Chapter 9 - Equilibrium
Author's note- This chapter has been posted with some content removed to comply with site policy on explicit content. See my profile for the location of the unedited version.
Catherine had reached out to him. Is he dreaming or is this real? This woman sitting between his knees with her head resting against the crook of his left shoulder had just drifted off in his embrace. When she had first climbed over to him and he had wrapped her in his arms, her heart had been fluttering so wildly he could feel it through her body. As they sat together silently, her racing heart had slowed as he stroked her arm until he could no longer feel it pounding and her body had unwound, conforming to the bend of his waist. Her right arm had relaxed enough that when he ran his hand down it, it slid from his neck and settled across her lap over his hand on her stomach, her body shifting until her left shoulder had tucked neatly under his armpit. Fingers crooked slightly, her left hand now lies on the floor beside Connor's hip. Connor's left elbow is resting on his bent knee and his forearm hangs low enough that his knuckles brush the top of her leg. Now, with her breathing slow and deep, Connor is afraid to move in case he breaks this reverie.
Looking down at her, he takes in the sight of her neck, the way it curves gracefully from her right shoulder to her jawline, a curly tendril of hair that had strayed from the nape of her neck lying against her skin and swaying with every one of his exhalations. The lacing that runs up the center of her fabric shirt is undone at her neck, the top corners slightly folded down and hanging over the edge of her hide shirt, revealing just enough of her collar bones for Connor to want to touch them. If his right hand were not covered by her arm, he would be tempted to reach up and run his fingers down the perfect arc of her neck, pausing on the flicker of her pulse before trailing his fingertips along the elegant dip of her collarbone.
Connor wonders what it is about this woman that has captured him. He had never wanted to take even a single step back from his duties as an Assassin before. Not that he wants to give it up; he would never do that for anything. Rather, could he take on the role of Mentor more completely, letting his recruits manage smaller skirmishes with more independence while he directs matters from a distance? After Achilles passed, Connor was left as the highest ranking Assassin in the colonies, effectively making him Mentor at a very young age. His men had proven their mettle time and again and his ranks of Assassins have grown larger and stronger every day, spreading across the land in an intricate web of influence. As the network has grown, his ability to split his attentions between direct involvement in every major conflict and keeping track of his more distant connections has suffered. Maybe it is time to anchor in Davenport once again, only now it would be to take on the challenge Achilles had begun, to shoulder the burden of establishing an unbreakable stronghold of Assassin activity in the heart of the colonies.
Connor sighs as his eyes trail over Catherine's features. Maybe it is because she is so vulnerable. A part of him wants to protect her and prevent any further harm to her. But a different part of him knows that as she heals from her experiences he will have to step back from that role in order for her to strengthen herself. She will be forced to make difficult decisions in the future; Connor is convinced that she has not escaped the reaches of her husband and father in law and he is certain their paths will cross one way or another. It will be either Catherine's undoing or her triumph.
Maybe his attraction is also due to her never making any demands of him. She has never asked him for anything. He has been the one extending to her all the time. In the beginning it had been because of his sense of responsibility to render aid to an injured woman but in just this short time it had progressed into something so much more. Every step he has been able to make with her has felt like a victory and motivates him to give more of himself the next time. Connor thinks back to Dobby and her almost insatiable drive to get what she wanted. She made no effort to hide it and had grown used to getting her way, knowing no bounds to the measures she would take to attain what she wanted. Dobby is the most demanding woman he knows. Her attitude enhances her fighting abilities but had decimated his desire to be with her. For that reason, he had reinforced in his mind that being an Assassin and a husband were not mutually beneficial.
Catherine is so very different. She seems to have an idea of what she wants her life to be but after having been brought so low she is unsure of how to rebuild it in a way that will make her happy. Her surprising empathy for his dark past is magnetizing and it makes him want to help her realize her potential more than ever. He is concerned about what will happen once she knows about the Brotherhood. What if she wants to join the ranks? If she gets a taste for redemption will she become unstoppably determined in her quest for revenge? He already knows how intoxicating the need for revenge can be and would hate to see her follow the same path he had and end up just as empty-handed. While he does not want her to be a vapid, simpering woman without a care in the world, neither does he want her to become as overtly headstrong as Dobby is, looking for a fight wherever she can find one and turning the results to her advantage. Strong women interest Connor, but not that strong. It is a knife's edge of difference and based on the brief bursts of fire Catherine has displayed, she has the potential to veer in the Dobby direction if encouraged to. Could she ever be a woman who has a strong will yet still needs to, no, wants to be cared for? A woman who can stand by his side without fear, yet knows when to step back and let others take the reins. Confidence and modesty perfectly balanced. Is he wishing for the impossible?
Catherine stirs against his shoulder and Connor lowers his face down until his lips are touching Catherine's hair just above her ear. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply of her warm, velvety scent before softly kissing her head. Opening her eyes, she raises her head and pushes her left hand against his thigh to sit up. Connor moves his head so that when she sits up his jaw is against the side of her forehead. When her shoulder is out from under his armpit, he moves his elbow off his knee and takes her left hand in his, slowly bringing it over her stomach so he has both his arms fully around her waist.
The heavy burden of sleepy exhaustion still weighs on Catherine's eyes and fogs her mind. The fire has burned down to only glowing embers yet her body is comfortably warm. Connor's arms around her raise a surge of alarm in her chest but he is neither restraining her nor touching her inappropriately. He strokes the back of her left hand softly with his thumb and his right hand is relaxed against the side of her stomach, the weight of his arms the only pressure on her. Her heart is squeezed mercilessly in her chest as her mind still fights her purely emotional decision to stay with Connor. It unearths all her distrust and illuminates the most degrading details of her abuse. She takes a deep breath to repress the upheaval and Connor lifts the weight of his arms off of her, stilling his thumb on her hand. If she were to move away he would immediately release her. The realization makes her want to stay where she is and fills her with a sense of relief that is almost overwhelming. On her exhalation, she shakes her head, moving her right hand over to touch her fingers to the backs of Connor's knuckles and he relaxes his arms against her body once more with a sigh of his own. The wave of crushing anxiety passes, leaving Catherine even more determined to forge ahead on the road she has chosen.
Catherine rests her head back against Connor's chest and he lowers his face until their cheeks are touching. There is something extraordinary in the silence of their companionship; a tacit understanding that passes between them and blots out the need for superfluous talk. Her subtle actions carry a flood of meaning to Connor and his heart soars with hope that she will succeed in fully unfettering herself from the chains of her past. Content with what she has given him and making a wholehearted attempt to empathize with what it must have cost her, Connor refrains from touching his lips to her face. He has already pushed what he believes to be the outer limits of her tolerance for physical intimacy and he refuses to have it all turn to vapor because he is greedy. She has richly rewarded his risky conduct in the morning with this unprecedented act of acceptance that still fills him with dream-like disbelief.
Catherine's shoulder is stiff and sitting still for so long is starting to get uncomfortable. She leans forward slightly and Connor lifts his arms, letting her sit up. As she moves away, his hands lightly slide off her waist, and the sensation sends similar bursts of warmth through her body as when Connor's lips brushed over her wrist, though not as intense. When she gets to her feet she turns her head to look back at him. His eyes are once again bottomless with desire and more compelling than she is prepared for. He gives her a half smile and starts to get up as well. Catherine crosses her left arm over her chest and rubs her shoulder with her hand. Connor takes a step closer to her and gestures to her shoulder.
"You will be sore for two or three days. The worst will probably be over by tomorrow night or the next morning if you keep practicing. You did well today."
"I want to keep practicing. I don't think I'll ever be as good as you but I will try."
"I hope you will still feel that way tomorrow."
"Of course I will!" Connor gives her a knowing smile and shrugs his shoulders.
"I will ask you again in the morning, then."
A rolling wave of nausea makes Catherine sit up quickly in bed with her right hand over her mouth, the morning sun only just coloring the violet sky through the windows. At the same moment, a shockwave of pain streaks down the right side of her neck, through her shoulder and the length of her entire arm. Ignoring the pain as best as she can, she rips the blankets off of her, runs to the door past the dark form of Connor and lets herself outside. At the railing of the porch, she clutches the wooden beams and leans out over the cliff, swallowing the sour saliva in her mouth repeatedly in an attempt to keep from vomiting. Sweat breaks out on her face and neck, cooling rapidly on her skin in the chilly morning air and she takes in ragged breaths as she shivers. She dry heaves once before managing to control her stomach. The nausea fades slowly into a dull, unsettled ache and Catherine lets her knees buckle until she is squatting, her arms stretched above her bowed head. With the pressing need to vomit gone, the pain in her neck and arm comes to the forefront of her perception and she lets her right arm drop to the deck beside her feet. Any movement renews the searing pain in her muscles and she does her best to remain still as she continues to breathe deeply. Another surge of nausea, weaker than the first, forces her to drop her knees onto the porch floor and lean over the lower railing. When it, too, passes, Catherine turns and sits with her back against one of the vertical support beams for the roof of the porch and leans her head against it with her eyes closed. She catches her breath with deep, open mouthed respirations. A powerful shiver runs through her body and she opens her eyes, only to see Connor standing in the doorway watching her with concern. He is barefoot and shirtless, his left hand positioned partly behind his body and his right holding the handle of the door. His face is creased with worry and his lips are parted slightly.
"What happened?" His voice is urgent.
"Nothing. I just felt sick for a second. I'm alright now." Catherine slowly rises to her feet, wincing at the pain in her muscles, and Connor presses his back against the frame of the door so she can pass inside. Inside, Connor's belt is lying on the floor. She picks it up with her less painful left hand and turns around to face Connor. He grasps the empty sheath hanging from it and raises it up, bringing his left arm out from behind him and depositing his hunting knife in it. Catherine's eyebrows climb her forehead in surprise.
"What did you think was happening?" Connor shakes his head.
"I did not know. You ran outside so fast it could have been anything. I wanted to be prepared."
"Oh." Connor takes the belt from her and hangs it up on its peg by the door. Still feeling a little shaky, Catherine goes back to the bed and sits down, her arms crossed over her stomach. Connor approaches and stands by the bedside looking down at her.
"Are you sure you are not ill?"
"Yes, I'll feel better in a few minutes. I'm just a little dizzy still." Connor stands over her, his eyebrows close together on his brow. He reaches out and grazes her cheek with his fingers for a moment.
"You are pale."
"I'm alright, Connor, really." Connor continues standing before her and Catherine's eyes are drawn down from his face to the enormous scar on his abdomen that is just below her eye level. This is the closest she has been to him for any extended amount of time when he has not had his shirt on. Before she realizes what she is doing, she lifts her hand and touches the raised scar with her fingers. The raised skin is a knotted lump under her fingers and lacks the smooth, even texture of the rest of his skin.
"What happened to you?" She whispers, her fingers tracing the circle of the scar and line of stitch marks on his side. The tiny scars from his stitches are evenly spaced and feel like a double row of small, flat embroidery rosettes flanking the straighter incision-like scar that curves around his side.
Connor becomes very still as Catherine touches him. The sensation is dulled by the scar tissue but he can still detect the warmth of her fingers and feather light pressure as she moves her hand along it. He looks down at her hand touching his skin and then over to her face. A small crease is between her eyebrows and her lips are just barely separated as she stares at the mark on his body.
"It happened in Boston. A ship construction scaffolding collapsed while I was on it and a piece of a wooden strut was driven into my abdomen. I do not know if I fell on to it or if the debris that landed on top of me pierced me." Catherine looks up at him, concern filling her eyes.
"What were you doing on the scaffolding?"
"I was pursuing my father's second in command." Catherine inhales sharply at his admission. So his decades long search for a bitter enemy ended with a ghastly injury that probably came close to taking his life. She looks back down at his scar and traces the lines of it once more before lowering her hand to her lap.
"Does it hurt you?" Connor shakes his head.
"Not usually." Connor's heart is pounding in his chest and he desperately wants to feel Catherine's hands on his skin. He changes the subject to move away from such dangerous waters.
"How is your shoulder feeling?" Catherine smiles at what she knows is a loaded question.
"I think you know how it feels…"
"Do you still want to practice today?" He questions her with a ghost of a smile on his face. Catherine gives him a long, cynical look and then purses her lips. She considers giving in to her discomfort and letting him have the satisfaction of being right. Then again, maybe he wants her to push herself and he is intentionally goading her into it by flaunting his smug amusement in such an obvious way.
"I will not be defeated by a few sore muscles." Connor's face finally breaks fully into a smile.
"More target practice with the bow, then?" His smile widens at Catherine's perturbed expression as she contemplates the dismal prospect of using her right arm to haul on that cursed string all morning. She opens and closes her mouth and then defiantly looks him in the eyes.
"Of course. Whatever you think is best." Connor's smile fades only slightly as he realizes she isn't going to fall into his trap. He wanted to see her pout just a little so he could reveal that he had something else in mind than target practice again. Maybe she would have given him another devastatingly spectacular smile. Catherine is not the pouting type at all, it seems. He supposes it is better that way. Sonehso:wa prefers the pouty ones who play coy yet know exactly what they are doing with him. Catherine seems to either be willing to play along with his silly game or is simply refusing to appear weak. He should probably determine which one it is before he gets into trouble or she hurts herself pushing beyond her limits. A brief prickle of shame makes him question his decision to trick her. Hasn't she been deceived enough? He squashes his worry with the knowledge that she will not be angry with him in the end.
"I will be outside setting up some things for practice then. Come out when you are ready." A smile lingers on his mouth as he walks away. Catherine balls her hands into fists and follows him with her eyes as he crosses the room, puts on his shirt and dresses for the outdoors. When he leaves the cabin, she falls backwards on the bed and stares at the peaked log ceiling with a sigh. What is she doing? Why didn't she just say that her arm hurts too much for practice today? What is she trying to prove to him? And what the hell is he doing? Why is he being so odd? That smile he had! It was like he was laughing inside.
Catherine lies for a while on the bed, her toes dangling above the floor, and works at building up her motivation to train on the bow. She accepted his offer to train so now she needs to hold up her end. She is an idiot, well and true if she thinks it would be easy to just pick up a weapon she had never touched before and master it in one session. A hammering sound comes from outside and she wonders what Connor is up to. Maybe he is putting actual targets up for her. She squirms against the mattress, the few remaining scabs on her back itching relentlessly as they heal. When she has scratched to satisfaction, she rises to her feet and eats some leftovers from dinner the night before. Her stomach settles the rest of the way down with some food in it. Despite feeling much better, Catherine still drags her feet as she puts on her boots and jacket. She favors her arm as much as possible.
At the door, Connor's bow and all his weapons are in their places. He did not even put on his belt. Two guns hang on their pegs on the wall and a long musket is above the door. Not a single weapon of his is out of its place. So strange! Through the window, Catherine catches sight of Connor stacking pieces of wood in his arms before he carries them out of sight. Sighing in resignation, Catherine picks up Connor's unstrung bow and quiver and opens the door. At the edge of the porch, Catherine stops and watches as Connor uses the flat back side of his wood chopping axe to pound long stakes deeply into the ground, two sets of two opposite each other forming a one foot square. Inside the stakes, Connor lays logs in threes, each layer lying perpendicular to the last and leaving the center log out on the top layer. There are several sets of these spread around the open area with long, thick branches spanning several of them. Connor picks up the end of another branch and lowers it into the gap between the two logs in the stakes. Moving to the next reinforced stack, he lifts the other end into the gap, forming a bridge between the stacks with the branch. He then takes a length of rope and wraps it around the stakes and over the end of the branch in an "X" shape to secure both the stack and the branch tightly together, tying a complicated knot on the side. He moves on to the next stack and repeats his rope tying process.
The chestnut horse is wandering around the area, no longer penned in by the wood stacks. Catherine whistles softly and both the chestnut and Connor look over at her on the porch. Connor waves her over so she leans the bow and quiver against the cabin and walks over to inspect the curious bridges he is constructing. The sun is bright in the sky and the air is warmer than it has been, making the snow begin to settle wetly, no longer light and powdery. When she gets close, Connor lifts his head again from his work.
"What do you think?"
"I think these are the strangest looking targets I have ever seen." Connor grins widely and shakes his head.
"These are not targets, WildCat. I will not make you do archery today. I am not that cruel. Today you will practice your balance." Connor finishes tying the last stack together. He steps onto the branch and crosses along its length to the adjoining stack, stopping in the middle to bounce his weight on it and test its strength. Catherine is smiling by the time he steps down from the logs.
"I admit that I was not looking forward to using that bow. I think I can manage this."
"I will make it a challenge for you." Catherine smiles inwardly. She is confident that she will be better at this than shooting the bow. Connor offers her his hand to step up on the stack of wood but she ignores it and jumps up with alacrity, using her arms to balance lightly on the stack. Hesitating for only a moment, she steps out on the branch and slowly walks across it, picking up her speed as she finds her balance. The branch is easy to feel through her soft boots, making it effortless to place her steps. At the end, she jumps down into the snow. Turning around, she faces Connor, crosses one foot behind the other and mimics a curtsey to him, her hands holding an invisible skirt out to the sides.
"Impressive, WildCat." Connor stands with his arms crossed over his chest and nods. Her cheeks have regained their pinkness and then some from her activity. He looks toward the branch and continues.
"Now run across it." Catherine looks at him sharply and lowers her eyes to the branch. She backs up a few steps, bends forward slightly and takes a deep breath, concentrating. She runs the few steps through the snow to the stack, leaps up and starts across the branch. Only steps onto it, her balance falters and she jumps off into the snow beside it. Connor opens his mouth to speak but Catherine interrupts him by raising her hand out towards him before any sound can some out.
"Wait! I can do this, I know I can!" She jogs to the end Connor is standing at and stops a few paces beyond him. Turning, she takes a breath and lets it out slowly, calming her mind. This time she makes it all the way across and she jumps off the end with a shout of victory. She is triumphant when she turns back to face him and she runs back across just to compound her success. At the end she hops down and prances over to Connor, breathing hard and immensely proud of herself. He smiles down at her and enjoys seeing her so confident.
"I thought you said you were going to challenge me," she teases with a saucy tone to her voice. Connor narrows his eyes in mock skepticism.
"Very well." Connor walks over to the next bridge he had constructed, one end of the supported branch only a couple feet from the end of the first but extending away at an angle. Connor walks all the way to the end, jumps up onto the branch and tests his weight on it. When he is satisfied with its stability, he jumps down and walks a few steps away. Turning, he runs up to the stack, leaps onto the branch and runs across it, jumping the gap between the bridges and adjusting his course to cross the second one before bounding off the end and stopping. He steps to Catherine's side and looks down at her silently. Catherine squares her shoulders and walks to the starting point though inside, her confidence is wavering.
Catherine makes the jump across to the second bridge but fails to change her trajectory soon enough and she ends up in the snow with a shout, tumbling on her side as she falls. Connor runs over to her with concern but she rolls on her back and sits up, gathering her hair up and dragging it behind her shoulders.
"I almost had it!" Catherine takes his offered hand and he pulls her to her feet. He is careful not to step closer to her as he does, knowing he would be unable to resist bringing his arm around her and kissing her flushed face.
"It is not as easy as it seems. Practice this one for a while and I will set up your next challenge." Catherine unbuttons her coat as he is speaking and Connor's breath catches for a moment as his mind runs wild with his imaginings. He takes a step backward and watches as Catherine takes off her coat and hooks it over a broken branch on a nearby tree.
"I will get this right, I'm sure of it."
"Then I will work quickly." He moves away, picking up the axe from where he leaned it against a tree and Catherine watches him with curiosity. His eyes… She would swear under oath that he would rather not be walking away from her right now but his voice and body language do not betray him the way his eyes do. If not for what she saw in them yesterday coupled with his actions, she would be unaware of how much they are divulging. His self control is remarkable.
As Catherine steps up onto one of the bridges and slowly walks across it, she contemplates her changing relationship with Connor. Though Connor's desire for her is flattering and heartwarming, she still becomes a confused mess of indecision at the thought of him being much more intimate with her. Part of her deeply craves his companionship and care, the kindness he gives to her and his low voice when he speaks; even his warm embraces and gentle caresses have wriggled past her original defenses and become inextricably linked with who he is and what he has become to her. While she finds her body awakening to his touch, responding to it without conscious thought on her part, the edges of her nerves remain shadowed in fear, waiting for the pain, for his tenderness to be revealed as only a mask over some vile, lurking evil. His overtures seem innocuous on the surface but every one of them is leading her incrementally further down the path she has chosen to follow. She knows what inevitably lies at the end if she allows Connor to take her there and she hopes that by the time they reach it she will be ready to set aside her doubts and defeat her past.
"Are you going to make that jump or just pace, WildCat?" Connor calls to her from where he is tying rope to a stack in a row of several parallel bridges with expanding gaps between them. Catherine looks up from her feet and walks the length of the branch. At the end she hops the gap and walks the second bridge. With a steely countenance, she spins about and curls her toes over the crossed rope under her foot. Diverting all her energy to her goal, she dashes from her crouched position and crosses the bridge, clearing the gap and landing on the second bridge. Her momentum all but carries her off the edge but she twists her body and uses the strength in her legs from years of riding to forcibly change course. The very next step she takes is firmly in the right direction and she reaches the end of the bridge successfully. Between the sprint and the battle in her head, she is breathing hard and her heart races.
"Again!" Connor shouts from where he is working.
Catherine makes several more sprints across the two bridges, only falling off once when her foot slips. She finally stops when a cramp in her side doubles her over. When it subsides, she stands back up and walks over to where Connor is. He rises to his feet after pulling the last knot tight. Stepping onto the first bridge, he jumps from one to the next as if they are stepping stones, checking the stability and at the same time, showing Catherine a slow version of what he wants her to do.
"Are you ready to try this?" Catherine silently nods and Connor continues.
"Stay on this side for now until you get comfortable. It is harder to balance in the middle where the branch bends more." When Catherine jumps from the first to the second branch, she wavers on the landing. Her arms windmill as she tries not to fall off but she does anyway, jumping backwards into the snow. When her feet hit the ground, she stumbles back and crashes into the first bridge, which hits the backs of her knees, buckling them. With her arms still flailing, she topples backward with a cry. Her fall is cut short when Connor catches her left arm just above her elbow with his right hand. Despite his support, the lower half of her body still falls on the other side of the bridge, causing her feet to kick upwards in an embarrassing fashion. Catherine has a fistful of Connor's sleeve and she retains her grip on it as he pulls her back up to her feet.
Connor had moved between the bridges to pull Catherine up and this time he has no room to step back without tripping over a bridge as well. By the time Catherine is upright, there is no space between them and she has her right hand pressed flat against his chest. Against his better judgment, he brings his other arm around her and places his hand on the small of her back. Her body goes rigid and she glances up at him for the briefest second before casting her eyes down and turning her head away. In that moment he sees fear in her eyes and something… else.
The raw mixture of fear and longing, like oil and water, wells up in her and her heart feels as if it will leap from her chest at any moment. A cold bead of sweat trickles down from between her shoulder blades and makes its way toward where Connor's hand is on her back. She knows what he wants and she cannot bring herself to allow it, nor can she resist him. She presses her hand against his chest and moves to the side. His hands come away from her body, a crippling blend of relief and regret taking their place. Had she not decided to stay with him for his kindness and protection? Did she not accept that it would involve putting her past behind her? Despite knowing that she is used and polluted, he still had kissed her. By doing so he had as good as told her that her past does not affect how he views her. But every time he touches her, her mind works hard at twisting his caress into a rough grab, a soft stroke into a strike, corrupting his kindness with a dark cloak of violence.
Catherine wants nothing more than to forget what was done to her. She is unable to come up with even a vague estimate of how many times each of those horrid men had taken her. Why, now that she has someone standing before her who would never force her or hurt her, can she not separate one from the other? God, if only she had been able to get away from them that day. None of that would have happened to her.
Connor's hand on her shoulder brings her back and she finds herself on her knees between the wood bridges.
"Oh God… I was gone again wasn't I?"
"I suppose you could say that. Your eyes were looking far away and then you knelt down. I did not want to touch you but you were not waking up."
"I'm sorry Connor, I don't want to practice this anymore."
"I understand. Do you want to rest inside?"
"No. I want you to teach me how to fight."
"I do not know if that is a good idea right now. You seem upset by what you were remembering." Catherine raises her eyes to Connor and takes a handful of his jacket in her right hand, pushing against his chest.
"I am upset! I'll never be able to move past what was done to me until I know it will never happen again." Connor's eyes open wider at her sudden ferocity.
"It will not happen again." He tries to keep his voice low to calm her.
"You don't know that!" Catherine cries. Tears shine in her eyes and she pushes harder against Connor. He raises his hand to her wrist and tries to take her hand away but she clenches her fingers tighter. He looks into her eyes, finding a frightening desperation in them.
"WildCat, I will not let it happen again."
"You can't be by my side for every moment of the rest of my life." Catherine's anxious insistence touches off Connor's frustration and it comes through in his voice.
"What else would you have me do, then?"
"Teach me! Teach me how to get away if someone grabs me." Connor continues to look at her with doubt in his eyes. The last thing he wants right now is to reenact her capture, to play the part of a rapist.
"Please, Connor." He sighs, reigning in his aggravation and becoming deadly serious.
"If you are at all not sure about this, tell me now. This will be hard for both of us, but worse for you. I refuse to start this if we are not going see it through to its conclusion. Do you understand what that means?" Catherine is silent, knowing exactly what it means. She nods.
"Tell me, WildCat."
"It means I'll relive all of it, over and over. It means… that you won't stop, even if I scream and cry for you to let go. That… I will hate you for it, even as I'm grateful for the lesson." Tears fall from her eyes unchecked. Connor nods again when she finishes speaking, the pain in his heart almost unbearable. He reaches up and touches a tear that has settled at the edge of her jaw with his finger.
"I had hoped you would not want to learn hand to hand combat. I knew it would bring back painful memories for you."
"It's the only way." Connor shakes his head, his irritation gaining the upper hand again.
"No. It is not the only way, it is just the only way you can see right now." He takes his fingers from her face and gently but effectively pries her hand from his chest. Getting up, he turns his back to her and paces away. With one hand rubbing the back of his neck, he shakes his head and stares up at the top of the cliff far above the cabin. How long will this take? A week? Longer? How many bruises will she regain as a result of this, and from his own hands? It is one thing to fight an enemy but another entirely to deliberately restrain a woman in such a violent way. This goes against everything, everything he knows and crosses every value that had been instilled in him both as a Kanien'keha:ka man and as an Assassin. How can he do this to a woman he cares for? A woman he wants to kiss and caress… and maybe even love? He lowers his head and sighs again. He understands why she wants to do this. The world she comes from is not a safe one for women. Even if she were to become his wife, it is unlikely that she would stay in his village forever, especially if he were to change how he runs the Brotherhood. They would be in Davenport, a place filled with the best people he knows but not so separate from the world that she would be perfectly safe. As his companion, she would be considered a weak spot, a target and a way for his enemies to get to him. She is right and he knows it. If he has to leave her behind at times, she should know how to protect herself and not just with weapons.
Catherine watches as Connor paces. Despite what he said, this is the only way for her to heal. She has to face it and come away knowing she is capable of escaping. As he turns and starts walking back to her she gets to her feet, aware that the worst part will be the beginning when everything is fresh and she still knows nothing. Without any preamble, Connor begins instructing her.
"The first thing you need to know are the vulnerable places on any target. The ears, eyes, nose, throat, and groin. They are unprotected and painful when injured. If someone has you, you aim for those places first. You can dig your thumbs into an attacker's eyes, slap his ears with your flat palms, or grab his ears and pull them forward." He takes her hand and flattens her palm.
"Hold your hand rigid and strike with the side of it on the nose and throat, or with the base of it on the nose. You strike fast and hard; no hesitation, no obvious draw back. A knee or kick to the groin as a follow up will render your attacker unable to chase you. Once you strike, you run." He moves her hand to demonstrate hitting his nose with her palm and then shows her the chopping move on his throat. He lets go of her hand.
"Hit me. I am attacking you." He stands before her with his hands slightly up in front of him. Catherine hesitates and he lunges at her, grabbing the neckline of her shirt and using his forward force to bear her down to the ground where he straddles her waist. Catherine screams and reaches for his wrists. When she raises her hand to swing at him, he grabs her wrist and raises it up over her head.
"You cannot hesitate! Not for one moment. If you are too slow you will not succeed and then you are theirs." He gets off of her and pulls her to her feet. Once more he stands before her.
"Hit me." Catherine hesitates and for a second time he grabs her and takes her to the ground. Catherine's body shakes beneath him as she tries to contain her distress.
"I said hit me!" Connor leans forward over her and for just a brief flash, the man with the whip is the one straddling her, holding the front of her dress in his hands and starting to rip it from her body. With a scream that comes from somewhere deep inside her, Catherine smashes her palm into the bottom left side of Connor's nose. He reels backward and to the right, instinctively lifting his hands from her shirt to cover his face. Blood runs from beneath his hands and Catherine stares horrified at what she has done. He moves his hands away from his face and looks at them while a dark river of blood streams from his nose, staining his mouth and chin crimson before raining into the snow. When raises his tear blurred eyes to her and sees that she is just lying there he raises his voice.
"Run!" He starts to get to his feet and Catherine rolls onto her stomach and lurches to her hands and knees.
"Get up and RUN!" Connor bellows at her. He leans forward and reaches for her nearest foot with his bloody hand. Catherine screams and leaps to her feet, running as fast as she can into the woods. When her lungs are burning and her legs feel weak, she drops to her hands and knees and vomits into the snow, sobbing for air between every retch and choke. Tears and mucous run from her eyes and nose as she tries desperately to remind herself that Connor is not a rapist.
"Connor is not a rapist. Connor is not a rapist Connor is not a rapistConnorisnotarapist…" The words tumble from her like a chant until they blur together and her heart rate and breathing start to slow to a more normal rate.
Catherine is unaware of how long she stays doubled over in the snow but when she finally gets up and makes her way back to the cabin, Connor is nowhere in sight. The abandoned obstacle course covers a large part of the clear area beside the cabin and part of her wishes she had never asked to stop practicing, even though she knows she had to. Blood stains mark the snow where she had run from Connor and a trail of red droplets indicate that he went towards the gorge. The chestnut horse is by the cliff standing in a sunny spot where his enclosure used to be, the sole representation of peace in a wasteland of fractured intentions. Catherine heads to the cabin and opens the door a crack, peeking inside to see if Connor is there. He is not. A stab of worry pierces her and all she can see in her head is the blood pouring from his nose. She crosses quickly to the supply room and takes some rags from the shelf before heading back outside.
At the bottom of the trail, Catherine looks up towards the waterfall and sees Connor sitting cross legged on a low, flat rock beside the river with his hood pulled up. His elbows are resting on his knees and his right hand is cupped over his nose. He is a picture of misery, intensified when he does not look up as she approaches him. Maybe he was wrong when he said it would be worse for her. While what he did was frightening, he never actually hurt her; the only thing he forced her to do was react. Not only is he hurting physically from their little exercise, he is hurting mentally as well. Blood still covers his open mouth and chin visible below his hand and a trail of blood has run down his neck and dripped onto his jacket. Dark lines spiral down his wrist from his right hand and disappear under his sleeve. Red smudges mar left side and front of his hood where he pulled it up with bloodied fingers. Bending to the river, Catherine wets one of the rags in the freezing water and steps closer Connor. She kneels by the flat rock and takes his left hand in hers. Though their heads are just about at the same height, she keeps her eyes on his hand as she cleans the blood from his skin.
Connor can hardly bear to look at Catherine as she kneels before him with the rag. The one request she has made of him has driven him to behave in a way so contrary to his nature that he is repelled by his own existence. For her to even want to be near him after what he did is a confounding mystery. When she finishes with his hand, she washes the rag in the river and returns to facing him. Holding the rag in her left hand and resting the back of her wrist on his calf for balance, she leans closer and reaches her right hand toward him, gently pushing his hood back from his face. She takes the rag from her left hand and, with a feather light touch, carefully starts cleaning the blood off his chin. Connor slowly releases the squeezing pressure he had been holding on his nose and groans at the pain. The bleeding seems to have stopped, so he lowers his right hand from over his nose. Catherine quietly gasps when he does and he knows his nose must be a mess. He is fairly certain she did not break it but it still feels twice its normal size. As Catherine doggedly continues her ministrations, being careful not to exert any pressure on him, he notices a red mark on her chest where her fabric shirt is unlaced. He reaches over with his left hand and pulls on the corner of her shirt. Catherine freezes in place but Connor moves her shirt to the side anyway. Once he has seen the rest of the marks dotting her collar bones and upper chest, he drops the material and sighs, shaking his head. Never in his life did he think he would ever mark a woman's skin with violence.
When Connor takes his hand from her shirt and sighs, Catherine reaches her left hand to where he had been looking. Her fingers find several tender spots and she realizes that she must have visible marks on her chest from when he grabbed her and pushed her down. She doesn't care, but he obviously does. There is nothing she can do about that so she continues addressing his injuries. Connor's nose is a hideous shade of purple and some of the duskiness has spread outwards towards his eyes. The left side of it is more swollen than the right. He is forced to continue breathing through his mouth since she is sure his nasal passages are filled with clotted blood. As she cleans his lips off, all she can think of is when he kissed her wrist. Was that really only a day ago? More carefully then ever, she washes around his nostrils and over the top of his nose where his bloody fingers had been. There is a small tear in his skin where his left nostril meets his face. He stoically submits to her but she knows he is in great pain when he closes his eyes and holds his breath. His right hand hovers near his face as she works but Catherine tries to be gentle enough so he doesn't stop her.
Catherine's face is only inches from his as she swabs at him. The rag comes away more and more vivid with blood and she has to clean it out half way through. Her eyebrows are knitted with concentration and sadness and her bottom lip quivers when he slightly hisses through his clenched teeth once. Only when she reaches for his right hand does she finally look into his eyes for an extended period of time. Connor finds that it is actually a relief, since all the time she had spent cleaning him off she had resembled a frightened servant girl, afraid to look into her abusive master's eyes. He still feels like a beast for earlier but at least she seems to be regaining some confidence. If his pain means her breaking free of the captivity of her mind then it is worth it. Catherine pushes back the sleeve of his jacket and shirt with her fingers and cleans the almost dry trails of blood from his wrist as far as she can reach. Once his hand is clean, Catherine drops the rag on the ground and reaches toward him with both hands. When her fingers land on the top button of his jacket, he shifts backward.
"Wad are you doing?" His quiet words are distorted by his clogged nostrils.
"Your jacket is covered in blood. I need to wash it or it will be stained permanently." Connor nods and starts unbuttoning his jacket from the bottom while Catherine works downward. She goes behind him and helps it off of his shoulders and arms before taking it to the river and scrubbing it with a fresh rag. Connor never would have expected her to be taking off his clothes in such disturbing circumstances. The irony of it makes him grimace. He had longed to feel her hands taking even a single article of his clothing off for days, knowing it was only a fantasy and now she just has, after he threw her to the ground and forced her to smash his face. When she finishes cleaning it, she lays his jacket in the snow and rises to her feet. Kneeling once again in front of him, she leans forward, reaches towards him and curls her ice cold fingers into the hair at the back of his head. She meets his eyes and then pulls his head toward her just enough to press her lips lightly to the top of his forehead in a soft kiss. Drawing back, she meets his eyes and speaks quietly.
"I don't know if I should thank you or apologize. Maybe I should do both." Connor raises his hands up and rests them on her forearms.
"I can only apologize bud you would nod have id, would you?" Catherine shakes her head and kisses his forehead again.
"No." she whispers, and withdraws her hands from him, picks up his jacket and the rags and walks back to the cabin.
Knowing Connor will probably not stay outside for much longer because she has his jacket, she takes off her shirts and quickly washes her upper body before putting just the hide one back on. The fabric shirt is soaked with sweat from earlier so she washes it and lays it to dry beside Connor's jacket near the fire. She remembers her coat still hanging outside and retrieves it, peeking over the railing to see if Connor is still sitting by the river. The rock is empty, its dark surface standing out against the blue white of the snow and the trampled area where she had joined him so she hurries back inside, assuming he is probably on the trail up to the cabin. Grabbing the pail Connor usually uses to hold ice in, she dumps most of the water into the pot by the fire and brings it outside to fill with snow.
When Connor opens the door to the cabin, Catherine is at the table with a cup of tea, her back to the window facing the porch. Her left elbow is on the table and her head is propped on her hand. The purple welts from the bow string are dark against the paleness of her bare skin. Connor leans against the wall with one hand and takes off his boots, being careful not to tip his head forward. When he starts toward the fire, Catherine gets up and gathers up her shirt and his jacket, taking them to hang on pegs to finish drying. Returning to where he is now sitting on his bedroll that he never put away that morning, Catherine stands at the head of it looking down at him. She drops gracefully to her knees at the head of his bedroll and reaches to his shoulder, tugging at the sleeve until he leans toward her.
"Lie down on your back." Connor slowly complies, wondering what it is she wants of him now. She pulls her hair back so it all falls behind her. Feeling much better with his head down, he closes his eyes and bends his knees up, resting his feet on the mat comfortably and bringing his right hand onto his stomach. He opens his eyes again when he hears the sounds of water dripping. Above his head, Catherine is leaning toward the pail on the hearth with her left arm extended toward it. Turning his head toward where Catherine is reaching, he watches as she brings a wrung out rag towards his face. The warm fingers of her right hand touch his forehead to guide his head over towards the right and she lays the rag lightly over his nose. It is ice cold but it starts to relieve the throbbing pain in his face almost immediately. He sighs and closes his eyes again.
"Thad feels good, WildCad."
"I'm glad." She softly strokes his hair with her hands, tucking a section behind his ear and moving the beaded braid out of the way before idly moving her fingers through the hair on the sides of his head. She checks the temperature of the rag on his face and exchanges it for one that has been sitting in the bucket of slush. Connor's breathing is steady and even and eventually he extends his legs out and crosses his ankles. Some of the lines smooth in his forehead and at the corners of his eyes as he relaxes. After exchanging the rags several times, she lets the last one take on the temperature of his skin, slowly stroking his hair the whole time. His breathing deepens and Catherine slows the movement of her hands in his hair to soothe him further, not stopping even when she is sure he is asleep.
