Shiver

The Great Wicked

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Assassin's Creed nor any characters, they are intellectually property of Ubisoft. I make no money in this, I write for enjoyment.

Deaths eyes were cold and steely, they lacked all empathy and sympathy. Its breath sickeningly warm and smelled of vomit and whiskey as it breathed upon her face, she treated it with revulsion turning her head from it. But there was no escape, the harsh sting of a backhand and she felt something crack in her neck, her muscled screamed for mercy against the cruelties she had endured but there was none to be had. If she had doubted their convictions to extract whatever they could from her, those doubts were silenced the moment their whips began to speak for them, the questions wordless and torturous, as the leather strands carved their questions into the flesh of her back, over and over. Each scream turning more and more into animalistic howls of agony, as they continued their 'interrogation'.

If she did not scream, they would strike harder until their arms had no strength, then the whip was passed to the next man. If she screamed, they laughed and made sport of it, enjoying how her howls of agony sounded to them as a sweet symphony of victory. There was no in-between, no middle ground, no escape. She did not know how long this continued, mercifully she slipped into unconsciousness, cruelly that did not last. Once she went slack and her head hung as she blacked out, their smiles turned darker and their thoughts more viscous as they reached for the first bucket of water. Its contents ice cold thrown upon her burning flesh, to pull her from the depths of nothingness, she woke sputtering with a shriek. Then they reached for the second bucket, its contents more wicked. Her screams could be heard for miles, of this she was certain as the icy cold salt water feasted upon her wounds further enhancing her Hell. The Redcoats didn't care, it was a game to them, a game they were well versed to play, it would continue until she would tell them what they wanted to know or until she could scream no more.

"Were you thinking the whip was the worst we could do, savage?"

Yet, through this pain and the inhumanity of it all she had remained silent, somehow still alive, still trying to fight. But they liked that. The Redcoats liked a spirited woman, one whom looked upon them with a will to fight back be it physically or silently. One whom could be worn down, broken, taken. A prisoner for several days thus far and already she wished for death. If she had known what these creatures were capable of, then she would have forced them to kill her when they came upon her in the first place.

The harsh winter had settled over the colonies, the landscape covered in snow. The Redcoats could not believe their luck, when they came upon her traveling at sundown, the land growing darker and colder. A native woman, alone. A woman who knew the hills, the plains, the rivers and the mountains. Pure hatred radiated from these men, it was truly had to say which the British hated more, the colonials causing trouble or the natives who did what they pleased, causing more problems. They caused chaos wherever they went, adhered to no laws. Without a doubt she knew they looked upon her as a way to release that anger. Their eyes deep pits of blackness in which Hell itself seemed to burn, they gave chase once she realized what was happening. They were many and she was one, they overpowered her quickly. Screaming their demands to this solitary savage, all returned with a glare from her, this woman who seemed to have no fear. They knew this, and for that glare they all smiled knowingly, the best thing about a fearless prisoner was putting the fear into them.

Deep and angry welts decorated the once soft skin of her wrists and the ropes dug deeper, nearly to the bone, she thought. Deep purple and yellowing bruises adorned her shoulders at the joint from being wrapped around the post as the splinters of the unfinished wood dug deeper. Her feet covered with blisters and aching beyond all imagination as they had marched her across the unforgiving landscape to their fort. How many miles had she walked? She didn't know, but once the tall wooden beams of the walls were in sight, a voice spoke to her, telling her to steel herself and that once through those doors, the darkest hours lie before her.

The first beating was a simple one, in retrospect not so bad. Perhaps a few cracked ribs from their heavy boots digging their way into her sides, the contours of her face marred by bruises and cuts. Her hair jerked in every possible direction, the wind knocked out of her time and time again. Allowing her only a moment to recover and restore her breath before they did it again. If this was living then she longed to die. And how long would it last? How long until hurting her gave them no pleasure? Was such a thing possible? This had to be the end of it all, eventually they would execute her. Her death a warning, her badly tortured body thrown into the street to frighten the colonials, if you aid the revolution, you will loose your life.

Her voice raw and nearly gone, the men chuckled to themselves before musing aloud the prospect of warm food and a cup of tea. Monsters with delusions of standing. Their voices grew distant as the stairs creaked with their weight and the room was plunged into darkness once more, there was then silence and she breathed a haggard sigh of relief. She hung limply in her bonds, finally able to rest if only for a moment. The pain that coursed through her body was horrible, her shoulders ached from her hands being bound over head, her wrists having long ago become numb. The flesh on her back feeling as though it was being pulled from away, as the pain began to ebb a little bit. She couldn't see it, nor did she want to, she had seen wounds like hers before. Flesh ripped and torn, skin cut to pieces.

She could feel the blood beginning to clot, it dried on the frayed ends of her destroyed clothes, mercifully cool air from a draft cooling her screaming skin. She was alone.

Her sense of time was dull and foggy at best, with a mind clouded by pain, exhaustion, and hunger. She had guessed she'd been held prisoner maybe three days, her only way to track time was the soft light that streamed in through a small window. She was in the basement of a tavern or a store of some sort, she had no real idea of where they had taken her and thusly she had no hope of rescue or survival. She was so tired now, her body ached for sleep, eyes growing heavier and heavier as the moments passed. Fighting unconsciousness wasn't easy, she knew that even if she slept a few moments at best was all she would get. Another of the Redcoats wretched games was to give her long enough to fall into a deep sleep and then gently wake her with a bucket of ice cold water and perhaps a beating. A viscous circle. A dance to wear her down, even the strongest of wills had a breaking point, and it would only be a matter of time until hers snapped like a dry twig. Her will was strong, but for how long she couldn't say.

Lower and lower her head drooped as much as her restraints would permit, as the numbness of sleep began to ease her sufferings. Knowing full and well that sleep was in itself a trap, and only when she was vulnerable would it begin again. She hated these men. Hated this place, as delirium settled in, her mind swirled with the cruelties she would inflict upon them to repay their 'hospitality' if ever given a chance. These thoughts too were a trap of sorts, to become like them, without mercy, without compassion, she would be as they were. But no, she wouldn't become like them, wouldn't sell her soul for revenge.

She briefly thought of home. The warm birchbark lodges of her people, the comforting fires, the soft pallets she slept on, the simple conversation and happy laughter. Just a few minutes… Only a few…

OOO

The harsh snows and the encroaching storm masked his approach perfectly, as though the land itself was shielding him. His training both from his mentor and the ways of his people serving him well in his mission. He watched the fort most carefully, observing silently from his vantage point, searching for weaknesses, taking note of the men who patrolled, their arms and numbers, the buildings, its defenses. No man looks forward to being caught when he is meant to be silent and hidden. And it was the same with Connor, he was not a man of senseless violence and while his path was often a bloody one he avoided death if it was possible, preferring to be a man of peace. Looking upon the fortifications he briefly thought of the conversation that had lead him there.

OOO

The air was frigid and cold with a harsh wind blown in from the North, a promise of harder times to come. There had been nervous chatter drifting with the wind, he listened and watched.

"Alright, I've said nothing and I'll bear it no longer, something is wrong!" His English accent somewhat muddled.

The small group of men standing around the fire struggling to keep warm looking at him as though he'd grown a new head at this sudden outburst. "Calm yerself old man. Wha's wrong?"

"Chenoa!" Connor's ears pricked up as a dogs did when called by name. That was the woman Washington had spoken of.

"Old man, the woman walks here from God knows where. Perhaps she simply slept in?"

"Certainly could use a bit more sleep near a warm fire, eh boys?" The group chuckled loudly, the harshness of circumstances evident in their half forced laughter.

"No!" The man burst once more, silencing their laughter. "That's not the case! She's always here every morning after sunrise. Its mid-day now and she weren't here yesterday either!" He was deeply concerned and only growing more and more frantic as the seconds ticked by, doubt now penetrating each man as though a poison. The group descended into whispers and rumors quickly.

"Who's Cheenoa?" Asked one of the younger men, his accent leading to incorrectly pronouncing her name as he warmed his hands over the fire.

"It's Chenoa. She's a native medicine woman, comes here nearly everyday. Treats the men here for nothing, then she leaves again as the sun sets."

"Everyday?"

"Oui."

"Well," Another younger man voiced tentatively "On the way here, there was some rumors about a Redcoat platoon who had recently taken a prisoner. Some said it was an indian woman." A hush fell over the men as they exchanged nervous glances, not wanting to say what they all thought.

"Redcoats may 'ave her?" A nod from the younger man, then a deep sigh. "Well, if tha's the case then twas nice known' 'er." All eyes fell upon this man, shocked as his words. "Les not be daft, them Redcoats hate the natives more then they hate us. An she's a stubborn woman, they won't take kindly to that. Poor girl," The group fell quiet once more. "Hope they put 'er out of 'er misery, for 'er sake."

Connor presence had gone largely unnoticed but at hearing this dark prediction, he had heard enough. He seemed to emerge from nothingness as though a ghost, an intimidating figure under his deep cowl. "What do you know of her?" His voice authoritative and commanding, not a man to be crossed.

"Chenoa?" The men were, if not frightened at least caught off guard by Connor, he just appeared out of nowhere. "Well, she's a native, lives round here. From a tribe North East of here, Abenaki I think. She jus' showed up one day and fixed up a wounded battalion of men, fixed up right quick she did." The other men nodding profusely.

"She comes here every morning, stays till sundown then leaves again. Heads West."

"Where does she go when she leaves here?" Connor asked, gathering information useful to track her down.

"Well, no one really knows, she just comes and goes. No one asks her questions." It was evident that this woman was very highly thought of, the concern that fell over the men, very real. "Maybe something really is wrong."

"I 'ope them bloody Redcoats don't 'ave her, Lord knows what they'll do to her," The men turned to exchange nervous glances, and when they looked back the man in white had gone.

OOO

He now looked upon the small fort, having rationalized that this was the most likely place for her to be, his years of tracking serving him well. Leaving him with little in the way of doubts. There were very few installations nearby, he considered for a moment that this would not be easy, but then another thought: was it necessary?

He did not know this woman, and the only reason he felt it was his duty to be here in the first place was entirely because she was a native. Would he be doing this if she were a colonial? Of course not. Or would he? He was here because he was committed to his people and whatever her tribe he was greatly angered by those who would abuse his people. An image appeared in his mind that caused him revulsion, a defenseless woman left to the dark desires of wicked men, what had they done? What would they do? His mind was made up, he began his final approach on the fort, moving stealthily and swiftly, lips nearly curled into a snarl.

Rescue missions were not without blood, at some point he was seen and that was when the struggles truly began. Two dead guards, killed at their posts in silence were still two dead guards. Once the scent of blood was in the air a panic erupted. Those who did see him, swear they only caught a glimpses of a ghostly figure in white who moved with the speed of an animal. The alarm had been raised and men poured out of the buildings like a clueless swarm of insects. They knew he was there and they were searching for him.

OOO

It was only a moment, she could have sworn, only a moment when she closed her eyes, for what seemed a split second. The forceful sting of a slap to the side of her face, jerking her back feeling a resounding crack in her neck and shoulders. Still somewhat in shock over the force in which she was hit she didn't register what was happening, her binds were cut and she fell to the cold dirt floor.

"Who's yer friend?" An angry voice thick with poison spat, she was still dazed and unable to pick herself up, arms flailing about like a child who could not yet stand. "Who's sneaking around, looking fer you?" She looked up angrily at his and said nothing, in anger the man seized a handful of her hair obtaining a shriek from her "Militia? Regulars? Who?!" A moment of silence "Who's the bloke in white?!"

In a haggard voice, thick with anger and spirit she muttered "Wskiasesiz-ak piges!" She spat at him, some blood spraying on him, he didn't know what she had said but was fairly certain that he heard the word 'pig' he took out his pistol and used the butt of it and smashed it into her jaw. Her moment of fierce defiance would cost her dearly, he sent several hard kicks to her ribs, cracking them, knocking the wind out of her. Grabbing a fist full of her hair again and as an added measure of cruelty, he slapped her in the back as hard as he could, she screamed once more then struck the wall and everything went black.

OOO

Wskiasesiz-ak piges- A filthy pig

Alright! First things first, this is a re-post and re-write of my story, I thought it could use a quick make over, if you will. If you've already read it then awesome! If you reviewed, followed or favorites it then thanks! You guys are awesome, I've decided to take the story down a little bit darker of a path. Now that I'm rereading my original I've decided its a little too tame. So this is Shiver 2.0 or something to that effect.

Note: If you read my original then you will notice that I changed the tribe my OC, Chenoa is from. She was Powhatan but I really want to use more of the language and culture of said tribe and finding information on the Powhatan language is damn near impossible, so it's the Abenaki now, I also had too many people asking me if she was related to Pocahontas…

Also, I'm a little uncertain of that translation, it may not be perfect but if anyone knows anything about the Abenaki language or its structure, I'd love to talk to you!

Thanks for reading, stay tuned!

~Wicked