A/N: This chapter was so fun to write and I'm so excited to give you guys another update! Just to remind everyone, I LOVE to talk to my reviewers, so if you want to ask questions or chat about anything, I'd be more than happy to reply I've been trying to find a good image for this story, but I've failed miserably -_- after Christmas I'm going to buy some type of Photoshop and try to come up with something. Anyways, happy late Thanksgiving! I'm thankful for my family, my health, the Walking Dead and Connor Kenway and Daryl Dixon xD Enjoy, and thanks for reading!
Homunculus7SIN – Your review seriously made my whole day :D You are so kind, thank you! I tried to make Meela with a good balance between her personality and experiences, so it's nice to know I'm doing a good job.
Barbs-Criatividade Zero – Meela will be interacting with a LOT of the Homestead missions by herself. Thank you for your review!
Alpha Lima One – Here you go
Legionary Prime – I know! I thought after Ezio's story, with him being such a ladies man, Connor would get some loving, but I guess not -_- Thanks for the review!
Defloria – Thank you, I'm so glad you like it!
Altair87 – Thank you for your review
Mehila – Aww, thank you so much!
Birdy Main – xD Thank you!
"Kimimeela…" Ratohnhakéton murmurs, voice dazed, and glee flashes in his eyes for only a split second before his eyebrows knit in worry, "Why are you here? Is the village alright?"
Instead of replying, I throw my good arm around his neck and hug him tightly. Ratohnhakéton hesitantly chuckles before holding me softly and whispers something in my ear, but my attempts to still my quivering lip has overtaken my senses. Ratohnhakéton leans away too soon, and I would have pulled him back if I had the energy. Thankfully, he doesn't question my reasons for leaving the village… yet.
"We need to get you to a doctor," He says with a smirk, "Only you could lose this much blood in this amount of time."
"Are you mocking me?" I ask jokingly and raise an eyebrow, "Trust me, I've come way too far to hear this."
Ratohnhakéton laughs and smiles brightly, the moon shining around us giving me a clear view of his face. His jawline is sharp, nose broad, and his skin is only a few shades darker than mine. His hair is neatly pulled back into a ponytail with a small braid near his ear. The muscles under his robes strain against the white and blue fabric as he stands, his brown eyes darting to the opening of the alleyway and then back to me. I could have never imagined him looking so… manly.
"I know a place we can go," He decides with a curt nod, "Can you walk?"
"It's my shoulder that's hurt, Ratohnhakéton," I reply, "Or would you rather go by 'Connor'?"
Ratohnhakéton stiffens and narrows his eyes, all happiness instantly erasing from his expression. His fists clench at his sides, and he asks in a cold voice, "How do you know of that?"
"I met Achilles on my way here…" I answer, cringing from his bitter tone, "I thought you'd be happy to see me and-"
"I am happy to see you, Meela, I am," He intervenes and sighs deeply, "We've got a lot to discuss, don't we?"
"Kind of," I say, "Now, about that doctor…"
"Oh, right, the doctor," Ratohnhakéton remembers. He steps forward and grasps my forearm and helps me onto my feet with a mere simple tug. My feet tingle from the loss of blood as I reach down to grab my sickle and I would have toppled over if Ratohnhakéton had let go, but his large hand still holds my arm tightly, "So I guess you can't walk."
"I can walk!" I exclaim, "Just give me a few seconds to get used to the feeling."
"We don't have a few seconds," Ratohnhakéton says, and before I can object, he slides one arm under my knees and one around my back and lifts me into the air and against his chest with ease. I yelp at the change in elevation and clap my hand over my mouth, glancing sheepishly at Ratohnhakéton who shakes his head with amusement. To stray from raising suspicion, Ratohnhakéton travels through the alleyways and among the shadows, just as Achilles said. I look up at Ratohnhakéton and tilt my head, and he snorts and asks, "What?"
"You never answered my question. Do you want me to call you Ratohnhakéton or Connor? It's going to take some time for me to get 'Connor' down, just so you know." I answer.
"If you really want to try, I prefer Connor." Connor says, stopping to peek around the corner of an old workshop before continuing onward.
"How was that name chosen? Why was it chosen?" I ask, all the questions I've been cooking up just coming out one by one, "How'd you meet Achilles? How long have you known-"
"We'll have time for questions later, I promise!" Connor insists with a grin. I sigh and fiddle with a button from his robes, and he glances down at me quickly before looking back up to see the direction in which he's walking.
"Achilles personally wanted you to tell me of the 'Creed', whatever that is." I mumble quietly, hoping he won't be mad for my constant rambling. Connor stills, his pace slowing as he processes my words.
"Here's the clinic." He says instead, completely ignoring my statement. We stand in front of a dank white building with green shutters and an overly-sized brown door. Flasks of whiskey and alcohol lay carelessly around our feet, and Connor kicks a bottle out of his way as he steps forward and knocks at the door. We wait in silence, a minute passing before he cracks at the door again.
"Oh, shut up out there, I'm coming, I'm coming!" A scraggly, muffled voice cries from inside, "God, can't a man get two hours of sleep in this blasted city?"
The door swings open and a man as thin as a twig stands inside, his eyes squinting behind thick glasses. He wears a blue robe, and in his hand he holds a bottle of rum, "Connor, is that you? Who is this? What happened?"
"Drinking at this hour, Doctor White?" Connor asks in a serious, I-thought-I-told-you-once kind of tone, and White shakes his head and places the bottle onto an end table by the doorway, "This is Meela; she's a… friend of mine. Redcoats-"
"Of course it was the Redcoats!" Doctor White exclaims and ushers Connor to step inside and leads him to the first room on the left, "British this, British that; they're supposing to stop trouble from arising in Boston, not start it."
The room has four cots lined against the wall, and cabinets occupy the others. Doctor White points to the nearest cot and says, "Set her down there, Connor. I'll be right back."
Carefully, Connor helps me onto the bed and sits on the cot across from me as we wait. Bangs and crashes echo in another room of the building, as well as an array of curses from Doctor White. I smirk and ask, "How you happen to meet that gem?"
"I try to tell myself it was by coincidence," Connor replies, chuckling, "But I think 'fate' is a better word for it."
"Alright, sorry for the wait," Doctor White says quickly and rushes into the room, "Roll down your sleeve and I'll take a look at the damage."
Doctor White lights a few candles in the room as I slowly pull down the sleeve of my dress, biting back a whimper as the hem brushes against my wound. Connor's jawline tightens as he watches me, and his hand reaches out to only be interrupted by Doctor White, who takes a seat beside me and pushes back my hair so he can inspect my shoulder.
"You were shot; that's for certain. Luckily the bullet just grazed your skin. There's a bit of shrapnel in the wound, but that'll be easy to take care of," Doctor White concludes, biting his tongue as he thinks, "Connor, could you hand me that pair of pliers on the tray, please?"
Connor passes the pliers to Doctor White who instantly brings them to my shoulder. I let out a deep breath, waiting for the inevitable pain, but White works so carefully that I barely feel a thing. Once the pieces of shrapnel have been removed, Doctor Whites turns to Connor again and asks, "I need gauze and that basin of water, please."
"I thought this was your business, Lyle." Connor says, but gives him the supplies anyways.
"Not this early in the morning," Lyle says, and Connor laughs, "Okay, Meela, this might hurt a little."
Doctor White soaks a piece of gauze in the basin of water and swipes it over my wound. I hiss and tighten my fist, only to find Connor's hand under my fingertips. I glance up at his face slowly, our eyes locking for a split second before I yelp and squeeze his hand as Lyle continues cleaning my shoulder.
"That should be about it. Everything will heal with time," White says, while just finishing patching up my shoulder with strips of gauze, "If you have any concerns find me here, and at a reasonable time, please."
"Thank you!" I call to White and follow Connor to the door. I'm still a bit dizzy from the loss of blood, but my body has already begun to regain energy. By now, the sun has just begun to rise, and small groups of people crowd the streets.
"Glad that's over," Connor murmurs and scans our surroundings before strolling casually forward, "So… you must've had a reason to leave the village."
"Kanen'tókon told you about William Johnson?" I ask, and Connor nods, "I want to help you find him; find who's responsible for this. It's unfair for our people to live an unhappy life while the British live like kings."
"I need to speak to Achilles about this," Connor says and sighs quietly, "Meela, I can't believe you-"
"I know, I've heard this one-hundred times over," I intervene, hoping Connor will drop the 'leaving the village' subject, "So, Connor? How was that name chosen?"
"It was Achilles' idea; said it would cease suspicion. The redcoats aren't so kind to our tribe," Connor replies and chuckles, "Plus, he can't pronounce anything."
I smile and peer up at Connor, who's nearly a foot taller than I. In the sunlight his brown eyes shine with flecks of green and blue even behind the white hood that shields his face.
"And the attire? Achilles picked this out, too?" I ask.
"It's… It's a long story. I'll explain everything once we get back to the Homestead," Connor states, "Right now, we're going to find Sam Adams."
"Who's Sam Adams?" I ask, trying to catch up with Connor as his pace increases. His gaze darts behind his shoulder and suddenly he's pulled me into an alleyway. We wait silently until two redcoats pass by the entrance to the alley, and then Connor continues to lead me toward our destination.
"He's a friend of mine," Connor answers, "I'm hoping he can help me-us find William Johnson."
We come to a clearing that overlooks the ocean. Giant ships are docked near the harbor, and my eyes widen as I take in their expanse. From our village, ships sometimes passed by but were normally a few miles away. Connor smirks at my expression and nods his head toward a group of three people arguing close to where we stand. Somehow, my eyes fall onto one of the men and I know instantly that it must be Sam Adams. He wears a black trench coat that falls to his ankles and as we move toward them, their conversation becomes easier to hear.
"Look, sanctions and demonstrations won't suffice, Sam," One man says harshly, "We need to act… and I'm talking about more than a sternly worded letter."
"I sympathize with your frustrations, gentlemen, but surely you can understand my reluctance to kick the hornet's nest and-" Sam pauses as he catches sight of Connor and I approaching, "Ah, Connor… Hello again, what brings you to Boston?"
"You." Connor replies, and Sam smirks, his eyes glancing over me curiously before turning back to the men he was previously speaking to and asks, "Would you excuse us, fellows?"
Sam steers Connor in the opposite direction and murmurs once we've gotten some distance, "Thank you; that conversation was about to turn unpleasant… Who is this?"
"This is Meela," Connor introduces, "She's a friend of mine."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Meela, I'm Samuel Adam; you can call me Sam. A friend of Connor's is a friend of mine," Sam shakes my hand, a gesture I'm still trying to perfect, "So, uh, what can I do for you two?"
"I was hoping you could help us locate William Johnson." Connor explains.
"Of course. I'm headed to a meeting with some men who should be able to help. Why don't you come along?" Sam offers.
"Thank you, that would be-" Connor begins but it stopped by yelling. Sam narrows his eyes and leads us to the noise. We come upon a square where redcoats have completely surrounding a home with a man screaming at them from one of the house's windows.
"Hey, this is my home, no matter what you thieves called 'taxmen' say!" The man yells, half his body hanging out the window, his French accent thick, "If it's the gumps in Parliament who want my property, you tell them to sail across the pond and take it themselves!"
"It's not open for discussion. Now open this door or these men will break it down!" The taxman says from the home's porch, staggering backwards as the Frenchman savagely pours the contents of his chamberpot beside his feet.
"Bullocks, we're coming in!" One of the redcoats says and slams the butt of his musket against the front door, but is knocked onto the ground when the Frenchman bursts through the door and tackles the taxman off of the porch, breaking the railing in the process.
"And this is what Boston has come to…" Sam murmurs.
"We have to help him," I insist, glancing at Connor, "We can't just sit here and watch this happen!"
"Continue on, Sam. We shall meet you at our destination," Connor says and turns to me, "Are you sure you're up to this? Your shoulder hasn't healed."
"It's feeling better," I promise, "And besides; I can use my other arm."
Connor shakes his head in amusement and runs forward, leaping into the arm and tackling one of the redcoats onto the ground. I'd been so preoccupied by watching Connor's techniques, that I hadn't noticed the two redcoats aiming their muskets at me. Dodging their line of fire, I dash toward them and slide under their feet, one of my legs extending, knocking them both over in the process. While taking down one of the redcoats, one more has capturing Connor in a headlock, and with my best accuracy I throw my sickle toward them, slicing the redcoats' side and forcing him to the ground.
"Where did you learn that?" Connor asks, coughing as he regains oxygen and I shrug lightly and chuckle.
Connor turns to the Frenchman who is panting heavily and asks, "You alright?"
"I'm fine… It's not my first dance. For all their teeth and claws from these little foxes, they fight like puppies," The Frenchman says, "Thank you, my friends… I would buy you two an ale but I am expected somewhere else."
Connor nods and the man walks away slowly, his clothing covering in blood but he doesn't seem to care.
"Well… that was interesting," I decide, "Do you do this kind of stuff every day?"
Connor laughs and replies, "Just about."
With a little help from the wandering citizens of Boston, Connor and I were able to find the meeting place that Sam never mentioned. The little tavern we step into is vacant save for the two men sitting at the counter, one of them happening to be Sam. Behind the counter is the Frenchman we both just fought for, who waves to us happily as we enter.
"Connor, Meela!" Sam greets us, "I'd like you both to meet some of my like-minded friends. The owner of this fine establishment, William Mollineux, and the manager and chef of his newest venture, Stephane Chapheau."
"Ah, Connor, Meela and I just had a ball with some redcoats enforcing some taxman outside my home!" Stephane says.
"The collectors grow bolder and more forceful each day," William says, slamming his fist onto the counter, "Something we must address, Samuel."
"Then let us raise a banner; something to let the people know that they are not alone. The docks are an angry place of late, protestors picketing the latest shipments of British tea. The eyes of the city are upon that stage!" Sam answers.
"A Bostonian without his tea is a dangerous beast!" Stephane agrees.
"William Johnson is smuggling tea off the ships- one of his men tried to sell me this," William says and throws onto the counter a cloth full of tea leaves, "It was a sample of which I refused, but it's from those ships- no mistaking the stamp. He's charging a King's ransom, must be he's making a mint off those who buy it."
"Where is he now?" Connor asks.
"I've never met the man." William answers.
"He's not an easy man to pass up." I whisper, remembering the evil glint in his eyes back at the village.
"May I ask why you two seek him so?" Sam says.
"He intends to purchase the land upon which our village stands and without the consent of our people." Connor replies.
"No doubt the revenue from his little smuggling endeavor is financing the acquisition." Sam murmurs with a sigh, "A tax enforced on tea grants a boon to smugglers. I'll wager the same men who levy the taxes are selling the tea. A stages requires a spectacle and I may know the play."
"So, our plan?" I ask, and Sam and William share a grin. Stephane laughs heartily as realization falls upon him, and Connor shakes his head but smiles at their ridiculous actions.
Sam answers wickedly, "We destroy the tea."
A/N: Yay, Chapter Six! Hope you liked it, thanks for reading!