"Nothing strengthens authority so much as silence."
Leonardo da Vinci
Nights were spent lucid dreaming of what clues could be found in what a Watcher's duty truly held. That native woman—that clever, brave, and passionate Ziio—sent her a flurry of memories for months on end, but now they've stopped. Several days went by in a loop of training, reading, preparing food, chores; the girl swore the old mentor made sure the two never had time to themselves save for the hunting. Unbeknownst to Connor, she used her power to visit his village in hopes of gaining access to the sacred mound that may hold some answers. The Clan Mother refused her passage to the site. Tsipporah unconsciously bit her nails in those moments to herself. Questions of why her boss' mother abruptly cut her off became a complete enigma. The tomes that held information of the Watchers were destroyed. And even though she gained some semblance of trust, the Kanien'kehá:ka wouldn't offer their assistance. She had no idea nor will ever have a proper chance of knowing what exactly the Watchers do or have done on Earth. No instructions to receive. No one to tell her what her duties were. Must be something important enough to have teleporting powers instead of a sixth sense.
The only boon visiting the natives brought her was Alsoomse's service to her. They spoke in the young woman's special hut of strong wood and endurable animal skins over a warm bonfire with hare meat cooking over it. Telling her of the natives' fate to come wasn't as painful as she imagined.
"When will this come to be?"
"It's happening now and you know it. It... it'll suck even worse later."
"Why not speak to Clan Mother or even Ratonhnhaké:ton of this?"
"I think Clan Mother already knew this was coming after the first attack. Ratonhnhaké:ton..." she sighed, "Will only see it as a challenge to change his people's fate. I highly doubt it would dissuade him from being a big-damn-hero. Colonist or British, the natives get the worst out of this. The slaves are no different. I just want everyone to be alive and safe, too, when this is over..."
"What do you propose?" her tongue flicked a piece of corn from her teeth to the side.
"Uh..." the girl gathered herself, "First of all, the boss says you travel sometimes. Do you think you can get me some special stuff? I'm having something built. I'll explain along the way. Also, talk to other tribes and see if you can get a few of their strongest warriors on your side without raising too much of an alarm. You're pretty tough, so I know you can do it."
"You ask a great deal of me, tubby," she picked her teeth again, "Aside from a long, perilous adventure, what do I receive in return?"
"Anything you want," she immediately regretted her words as Ms. Moose's face lit up in mischief.
"'Anything', you say...?"
So now the girl had to wait approximately three to five months before she saw her CD-player and her CD wallet ever again. Her boss often asked where it all went, but she would fruitlessly lie about it being lost or destroyed.
Tsipporah ran her fingers through her wild curls. She set up the table while the men were still reviewing lessons. A promise was made to Connor that she'd teach him about what information science had on the universe in the future before bed. Eagerness filled him the rest of the afternoon. Nearly scared the daylights out of her with his doubled energy. It made for an interesting distraction like homesickness. Though, she often wondered what exactly should she miss.
Her mother trying to make her something she's not?
Her father lying to his family like a third fluent language?
Her siblings certainly didn't need her. Her sister is independent and her brother is smarter than he realizes. Her parents never exactly supported her talents all the way. All that mattered to them was that she was cultured enough to show off. At least she got the chance to travel and see the world. It never diminished the caged-in feeling, though. She twisted her face in thought. Maybe she should really tell Connor what's going on. The boy gives her a sideways look for every time her brow bends in melancholy. He already told her much about his tribe and his resolutions. Not much would be said if she kept to herself all the time.
"Dinner's ready!" she called from the dining room. Footsteps sounded from around the corner. "It's deer meat again but I gave it a little pizazz."
"As long as it's edible, child," Achilles huffed, "What else is there?"
"Tea, mashed potatoes, corn, squash, biscuits, apple pie, cake from Diana, sweets from Catherine—"
"Ah..." he grunted, "This will do. Really, girl, there's only three of us here. No need to make food for an army."
"You need to eat," she lectured, "And Connor eats like a—see what I mean?"
She caught sight of her companion filling his plate as she spoke lacking any capacity for guilt in that moment. They made eye contact, but it failed to distract him from fetching the tea.
Or the corn...
Or the deer meat...
Or two more pieces meat.
His hand was almost met with the back of a silver spoon before going in for another steal. The girl waved it in warning as she narrowed her eyes. Returning her glare, he wasn't the slightest bit threatened. Achilles shook his head and sat with his fair meal. He sipped his tea as he opened a pamphlet he received from Adams. The man was currently in the process of driving out the number of British soldiers in Boston. No doubt he would use the propaganda to aid him. Paul Revere was good in that department aside from smithing since he worked with Sam among others. Rabble-rousers raised their volume on the talk of taxation. Soon, boycotting will ensue in the colonies. If things continued the way they were, a war was sure to begin. The Templars were sure to use it as a way to crush the rebellion and dominate a nation trying to fight against a future of being conquered.
The mentor sighed as his apprentices found it fitting to use their utensils to swordfight with. They scraped along the platter of the remaining venison. The energy was tense for both parties. Despite the sting of her wounds, the girl's frustration kept her going. Her stubbornness only encouraged her companion to fight even harder. Achilles slammed the table.
"Connor, sit and eat your food so that you may return to your studies! Abigail, do not encourage him further!"
Both apprentices stared blankly. Tsipporah was lost on his command. The old man must have caught onto what was said because he quickly finished his tea, excusing himself from the table.
"Achilles?" Connor furrowed his brows.
"Eh... I shall finish my meal in the kitchen," he took his plate, "Finish up here and we'll return to lessons."
The Battle of the Venison Platter was soon forgotten with the air confusion left behind. The two looked at each other with a shared question in mind. Though, it had to be left alone. Their mentor shared all that happened in the past with a steady pace. Should they confront him now, he would distance himself from them and days would be spent buried in laborious studying for their trouble. Connor gave an importunate look. Tsipporah frowned.
"Eat your food," she dismissed his silent proposal.
"Something is troubling him, Tsipporah."
"We can't pry into people's business, but clearly he'll talk about it when he's ready."
"Have you not seen the graves outside?" his tone became severe. The girl tilted her head. A lightbulb turned on overhead.
"Ah... 'Abigail Davenport, 1955' and 'Connor Davenport, 1955'."
They stumbled upon them when they walked about the property the second day they were unable to convince the old man. Two graves were there side by side in the backyard with two names bearing a shared surname. Bouquet of withering flowers sat at the edge between them, though, "withering" was too kind a description. They were beyond the state of rotting as if the duty of honoring the deceased was long since abandoned. The girl proposed to replace the rotten weeds with something more befitting. After climbing the cliffsides and breaking a few nails in the process, another suitable bouquet was found for the grave. The native was still cranky about being turned down that afternoon. Anger hotly coursed his veins and gave off more radiation than the sun itself. He still dusted off the graves, fixed the flowers at the foot of the tombstones, and made sure the girl didn't lift a finger after scraping her hands climbing. Tsipporah wasn't sure if he was trying to be productive with his anger or he didn't hold grudges for long. Looking back, she realized his kindness was stronger than his resentment—too empathetic to feel indifferent.
"I will speak to him," he barely touched his food. The girl pulled him by the collar and pointed at the unholy mountain he created on his plate. "Later."
"Now," she didn't slave over the primitive iron and brick stove for nothing.
He clenched his jaw at the strong command. If he didn't comply, she'll cook up some unique punishment. The native gave a hard look before sitting to eat. It amazed her almost every time now. The first few months of living together, despite his friendliness, he avoided casual contact like the bubonic plague and would stand his ground against her whether it be a simple command or a heated debate during their lessons. Sometimes, he'll admit when she is right. Him admitting he was in the wrong was something akin to the end of time and space, so he'd resort to sulking in taciturnity instead. It proved difficult not to laugh at how childish it looked. If she snorted even a little at his compliance, he'll challenge her again. New tension gathered as they ate in silence. The boy finished speedily.
"Leave your plate," she barely cleared her own, "I'll wash them any—"
He gathered his utensils to wash in the bin. Tsipporah pressed her lips into a line wondering why he was having an attitude all of a sudden. Attitude or just the urgency to talk to Achilles? He circled back for her utensils once she finished as well.
"Boss..." she stopped him from walking away. "Tread carefully. I think Achilles doesn't talk too much about the past for the same reason we don't."
"I have told you my reasons and the old man gave some explanation of his own," he pointed out, "All you speak of is your knowledge, your heritage, what your family does, and refuse to answer to anything else."
"Ugh, I thought you we were worried about Achilles here?" her chest pulled into itself at the thought of saying anything more about her family.
"I worry for the both you. I am not blind to the sorrow he is feeling, but the old has long given up on the Brotherhood. It is his duty to see the Assassins thrive, yet no matter how much he contributes, he will always expect failure and so chooses to contribute so little. He has experienced the worst, yes, but has little to no drive for retribution for his fallen Brothers."
"Who the fuc..." her smile held no mirth at what she was hearing, "The man taught us the history of the Templars and Assassins. You know more about the world now than you did six months ago. Hell, I can do math off the top of my head right now. And you can't say he's the reason they failed! We don't even know how bad things were here! How do you even kno—"
"I watched my village burn to the ground, Tsipporah," he confronted gravely, "I know more than you of what he's suffered. Do not speak of the past if you so chose, but I will not cower behind my own and allow despair to fester. You asked if I trusted you and I gave you an answer. I gave you my word that you are a dear friend to me. Though, it seems that the feeling is not mutual."
Her insides grew hot at his words. For rage or impassioned by them, she didn't know. The girl clenched her jaw the more he prodded at her. It felt all the more aggressive, but he barely raised his voice. He never does with her. It sounded hurt—disheartened by her lack of desire to reach out. He was right, but also wrong.
"Not everyone is strong like you, Ratonhnhaké:ton," she faced the floor, "And yes, I trust you. It's just... Some people can't deal with it. Some people just want to forget the past."
"And forget their purpose along with it," he added, leaving her in the dining room.
He always had to have the last word in every argument. The girl pouted. It irked her to no end. He was getting good at that—getting under her skin. It served no other purpose but to out-talk her. She figured there was no point in an argument unless a point could be made. That was not the case this time. He straight up lectured her on something that slowly ate at her soul and festered in her mind. She couldn't think of a way to explain the domino effect of hell that was her life. The last person she spoke to about it laughed at her face. It made her feel less than inadequate like it was the most trivial problem for anyone in the 21st century. Being somewhere else was pure therapy for her. Well, listening to music would be a second. She laughed, remembering she'd given CD-player away and the boy was still less than thrilled by its sudden disappearance.
After clearing the dining table and tending to the dishes, she went to join the lesson in the reading room. They were supposed to go over architecture and world religion, but that wasn't going to happen it seemed. Connor paced about, wondering if the old man was going to come about. Tsipporah pursed her lips. She guessed he would have to be upstairs? There was a fourth room with items imperative to the Brotherhood. The boy stopped her before she went to investigate.
"He is not here," he crossed his arms.
"Outside, then? He couldn't have gone far."
They exited the side door to circle around the backyard only to find him already. Their mentor stood over the two tombstones with names nearly worn out. He barely turned to see them but felt the presence of his apprentices. Their silent approach was becoming a forte for them now. It did little to distract him from what he wished to avoid, yet here they were.
"I had a wife once, did you know that?" he saw the fixed bouquet of flowers and the tombstones dusted when those two first came. He figured he should have berated them for stepping onto his property once more. In the end, he was secretly grateful for the gesture.
"Who was she?" the girl walked next to him.
"Abigail—a woman of rare beauty and grace," he replied, "Why she chose me when she could have had anyone, who could say? But she did."
Speaking of her brought a scarce smile to his face. For a moment, the gray of his face lit up and banished the tired wrinkles of his skin. He daren't give too much detail of her eyes as brown as strong oak trees in the forest or melanin unblemished and perfect. Every word from her was a comfort in his home—their home. It was as if the very mention of her not only resurrected the woman herself but the joy that once was before the harsh, ashen reality came crashing down that she was gone.
"Then she bore me a son," he turned to Connor, "You share his name. They were everything to me."
"...Earlier, you said something about a fever...?" he had to ask. The graves have both passing in the same year.
"...The slow fever took them, and what did I do? Only watch and wish to join them." The despair returned, but the full force was brought so long ago that he was numb to it. It was a constant visitor in his heart and memory. "Nearly did in fact... but I proved too great a coward. I could take the lives of others without hesitation, but when it came time to claim my own, then I faltered. Pathetic..."
"You cannot blame yourself, Achilles," Connor came to his mentor's side.
"But that's all in the past," he nodded off to the manor, "better focus on what's in front of us."
They returned to the reading room. Lessons resumed as if what went on outside didn't happen. It was strange. The more this boy was around, the more compelled she was to explain everything. The girl did not expect Achilles to say anything at all. It warmed her heart knowing that he and the old man had gotten closer in a way. She was afraid of this teacher-student relationship getting rocky after what happened on his first trip to Boston. He was irritable for every other lesson for some time. If they had fewer casualties then, things would have gone smoother sooner. It never stumped his noble heart, though. He always seemed to know what to say and when to say it. Well... sometimes.
The girl felt the night creep in her bones as a yawn passed her mouth. She quickly covered it. Achilles had a knack for hitting her with the cane every time she made a noise during lessons. He gave her a hard look.
"...And so, this concludes our chapter on Renaissance architecture. Make sure you both remember this for the next lesson. Study amongst yourselves for the next few hours before going to bed. Dismissed."
It was sure to be past ten in the evening. Three hours for a lesson without a break was too much before. Now time moved quickly. Tsipporah released the strength of every yawn she had to repress. She stretched from her hips in a circular motion to renew the function of her muscles. Once her stamina was restored, she turned to leave to go to Terry's lodge. They should be expecting her. Connor had already left the room. Whether to his bedroom or elsewhere was beyond her.
"Thanks for the lesson, Achilles." He waved it off. It was only his duty as a mentor. "...And thank you for saying what you said earlier. I know mentioning your past wasn't easy."
"There are many other things I still cannot bring myself to say, but seeing as you both stayed with this old man for so long, you were at liberty to know. The Brotherhood look after their own. It is not uncommon for any of us to experience the harrowing realities of this world. In order to bring peace to this world there had to be peace amongst ourselves. It is an old cliche, but it holds true."
"...Did Connor tell you?" or lack of thereof.
"Connor has no need to inform me of anything," he stood before her, "It is clear that the both of you can work together and accomplish something, but you fear that trusting him with your burdens will be your downfall. Do yourself a favor, girl. If I can put up with your constant quarreling and entrust the struggles of the Brotherhood in your prepubescent hands, then you can tell him of your troubles. You know all too well of his already."
She could.
Not yet. Just... not yet.
At least, now she had a good feeling about it. The boy was hardly invasive. Still, he deserved to know. She gave a sincere smile, wishing her mentor a good night. The night could have ended there, but an impatient native stood at the front doorway to undo any attempt of the girl leaving for the night. She'd laugh if she wasn't a little tired. Sleep refused to claim her, though. He also knew too well of her habits of sleeping at ungodly hours of the night.
"Boss..." her voice became rough with fatigue.
"You promised to teach me of the universe and places beyond Earth."
"It's late, though..." she whined. He only persisted.
"You. Promised."
"I swear, you're like a five-year-old sometimes."
In a few months' time, the restoration for the manor was nearly done, but the Aquila was still under repairs. At least sparring inside was no longer a challenge. Tsipporah's wounds weren't fully healed, yet she continued to hunt and train with the stamina she had. She practiced how far her power could go. Boston appeared before her eyes one time. Another time, she was outside of Kanatahséton. Images that were familiar to her would come into view and her body would be transferred there. Soon, it became clear that any place she visited once before—imbedded in her memory—is where she was able to teleport to. It was a wonder, that. She questioned how Ziio was capable of transferring her all the way to this time. The subject became something of a fascination. Not like the ones she would find in this time, though. It also begged the question that if her ability grew stronger, could she travel through time itself?
"Hey, lass!" Godfrey called out to Tsipporah who reading by the stables. She eventually stood and walked in his direction. Her steps came to a halt when she sensed someone behind her. She wasted no time drawing her blade.
"Christ, lass, I wasn't gonna hurt ye." It was only Terry. She nodded in apology but stopped when she noticed the blindfold in his hand.
"Where's Connor?" her eyes never left the blindfold.
"Well, he did say he had something to show ye. He told us to bring ye near that hill. We were gonna take you there." Godfrey explained, a little downtrodden that they failed to surprise her the way they wanted. The girl understood that they meant well.
"It's okay, guys. I'm sorry, it's just... This is a total deja vu for me..." she swallowed, "Where is Connor now?"
"He said he'll wait over by that hill," Terry pointed, "You sure we can't...?" He gestured with the blindfold again. Tsipporah laughed.
"Surprise me another time, guys. I'll go look for Connor."
Panic rose in the pit of her stomach. The time of day, the season, the location—all that was in her dream had now come to life. She really hoped that wasn't the case. Tracking him would be less time consuming if he wasn't so good at covering them. The girl picked up the pace to the next hill. Keeping her steps light, listened hard for anything strange.
Nothing.
Nothing, but birds, small animals, and the wind against the tree branches.
There was nothing until she reached the top of a hill. She let out a small gasp. What appeared to be a small colonial home of red brick and a gray tiled roof sat overlooking a part of the forest as well as the shoreline. Curiosity almost hooked its claws in her before her focus went back to finding her boss. Tsipporah was just about ready to searching for him until she saw the sign over the door in bold letters:
Martell Arts & Crafts.
"What the fu..." she briskly turned with her knife in hand as she felt something blocking some wind behind her. The metal sang as her strength moved it through the air expertly with a dangerous warning. A stronger hand caught the girl's wrist with little effort. Grimace filled out her expression upon seeing her opponent. Thankful that her anxiety was put to rest. "You haven't been mauled by anything in the woods, I guess."
"That was very poor footing," Connor lectured, "And your grip is still too—" he swiftly loosened the knife out of her hold, dropping onto to ground, "—forced."
"Are you going to keep lecturing my stance or give me a tour of the studio?" she lifted a brow, but the apprentice kept an impassive front.
She held a secret prayer that he would keep lecturing her. His voice had changed the past few weeks; no longer having the awkward crack it had before, every word carried a soothing note. The rounded face abandoned for a more angular one. The girl tried to take her hand back, but no such luck. Then a small smile appeared on her companion's face. She responded with a frown. Once upon a time, seeing him smile in training was something she couldn't help but return. Now it held nothing but an ominous challenge. That glint in his eye convinced her to really sit this one out.
"Or perhaps you defeat me in four moves?" he released her wrist.
"The loser...?" she pressed.
"Loses £20." He crossed his arms as Tsipporah narrowed her eyes, glaring in disbelief. She considered having a lecture than that. He waited with a rare, smug look on his face for his friend to simply give up. The girl pouted.
"What if I don't accept this challenge?" she sneered.
"No? Then I suppose you have no interest in having this returned to you." He went under the welcoming mat of the new studio and pulled out a familiar item. The girl went ashen. "Rest assured I have yet to see its contents."
"...Connor give that back or the Red Coat will be the least of your worries," she spat a grave warning. He knew how much her sketchbook meant to her. He wouldn't purposely provoke her... would he?
"Four moves. And do not use your ability. I will do the same."
He held out the book for her to reach. Foolish. It'd be pulled from her and she would be down to three moves. Sparring together for some time, he'd recognized her patterns by now. Warm air filled her lungs as she circled him; his ears listened to her every step. Once adjacent to his stance, courage moved her. A firm strike channeled its way to her foot as her body leaned. Her opponent knew too well to go for the root. His usual force would see that her calf muscle tears, thus giving her a light dose of his power. Downed on one knee, her hands caught his before his palms ended this round. The swiftness of his retreat summoned a small wind that gave him the perfect opening. Dust rose as she spun away from a fist whose contact would make her ancestors dizzy.
She had to hit him—at least lay a finger on him.
Less than a second he was before her, armed with his next move. A face plant into the grass was all she recalled after. The girl inhaled, not realizing how badly she winded. Her boss wasn't using his full strength, though, that much was clear. She felt his body lean over hers from the coolness of his shadow.
"You can surrender now, Tsipporah. There is no need to continue." That somehow stung more than the fact that he took a precious item of hers without permission.
That somehow stung more than the fact that he took a precious item of hers without permission. A frustrated growl escaped her throat as adrenaline shot through her veins. Her determined hands gripped onto a fistful of hair before she laid waste to his skull with her own. Before she came to, her body fully straddled her opponent in a headlock. The apprentice blinked a few times to process what spirits had possessed her in that moment.
"That was carelessly done..." he barely tapped out. The girl wondered if he even wanted the fight to be brief at all. "But you struck hard this time."
"You're not gonna strike me down when I let you go, right?" she enjoyed the sudden thrashing, though. He could tell. His silence fed her anxiety. She didn't want to take any chances, especially with how tense his muscles were getting. Perhaps she should let him go... screw it.
"No promise. No freedom."
"What are ya two doin' rollin' in the dirt?!" Godfrey and Terry ran up the hill with the look of a disappointed parent. Both teens scrambled away from each other, but neither felt guilty of their little exercise.
"Connor, ya got some explainin' to do," Godfrey confronted, "The lass went ashen, thinkin' somethin' happened to ya—"
"—Then we find the both o' ya makin' a beast out o' two backs?!" Terry added, "No wonder the old man was worried about the lass!"
"What the bloody hell is going on?" Faulkner joined the fray. Godfrey and Terry explained their side, but the sailor shrugged his shoulders. "Well, looks like we got somethin' to discuss later then, lad. Lass."
"I do not understand; nothing happened." "We didn't do anything!"
Both were worn out from the scuffle. The men didn't seem convinced that they simply sparred.
The sailor gestured for the two to go inside the new art studio before the lumberers scolded them any further. The two men outside eventually walked off after a debate on whether the kids were really up to something at a place where many could see them. The three walked on the wall-to-wall dark, polished wood, making their way to the nearest set of furniture. A "squee" emitted from the girl as she was greeted by a trio of easels over an adjustable desk that had the length of two desks. A closet filled with supplies came after. Each shelf had various wet and dry mediums as well as stored brushes with writing utensils. Scrolls of canvas, print paper, and vacant journals laid at the bottom.
Her chest tightened upon seeing how much paper laid there. The taxes on paper were still rampant. She hoped Connor didn't highjack every British soldier just to purchase this much. The men approached her.
"Do you... like it?" he almost sounded hesitant.
She hasn't heard that tone in a millennium. The studio had enough elbow-room and wall space for greater works. There was a separate writing desk on the other side of the room. A connecting den had a hearth in place and had a small bed there to her surprise. At least she didn't have to bother the other residents here. Nothing seemed out of place. Everything she needed was here.
"It's perfect," her voice was lower than a whisper, but enough for him to hear her gratitude.
Faulkner cleared his throat loudly.
"Now I see why those two assumed the lad's been tossin' ya. It's alright—I was young once. No need to feel ashamed."
"Jesus!" the girl exclaimed, "Nothing happened! We were sparring! We've done so for awhile!"
"Why have you come, Mr. Faulkner?" Connor asked directly. The sober sailor pulled out a newly furnished chair to sit on.
"I was wonderin' if you could join an old salt on an errand," he started, "Still gathering a crew, you see. If you're up to it."
Tsipporah wanted more time alone in her new haven, but gathering a crew sounded thrilling. Connor nodded in reserve. The more men, the better. It would also add to his mundane schedule. When he wasn't training outside, he was sparring inside; and when he wasn't doing any physical activity, he'd read the volumes of history and learn more of the Templars occupying the colonies. The girl knew how the days would go. By the end of it, she'd study in the sitting room, but go to any of the Homesteader's homes to sleep—as commanded by the Mentor. She didn't question why she could no longer share a room with a fellow comrade. He, on the other hand, thought this unnecessary.
After informing Achilles, they took off.
Faulkner's plan was to skim the coast for sailors. The task proved too easy with those who didn't mind the open air and the sea breeze. Hard work came easily to those men who knew that life on land held little opportunity when the sea was calling them. Sailors were a rather interesting bunch. Upon entering a tavern near the port, the three were met with obnoxious shanties filling the room more than the food and the stench of ale. Some men sat on tables only to fall over with others laughing heartily. A man walked near the table to give Faulkner a slap on the back. He was pale, toned, and wore the rugged attire of all the seven seas rolled into one body. A sneer graced his muscular features.
"Fucking Faulkner! The hell are you doin' back here ya fat old salt? And bringing some fresh, young blood in here?"
"Looking for some sailors, James," he gave a firm pat on his back, glad to see a familiar face, "Property's bein' restored."
The large man's face relaxed before a roaring laugh shook him.
"The goddamn Ghost of the North Seas will haunt the waters again? Am I hearing you right, Bobby?" he received a confident nod. "Well, good to see that you'll be captaining again, Bobby. Miss those days off the shallows. I'm sure Miss Mandy'll appreciate your return."
The veteran sailor shook his head. He took a step to the side to show more of the young native with him. The girl stood back a few paces as Faulkner continued to speak.
"The lad's named Connor—he'll be captaining the Aquila," he continued, "He's helped restore the property and he's a good lad—"
The man laughed heartily. A bit too heartily. It went on as if he'd heard the funniest joke in his entire life and would go into cardiac arrest soon. Connor narrowed his eyes. This sailor quickly underestimated him just by looking at him once. The girl didn't know why, though. The boy didn't exactly look like a little boy. She only stood a good five feet with a few inches over, but the boy was long, towering over her and could see eye to eye to any fully grown man, and had the stride of a horse. If not for the loose tunic, others would notice how toned he was from years of hunting and months of training. Tsipporah was mystified by the fact that this man laughed at someone who took on a fully grown bear in the woods. It was a shock to hear that Faulkner decided this either. She kept looking over to her boss who seemed less than thrilled by the sailor's response. His face was cooled, yet his eyes flickered dangerously. His fists slightly shifted at his sides.
"He's a boy, Bobby," he wiped a tear from his eye, "Does he even know how to work a ship? Better still, has he ever traveled the seas?"
"No James, he doesn't—" he laughed again, "Damnit, James! Are you in or not?"
"Ha ha, I'll tell you what, Bobby, there are others waitin' to sail the waters with the old girl, but I hoped you'd captain the ship. God knows you deserve it with your experience. But the boy's gotta prove himself."
"He will—"
"Here and now," the other men pulled the round tables away to use as a barrier. The tavern floor was soon bare as an arena would be. "Take out a few of my boys and me, then I'll call you my captain, boy."
"Um..." the girl interrupted, "Are you sure?"
Connor gave his friend a sharp look as the other sailors laughed at the sight.
"Calling back your bonnie lass, girl?" he prodded. Tsipporah shook her head.
"Nope. I was asking you if you're sure. I mean... he can and will personally fuck you up."
James sucked his teeth in disbelief as the tavern maid drew a line at the center of the circle. She waited until the first sailor arrived at the mark. He wore a shipworker's uniform, shaking his short dark hair, he flexed his muscles in a taunt. Raising his fists and putting a leg back, he hollered at the boy to come forward... unless he was scared. Connor gave the girl his weapons to hold until he was finished mowing them all down. He approached the line, too fixed on his prey to be dissuaded by his useless taunts. The maid went with the rules:
"Alright, men, we want a good, clean fight," she spat tobacco over her shoulder into a nearby mug, "Ahem,
1) Don't start until you step on the white line.
2) Keep the fight in the circle, so no throwin', no kicking—fists only.
3) Once ye hit the ground—fight's over.
Understood, gentlemen? Then feet to the line; let's see some blood!"
Faulkner wasn't surprised that it came to this, but he had little to worry over. The boy was Achilles' own apprentice. He'd do fine. He did better than "fine" in fact. The crowd in the tavern shouted no different than if it was a colosseum fight. Their voices overwhelmed the tavern walls as their fists pumped in the air.
When the two men met placed a foot on the line, the sailor arrogantly threw a fist, aiming for the temple. His confidence was soon replaced by confusion as his punch struck nothing but air. The man nearly fell over but steadied himself only feel the ungodly smiting to his jaw. Everything instantly turned into blurring defeat as he fell forward in his own blood and drool. A silence fell over the crowd. The woman of the tavern came in as soon as she gathered herself, declaring Connor as the winner.
"Told ya," the girl cracked a smile. The sailors only grew more excited, seeing that their opponent wasn't a "wee lad".
Another came to the line, stretching and cracking his neck. Calm reserve remained with the apprentice as he sized up his next victim. His build was broad and fit. The uniform he bore had trouble containing his well-defined muscles. He raised his fists in a modern boxing stance, firmly rooting his feet in a sidestep. Fighting was his forte, it seemed. Connor felt a rush in his veins knowing that this one would prove to be challenging. The referee gave both fighters a moment of breath before starting on the count of three.
Once the third count came, so did the larger man's fist. A blitz of punches gave the boy no time to block save for a few. Not a minute passed and his heart was beating wildly in his ears. The girl pressed her mouth into a thin line unable to process what had happened. She blinked and her boss got himself black and blue in the jaw. It was lost on her whether it was the adrenaline or that his recovery was speedy. His opponent passed his thumb by his nose, beckoning the young lad to try to land a single blow. An inaudible growl sounded in his throat. With his legs, he lunged forward. Closed fists swung in an onslaught that was impossible to block. Each blow was precise with power moving it.
Faulkner cheered as the apprentice won yet another round. The people reveled at the sight. The girl held his weapons close, occasionally whooping for every hit that landed. She admitted this was better than WWE. Rather, more realistic.
"The lad's very skilled," a dulcet voice stood from the crowd by the girl's ear, "I wonder who trained him."
Tsipporah turned to her side. She almost staggered. Green eyes met her dark brown ones as the brawl went on. Red lips on smooth, pale skin bent into a smile that the Chesire cat would be envious of. The woman stalked uncomfortably close.
"Who are you?" the girl purposely bumped into a distracted Faulkner who noticed the woman at last. He stammered upon seeing her.
"G... Gillian McCarthy!" instinct told him to draw his weapons, but that would be ill-advised in this tavern.
The girl was all too prepared to strike her down if even Faulkner was shaken by her. Gillian chuckled at their expense.
"Peace, Faulkner," she gestured her vulnerability, "I am unarmed. What could a girl like me possibly do?"
An eruption of cheers heightened in volume as soon as another body slammed into the ground with dust rising in its wake. Far from breathless, the boy kept his sternness to the sailor that started all of this. He longed to silence this man that dared to think little of him. The woman of the tavern was ready to walk in to announce the next fight. James would be his opponent at last. Instead of the tavern woman, another waltzed in to redraw the line. The urge to turn ashen was quickly snuffed by the redhead's appearance. She taunted a kiss at the boy when their eyes met. His brows furrowed.
"You..." his tone went cold.
"Nice to see I'm memorable," she gave the fighters some space, "Pay attention, boy, or he'll feed you your teeth. Are we ready?"
Both sized each other up. The larger sailor took some interest seeing the boy's capabilities. He'll have some fun, he gathered.
"Fight!"
She backed away to blend with the audience once the two went at it. Slipping herself to the tavern exit, she kept the boy at the corner of her eye until she escaped. Both hands pressed against the door as if any of the spectators would readily notice her leave. Gray stone and rats came underfoot once more. As her memory served her, she was to return to the docks to report her findings. Revealing herself to the target was unprofessional, but she did want to confirm her suspicions for herself. Seeing him the first time piqued her interest. Now she was certain.
—
Deafening cries of observers were no longer filling their ears. Each moved in for a determined, aggressive strike. The larger sailor huffed tiredly but refused defeat. He started to question just what this boy was. His movements were fluid as if he were air itself. Every punch thrown passed by. After three of his best fighters, one would think he would tire. The boy's stamina failed to waver unlike his own. Everything started to blur in exhaustion, but he wouldn't let some scrawny kid know tha—
An inhuman force threw his head up. As he looked to the wooden ceiling, he attempted haymaker. Connor easily deflected the blow and caught the next one.
And the next one.
And the next one.
"Yeah! Lay it on 'im, boss! Fuck 'im up!" the girl boasted in every jump.
"You got this lad!" Faulkner waved his fist in the excitement.
The swings became predictable as James recovered from the uppercut he received. Connor had to hand it to him for his persistence. An eternity passed before he visibly slowed. This had to end. Now. The sailor mustered all of the energy he had left, throwing his last shot with a purpose. A grunt sounded in his throat as it was caught by a smirking apprentice. His face fell stoic once more before he pulled him forward to bruise his jaw. James grew dizzy gritting his teeth to ride out the pain. Being trampled by horses would be a mercy in comparison. Connor held back up, daring him to fight again.
"Do you yield?" a glint in eyes invited another challenge.
"I yield, Captain... I yield."
The man laughed tiredly even when he fell forward onto the ground. Other sailors that followed him circled the boy and the tavern woman raised his arm in the air, declaring him the champion. The men helped the defeated to stand upright as Faulkner gave his shoulder a firm grab.
"You shouldn't have put the lad in the ring," he shook his head, "Next time he'll wipe the deck with ya!"
"Heh, can't wait," he weakly punched Connor in the side as he sat down, "Ever considerin' on joinin' the Boston Brawlers, boy? Could test more of your strength there."
"I will see for myself," he looked around for his companion and she sprung out of nowhere.
"Congrats on the victory, boss," she handed his weapons back, "You only got struck a couple of times. Impressive."
"Did you see the woman in green—"
"—in skimpy clothing walking through? Yeah. She left before your last round. Faulkner seems to know her, too. Why?"
People helped shift the tables back in just as the door opened. A boy of a familiar crown of blonde rushed in with the locks of his hair whipping back and forth, searching through the crowd. His sights were set on the trio and made haste in their direction. Bowing his head, he spoke hurriedly, grabbing the native in alarm.
"Connor, ya gotta leave, lad," he huffed. The apprentice held up the other as he caught his breath.
"Why? What has happened?" the girl and Faulkner listened.
"Gotta cut this short, lad," he sped, "A patrol of lobsters is headin' this way—lookin' for you. Their leader's out for your blood. You gotta leave! Now!"
"I could use my telepo—" Tsipporah suggested, but was stopped by her boss.
"Many would see. None can know what you are capable of."
"Then what do we do? The redcoats are coming any minute!" the thought chimed in her mind.
Redcoats... was that woman leading them?
Did Gillian McCarthy summon them to arrest them?
The three gave a pause and one of the sailors piped in.
"Knowin' them red-coated ninny-hammers, they'll pick a fight with anyone. Get over here lads!"
James nodded to the woman of the tavern who pulled a lever that moved the entire shelf of liquor bottles aside. She waved for the group to come hither. The three wasted no time to venture through the secret exit. James stayed by the hidden passage until they were past the doorway.
"See you at the Homestead, lads," James nodded, "I'll follow once we deal with these louts. Careful wet-nursing our new Captain, Bobby. Not that he needs it."
Connor gave him a hard look that eventually softened. Their eyes met and wrote a silent compromise. The man only sought out to test the boy's strength and was satisfied enough. Now he had earned his respect. It had to stay that way if he was to truly be worthy of the title of "captain". He was the first to make his way down but slowed so the others would follow. The temptation to aid them was too great, but to do so would lead them to believe their new captain thought little of them.
"Don't die on me, Jim," Faulkner chuckled and James shook his head. The girl hurried to face him.
"Thank you for doing this, Mr. James," she hopped up and gave him a peck on the cheek before going back to the others.
The sailor closed the passage as the clamoring of officers filled the one side of the tavern. Worry and guilt ate at the girl as the soldiers were notably looking for them. Fillan had joined them so that they weren't pursued once they left the passage. It was short and required no lantern for it lead to the other side of the docks with light peeking through the exit door's window. Filth from the sea salt made the smell unbearable. The apprentices were only glad they couldn't get a good look at the dark walls of the space they walked through. Faulkner looked back occasionally to see that they were not followed. When all was clear, he kept up with their pace until they made to the docks. Fillan passed a stressed hand through his blonde curls.
"We cleared up that problem, but we got more, lad," he turned to Connor in his urgency, "I was comin' to see ya since ya got into town again. Wanted to tell you what I found about Matthew Davenport."
"What is it?" Connor nodded for him to continue, but the boy looked over to the other two. Connor waved it off. "It is alright; now tell me, Fillan."
"I'll be quick," he cleared his throat, "Matthew Davenport's daughter works for the Templars as you know. Pretty damn good at whatever's given to her, too. Her name is Eleanor and she's one hell of a military brat. Too good with a sword in hand. Doesn't take a shine to anyone with skin darker than hers either. Davenport gives the most important missions to her, but it looks like the Grandmaster's the one that ordered the hit on ya, lad. She's on the warpath right now."
"A racist psychopath, then?" the girl replied, deadpanned. "What do bo—AHH!"
He suddenly grabbed her sleeve and felt the wind rush to her back. She released a breath once she saw that they hit the ground to roll away from impending danger. Faulkner pulled out a cutlass in defense as the woman in green sneered as she rose to her feet. Turning on her heel, she exaggerated her disappointment.
"Oh, dear. Looks like I missed. Do not worry, though, my wee bairns, this woman always aims to please—and I know I shouldn't be a cock-block, but the least you two could do is get a room."
"You're not taking another step, ye siren!" Faulkner's blade sang a warning to her person.
Gillian stopped to roll her eyes at the sight.
Fillan drew his hook as his face twisted in pure hate, pushing past the two apprentices and the veteran sailor.
"Gillian..." he seethed. She blew a kiss in response.
"Hello, little brother," she gave a toothy smile.
"'Brother'?" Tsipporah echoed in bewilderment.
"Lads!" Faulkner interrupted, "We have to go!"
Officers in red poured in from one alley. Then another. With how they were directing themselves, the woman in green was leading them, no doubt. Their bayonets readied themselves on the group that backed into each other. One of the decorated officers stood out amongst the others, ordering for the misfits to drop their weapons. The girl rolled her eyes as he went on with a long-winded warning. She looked about her allies to see if everyone were in direct contact with each other. It was a hunch and she never attempted such a feat, but the fewer casualties, the better. Her hand folded in Connor's. Then Faulker's to his confusion.
"Take Filan's hand," she whispered loud enough for the men to hear, "This has to work with direct contact."
"Tsipporah, do not try it..." Connor warned.
"Do you think we're in a position to debate about this!?"
He reluctantly took his comrade's hand. His companion practiced her abilities enough, so this should be nothing. Concentration was another story. She had to empty her mind and picture all of them in a safe place. Caution had to be taken since she never tried to transport that many people at once. The distance had to be short. Very short. With a breath, the image of King Street came to mind. It was the most familiar. Hopefully, there weren't any soldiers, officers, dragoons—
The girl was immediately pulled into an alleyway as soon as her eyes opened. She knew too well the putrid scent by the rats were concentrated there. She watched from the wall she was behind. Cries of rabble-rousers were posted at every corner, drawing more agitated men in red. The cobblestone streets were busy with more uprising than business. Brick and wooden colonial buildings lined up at the corner of her eye and there was the State House.
"What the bloody hell was that?"
"Magic, Bobby," she grinned, seeing that her method worked as she counted every head present. Fillan crossed his arms in frustration. "Fill?"
"I'm fine," he answered quickly.
Anger pulled at his heart. He had hoped to never see his elder sister. Then again, both of them knew the streets of Boston well. Only now, she had politicians at her feet as well as money. Gillian had more at her disposal; a vast network. He only had whoever crept between the filth of each colonial structure.
"Leaving by boat's no longer an option," Faulkner pointed out, "Those damned brits are scattered everywhere."
"I can try to take us back to Homestead," she offered.
Tsipporah thought it best to leave the city entirely. She teleported a group with no problem the first time with success. The boy was a bit on edge about the proposal and was right in the end. Before the girl could bring about the familiar fractals that laced her hands, she met with the dirtied ground. She grasped her nose as her face grew hot enough to be a fever. Her hand had collected a string of warm, red liquid. Licking her lip, she saw that her nose bled. She ignored the ringing her right ear was receiving as her comrade came to her level.
"I told you not to use your power."
"What? Do you have any bright ideas?"
Connor recalled the tunnels the Free Masons used. Looking beyond the wall, he saw more patrols walk briskly as the protestors continued. He visibly shrugged. He would have to clear out the patrols. They would have to scatter in order for them to disappear into the tunnels. The girl tugged his sleeve.
"Don't even think about it," she narrowed her eyes.
"Then what do you propose? To use your power again?" he didn't wait for an answer, "Fillan, you will take them to the nearest tunnel. I will make sure you are not followed. I will find you once I have taken care of the patrols."
"And lowered your notoriety," the girl reminded.
They had little choice but to follow this course of action. The other three slinked away and Faulkner muttered about what a mad bastard Connor was to take on a whole patrol. Tsipporah clenched her jaw when she saw officers of red and olive green swaggering down the lanes of cobblestone. There were about four, which was unusual. The wave of their readied swords shined in the light of the afternoon that was due to leave. Eyes were fixated on whatever trouble the protesters would bring. The olive green of their collar covered most of their faces. The three found their blood running cold seeing their fearless leader gaining the attention of one. In no time, a fight ensued. The teen cursed under her breath.
"Oh shit... of all things..."
A group of Jägers.
It just had to be Jägers.
Training saga ends in chapter 10. :D
