounces on him, arms wrapped firmly about his neck and legs locked about his waist, lips on his and tongue slipping into his mouth. He groans against her, hands cupping her bottom to support her as she kisses her way down his neck. It shouldn't be this easy for her to arouse him, distract him and make him do nothing more than lie with her. It was her last night and he understood the reasons behind such bold and provocative behavior, but it did not mean he fully appreciated it, especially when he'd slaved over such a fine meal.
"Wait."
She began working on the buttons to his shirt, tongue tracing the scars of old left by blades and mistakes.
"Wait, woman."
She studied him curiously, her petite hands resting on his chest as hers rose and fell with each rapid breath. Her hazel eyes were darkened with desire and she bit her bottom lip, a telling sign of her nervousness and anxiety. Curly ebony locks framed her angular face, cascading down her chest and back and her cheeks were flushed a bright pink. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply in attempt to regain his composure, a hiss leaving his throat as she shifted against him. Her smirk was absolutely wicked. She rolled her hips against his and wrapped her arms around his neck, hands threading into his hair, drawing herself into him as she teased him mercilessly.
"You need to shave."
He didn't even hear her, his mind too far gone and overcome with lust to even comprehend. The friction unbearable, he crushed her to his frame with a growl, his mouth over hers and tongues twirling and twisting against each other as he carried her from the kitchen to his bedroom, intent on making love to her until neither one could move.
"The soup, mon amour."
"It can wait. It will be here when we finish."
He silences her with his lips, any protest or inhibitions long forgotten as she lies beneath with long lean legs wrapped around his waist, his weight settled comfortably in between her thighs as he hovers above her, their hands by her head, fingers entwined.
It's any other day.
He stands on the balcony of the Davenport Manor. The day has yet to begin, night slowly beginning its retreat as the sun's rays peak over the horizon. He contemplates his life, questions his motives, mulls over where he is now. He sighs deeply and glances over his shoulder, his lover still resting peacefully and modestly covered by the blankets. He thanks Hahgwehdiyu for bestowing such a beautiful woman upon him and prays he never takes her away from him. One day he will make her an honest woman and marry her. Once the Templar threat is over, he will settle down and father children with her, perhaps three or four little ones. He stretches sore muscles, joints popping and bones cracking, and he groans in discomfort. He returns to bed nude and reclines next to his bedmate, burying his face into her hair as he drapes an arm over her waist and drags her closer. She smells of exotic spices with the pine of the surrounding forest and he can't help but grin as she stirs and mumbles something irritably in her sleep.
"Konoronhkwa."
"Mmmmm... Je t'aime."
It's any other day. He has endured much sorrow and hardship throughout his years walking this Earth. But as he looks around and sees all the love and support surrounding him, he feels blessed to wake up to see another sunrise, his lover's bright smile, the corn husk doll he will one day give to his daughter, the harbor housing the Aquila, his Homestead grow as more settlers come, the birth of his first son, and the death of his friend and mentor.
It's any other day and he's glad to be alive.
I like this ending better. Connor needs some happiness after all the crap he's been through. The woman Connor is with is obviously Aveline (I ship them too hard lol) but I made it ambiguous enough for those who don't care for that to picture someone... kinda. So I hope you enjoyed. Until next time.