"Any particular boy in town that has caught your eye Connor?"
A short-story reply to an ask on the ask blog connorfemway on tumblr.
Enjoy.
They met in a way that was less than ideal.
Taking a 'swim' in the Boston harbor was hardly the way Connor had hoped to meet this fellow, and she was sure that his thoughts were mutual. To her surprise, the man comes up out of the water with a smile spreading across his face, from ear to ear.
"Gods, woman!" the mysterious man laughs, bobbing in the water as he searches for his tricorn hat, "Where is the fire?"
"What?" she spits some water out of her mouth, gazing over at him in confusion. This expression flies right over her head.
"Hold a moment-" the man, still wearing his smile, dives beneath the water's surface.
Her shivering fingers find the wood of the docks, but she does not climb up. Not without the person she knocked into the water. People begin to disperse from the edge of the dock once they notice both people are fine and have not been hurt. It helps to relieve Connor's nervous fidgeting – what a fool she is, she can't help but think. To knock this man into the freezing Boston harbor in her rush! The Assassin lets her forehead fall against the wooden siding she clings to, scorning her horrible luck.
The man reappears, almost directly at her side. The Assassin's eyes widen, but she eases as he puts his hat on his head.
"My, what a trip we have taken," the Assassin could see no possible way this man could be so happy. This water was freezing, the man nearly lost his hat… and yet, he wore his smile and the look in his eyes was genuinely kind. His hands find the dock siding close to where she grips it.
"I am sorry," she states, unsure of how to approach the situation. He seemed to like taking swims in the Boston harbor during winter..? It is hard to meet his eyes, so instead she surveys what of his outfit she can see. To her dismay, he is not dressed as a civilian, nor a soldier – he wears the attire of a politician.
"Accidents happen," the man chuckles, his own teeth now chattering, "Perhaps we might get out of this water and find a place to discuss this?"
A prime idea, the freezing Assassin thinks. Without waiting for the man she begins to climb up the siding. The man looks surprised when she reaches the top, offers her hand.
"You're… certainly not like other women I've happened to run into," he mentions casually, reaching out and taking her hand. More confusion arises in the Assassin's mind - she wore her Assassin's robes, padded at the waist and shoulders. How could he tell that she was female and not male?
The regulars had ceased their chase upon her disappearance into the water. They must not have noticed her crash into the stray politician. As she pulls him from the harbor, the native is careful to observe the surroundings. Her notoriety was not low. Even from this distance she could hear criers chanting about a native who had slaughtered the captain of a nearby fort.
"Come, I know a place we might go," the man pulls her thoughts away from the regulars. Together they stand on frozen legs, "I would prefer we hurry, but you seem quite good at that already, Miss...?"
Connor is slow to catch on. She analyzes the last word as they take their first, frozen steps.
"Connor," she concludes with little assurance, as though she had to convince herself of that fact as well.
The man's smile never seems to reach its limits.
"Do not kid me. Is that truly your name?" the Assassin can only look forward, fast walking on stiff legs. The man seems to have some trouble keeping up with her, but she is forced to slow down when the man refuses to release the hand used to help him from the waters. They maneuver through thick crowds of people wrapped in wool garments. Light snow falls from the white and gray skies, dusting the ground upon which these city dwellers trod. "I do not believe it."
"...Ratonhnhaké:ton," she regrets telling him her name immediately - the look on his face tells her that he, like many others, would have no hope of pronouncing her true name.
"You are… extraordinary," his voice has lowered, and moments after he falls into silence. His eyes never leave her, curious in nature. The Assassin persists in ignoring his invasive gaze.
The tavern they arrive at is full, but the man insists that this is the best place to dry off and to relax. Barmaids move about the crowds of men who wave their tankards about. This tavern is familiar to Connor, but she does not remember when she could have come here before.
"Any more walking and my legs could fall off," He puts in, and the Assassin nods her dismissive agreement. Their hands finally come apart.
Together they take up seats in front of the large fireplace along the eastern wall. The air here is friendly, the claustrophobia induced by winter severe. Connor picks at her wet clothing, edging her chair closer to the fire in attempts to dry off faster.
This whole situation was rather embarrassing. There was no doubt that she had reparations to make.
"I did not ask for your name," the native realizes aloud. Her eyes fall on the man who has removed his soaked coat and hat and set them over the back of the chair to dry. He has deep brown hair that is tied back in a small ponytail behind his head. Some of this hair has come loose and now sticks to his face and neck. In the light and out of the panic of the winter weather, Connor now realizes that this man, like the tavern in which they sit, is familiar.
"My name is Samuel. It is a pleasure to meet you… Connor," the man is in disbelief, but despite this he holds out his hand. The native is apprehensive to shake it, taking an extra moment before she reaches out to meet their hands.
Instead of taking her hand and shaking it, Samuel takes the hand in his with delicacy. He lifts her hand to his lips and presses a kiss to the back.
"I hope you do not mind," he says, lips still hovering over the hand she has yet to pull away out of simple surprise, "You do not appear to be the most lady-like, but you are a lady nonetheless."
"I would not agree," finally the hand is pulled away. The spot where his lips lingered tingles with the warmth. The Assassin folds her arms over her chest, tucking the kissed hand beneath her arm to try to warm it, rid it of the tingling sensation.
"As you wish," Samuel nods, "Might I now inquire about our surprise swim?"
It is hard for the Assassin to not appear flustered by these words. Luckily the pointed hood over her face hides this expression from Samuel's view.
"I was being pursued," her exasperated sigh interrupts the sentence, "by regulars."
"Well now..." he leans back in his chair, crosses one of his legs in the shape of a triangle in his lap. He rests his elbow on the arm of the chair and strokes his chin, observing her as she directs her line of sight to the fire that steadily warms them. The buzz of the tavern, the laughter of the drunkards and the shouting of lost bets occupies the empty air between them.
"I had not meant to involve you," Connor adds, "I was not looking forward as I ran."
"I am certain of that," the man nods in agreement. The smile has yet to disappear, and now takes the form of a slight upturn at the right corner of his lips. "As I have said, accidents do happen. Regulars aren't men to be trifled with, after all. May I inquire as to why they were chasing you?"
"I am not unfamiliar with their ways," the Assassin gazes about the tavern, glad to see that there were no off-duty regulars within this place so that she might talk freely, "As a friend of mine has said to me once before, their bark is bigger than their bite."
"I assume you speak from experience and not just metaphorically," Samuel's eyes fall to the many weapons adorning the Assassin. The tomahawk, the pistol, the bow and arrows strung over her back and shoulders. The blade strapped beneath her left wrist.
"I do," she clears her throat, "I would like to remedy the mistake I have made."
"But you have made no mistake," the man raises a palm to the ceiling. The Assassin's eyes narrow. He looked far more genuine than she wanted to believe.
"Perhaps you might notice the puddle at your feet and think otherwise," her tone is a little more sassy than she might have liked it to be. Perhaps it was heritage's influence.
Samuel nods his head slowly, the smile finally disappearing. It is replaced by relaxed features. The politician taps his fingers three times on his own chin.
"Do you know how to dance, Connor?" this question throws the Assassin's thought process off its tracks. Her facial expression reflects this incredulousness.
"No," it is now that the Assassin hears the music in the background. In the back corner of the tavern men sit and play instruments, overshadowed by the drawl and thump of the rest of the tavern.
"Every word you speak only serves to intrigue me more," the man leans forward in his seat, resting his elbows upon the legs he uncrosses. His feet are planted firmly upon the wooden floor. "Might I teach you, then?"
"I would not think that now is a proper time for such a lesson," audibly flustered, the Assassin keeps her gaze planted on the fire. It seemed as though this man's aim was to run in circles, to knock her off of every thought process or conversation track that might lead her to an early leave from his presence.
"On the contrary, there has never been a more perfect time for one," the man stands up, clothing dry enough so that he can move comfortably. He offers his hand to the agitated and wholeheartedly reluctant native, "And if you are so inclined to think otherwise, then consider this reparation for the little harm you have done me."
This persistence was unfounded, and Connor can hardly agree. The man wanted to teach her how to dance, when it was he who had been knocked into the water? Why do her a service as reparation for a wrongdoing done to him?
"You are so concerned with how 'extraordinary' I am that you hardly take time to look at yourself and see the same," she takes his hand and stands, lets him lead her through the jam-packed tavern.
"I am not so much concerned with myself as I am with others. It appears you and I are the same in that respect." his gaze turns from her to the men who play the music. They play quietly, as nobody seems interested. That is, until Samuel approaches them wearing his contagious smile.
"Would you all be so kind as to play something slow? The lady is learning to dance," his hand disappears into his pockets and the men have coins placed into their hands. They don't recognize a lady about, as Connor is still covered by the hood and robes of the Assassin, but do as Samuel wishes and begin to play a slower tune on their different instruments.
"We've not much room to work with," the man stands only inches apart from Connor, "Follow my instructions and steps carefully and we should be fine."
"What would you have me do?" the Assassin bites back a degree of sarcasm that threatens to permeate her voice.
"Let me lead you," he says simply. Her hands are taken up into his, and adjusted as he explains, "A lady will put her arm here, about the shoulders of the man she dances with. She will rest her other hand in his, like so."
Luckily Samuel did not have height on his side. He was only a couple of inches taller than she. The Assassin's hand rests on the back of the politician's neck, her other hand gripping his palm, and will not relax it despite his probing to do so.
"A man leads a lady in dance, with his arm around her," the Assassin's posture stiffens considerably as Samuel's arm wraps around her waist, pulling them much closer than she had thought they would come. The native had little to no knowledge of the way the people of the colonies liked to dance, outside of the few times she had watched homesteaders dance while drunk at the inn.
Their faces are only inches apart. It is now that Connor notices something she had not noticed before.
Samuel's eyes were the most brilliant shade of blue she had ever seen before. Her people had dark eyes, browns and greens and hazels. But this man's eyes were light as the clear skies on a sunny day. Light as the waters of the ocean near which she dwelled. Connor had not thought eyes could be such a brilliant color. It was alluring, entrancing to stare into them.
"Connor, you must relax," the man probes the obviously distracted woman. The Assassin realizes how stiff she is and forces herself into relaxation. "I take it you have never danced with anybody, ever?"
"I have not had the interest nor the time," her answer is brief, and she nods her head for him to continue in his lesson.
"Pity," his voice has lowered so that they might listen more closely to the music that plays, "But it is only better for me, perhaps. I've the honor of teaching you. Now, follow my steps."
The man takes a step to his left, in which Connor follows awkwardly to her right. His next step is taken back, and she follows by stepping forward, posture stiffening up.
"Easy," he says several times as they practice stepping together, letting her adjust to the rhythm of the music. But seeing as how she refuses to relax, he continues on in conversation.
"Tell me about where you are from," he offers as she steps on his toes, her foot bouncing back and breaking their rhythm. The Assassin's brows are knit together in concentration.
"Out on the frontier, there is a homestead which I care for," she begins, but he shakes his head.
"Not where you live. Where you are from."
"Kanatahséton," she pauses, their steps falling into the proper rhythm again. "It is a village at the bottom of a valley, by the ocean."
"Keep talking," he pulls her closer with his arm, to the point that their fronts are pressed together. The Assassin doesn't stiffen this time, though, as her thoughts wander to her home village.
"I lived there for a long time," she picks and chooses things she wants to say, "But the expansion of the colonies has threatened my people."
"You aim to protect them," he nods, as though he understands.
"Yes. Always."
The Assassin is quick to learn, letting Samuel lead them as they step and sway to the music. She is oblivious to the eyes that watch them, and to the people who have also partnered up and begun to dance nearby.
"Which side do you support, then?"
"Those who seek to free the colonies from the control of the crown," she looks over Samuel's shoulder at those who play the music. It is quickening in its pace, becoming more of a jolly tavern tune, as it should be. In turn, their dancing has become quicker, the steps faster, "The men who fight to make this country free understand my cause and seek to aid me."
"Washington is quite the man, is he not?" Samuel's expression is indicative of a friendship with the Commander.
"He is the man the people want and need. He is a good, noble man," Connor nods, "He is looked up to by many of the men who work to make this country free. Samuel Adams has told me many a tale of his feats."
When her dancing partner falls silent, Connor puts her gaze back on his face. His smile is toothy, on the brink of laughter.
"How did I not recognize you?" he chuckles, suddenly releasing the Assassin's waist. His arm moves up and over, her hand still locked in his, to twirl her. Connor gasps in surprise, a moment later brought back to her partner's chest, arm locking around his shoulders again. It was hardly graceful, but a good start.
"Perhaps some warning-"
"You are the woman my father has told stories of. The native woman who dumped the tea into the harbor." the man is exuberant with this news, and it takes a few moments for Connor to piece this puzzle together herself.
It was no wonder the man looked so familiar.
"You are the son of Sam Adams?" she is received with a nod, "I was not aware he had a family."
"It is only I and my sister left. Our other siblings passed young."
As the time passes, the two dance and exchange words about the man's father, the woman's friend. They try different moves mid-step, but Connor is still clumsy and cannot appropriately perform half of the steps needed.
Samuel is the first to tire, stamina not nearly on the level of his dancing partner's. They return to their seats near the fireplace as others in the tavern dance in their stead. Many of those inside have gathered about the musicians, relieving the claustrophobia near where they had sat before.
"You are certainly not bad," the coat and hat that sit on the back of the chair have dried, and Samuel puts both on, tipping the hat low over his face. The Assassin doesn't bother to sit down, knowing the time was late and the man likely had business to attend. And, really, she did as well. "You will need to practice, though, if you hope to improve."
"I shall keep that in mind," she weaves her fingers together, arms at ninety degree angles at her sides. The two make their way out into the cold. Fattened snowflakes fall and dance in the winds that tug at their clothing.
The third Samuel of the Adams lineage stands before Connor wearing his kind, ever-persistent smile. This time, the Assassin offers one in return.
"I am glad to have met you, and thank you for the dance. I hope our paths cross again soon," he places his hands on her upper arms, squeezing lightly to display the affection that is apparent in his gaze. "I only hope that your future endeavors keep you safe until that time comes."
"The same to you."
Samuel tips his hat to the Assassin, who nods her own goodbye. He turns to leave, and she notices the way he walks is similar to his father. A gait that carries purpose and dignity.
Once he has disappeared and the image of ocean-blue eyes has finally faded away, Connor finally places her attention on the surroundings. It is now she notices the man who lingers beneath a canopy across the snow-covered street.
The Assassin's eyes narrow, blade hand stiffening. At the moment she takes her first step into the street, a carriage passes in front of her, parting the snow and obstructing her vision. When it passes, the Grandmaster Templar is gone from her view, and she wonders if it was just her mind playing tricks.