A/N: Well, here we go! I'm so sorry it's taken over a month to give an update. Life has just been really crazy lately! This is the longest chapter yet, so hopefully you will accept that as my apology!
Thank you, KaylaKenway, for your review! I can't urge people enough to review, it really helps keep me motivated to continue writing in a timely manner. I'd really love any opinions on this chapter, good or bad (as long as they are constructive). I didn't really look over this chapter because I just want to get it out, so hopefully it's still okay!
Warning: Possible triggers for abuse/assault in this chapter.
Also, I will probably be making this story M within the next few chapters as the content gets a little darker. I hope y'all enjoy this chapter and that all my American readers have a great Thanksgiving!
Chapter Eight;
Trust
"Hate is a feeling that can only exist where there is no understanding." Tennessee Williams, Sweet Bird of Youth
They always took their anger out on each other during training.
Though both of their talks with Achilles had quieted the fires of their anger, the act of sparring only fueled it. It was late afternoon now, the sun ruthless on their skin as the Assassin put her through the same regimen of training, over and over and over again. Cora was exhausted and frustrated, a combination that made her easily irritated. It was only a matter of time before she lost control of herself. The bickering had begun when the Assassin suggested they spend the rest of the time practicing the sword.
Unbeknownst to him, she had been practicing in her spare time. Though she was still nowhere near a master of the sword, her skill had vastly improved since they had last sparred. Still, though, she knew the Assassin only suggested that to irritate her – he knew she despised the sword. Besides, her skill with the bow was what really needed more improvement.
"I think I will continue with the bow," she said simply, discarding his suggestion as she drew, aiming for the farthest target.
"Look, if you are not going to-"
"Abide by your terms, I know," she said bitterly, letting slack back into the bow as she turned towards him sharply. "My apologies, I forgot how much you liked to tell others what to do."
The Assassin tensed his jaw, narrowing his eyes at her as he stared her down, contempt in his eyes. The two stood before each other, in an tense, malicious sort of trance. Finally, the Assassin turned away for a moment, grabbed a practice sword and threw it towards her. He wasn't taking her banter today, apparently.
Muttering curses under her breath, she dropped the bow and snatched the sword from the ground, her glare sharp. As the two settled into their battle stance, they surveyed each other, the malice radiating through the air more perilous than the heat radiating from the sun.
It was the Assassin who struck first, jumping towards her as the practice swords slammed together. Yet before he could asses her footwork, she had attempted to strike him, leaving him to back up as she advanced. So she had been practicing...
They dueled hard, and Cora gave all she had. A few times, her sword would slip through his defenses and hit him in the shoulder, procuring a loud, satisfactory grunt. Yet for every blow she dealt him, she received thrice as many in return. She was afraid of the bruises she would see the next morning, but any pain was clouded by the desire to fight him, to spar all her anger away.
Though they had not argued today, somehow they had come to this point. It was weeks of frustration and anger and hate, sewn inside their hearts and left to fester. Now the weight of all their transgression towards each other was proving to be too much at last.
"You are not as skilled as you once were, Assassin," she said between breaths.
"Who said I was giving all my strength?" Cora scowled as he mocked her. "Besides, those are arrogant words for one behind a wooden sword," he grunted, his words biting and angry.
"Fine," Cora yelled, tossing the practice sword at his feet and turning on her heels.
The sharp sound of the sword leaving its sheath was so terribly satisfying. She was being rash, perhaps even foolish, but she was tired of always having to prove herself to that damn Assassin. It was about time he gave her some respect.
"You do not want to do this," he warned, crossing his arms.
"Pick up your sword, coward!" Cora's rage was bottomless and persistent, almost frantic as she extended her sword toward her opponent.
At her words, Connor felt himself lose control. He picked his sword up and made his way toward her, not hesitating for a moment to strike. The clang of metal against metal stung his ears, and by the look on the woman's face, he figured she had not expected him to come at her this hard.
Soon he had her on defense, staggering backwards as their swords met again and again. Cora struggled to block each blow, barely getting her sword up in time to keep his blade from her body. She was in over her head and she knew it, but she was far too proud to admit defeat. When he pinned her against the stable wall, she wondered if perhaps she should yield.
"How is my skill now," the Assassin whispered to her. Cora lost control then, crying out with rage as she lunged back at him, landing a foot into his abdomen. He blocked her strikes easily, but still she had him backpedaling, stumbling as momentum carried him backwards.
When he finally fell over, the woman used the opportunity to knock his sword from his hand. Connor hit the ground hard and she threw herself on top of him, straddling him as she drew a small dagger from her boot. He knew she would do nothing with it – that she was only trying to intimidate him. Connor could have thrown her off easily, but for some reason he let her keep him there, perhaps just out of interest in what she would do. She stared at him with a look of pure hatred – a passionate, intense rage.
"You will not do it," he taunted, bringing his torso up to resist her arm that kept him pinned to the ground.
He was right, of course. She couldn't do it, no matter how much she wanted to. Something held her blade back, and she wasn't sure it was the fact that she needed him in order to kill Oliver. Instead, she threw the blade aside and punched him hard, just above the eye. The shock in the Assassin's face amused her, but she didn't have time to smile before he grabbed her arms and threw her to the side, rolling on top of her in a smooth, easy motion.
His legs tightened around her hips, his forearm pinning her to the ground. She would have struggled, but she knew it was futile and instead stared defiantly into his eyes. Unyielding, stubborn... That woman would be the end of him.
"You won't do it," she mocked, laughing bitterly as she struggled against his hold on her. She had been sure he would let her go, but instead his thighs tightened against her sides, his arms pushing her back down. The hidden blade made a smooth sound as it slid from his bracer, and for a moment Cora's smile disappeared. He wouldn't, she knew, but the blade was sharp at her neck and for a moment she wondered if maybe she had been wrong.
"What the hell is going on," a gruff voice interrupted. Achilles thrust his cane between them, practically beating Connor to his feet. "I thought I asked you to train her, not hold a knife to her neck. Your lack of control is disappointing."
Cora propped herself up, smirking as Achilles continued to lecture the Assassin. When the old man caught sight of her smug face, he turned to her. She tried to pull herself up, but was knocked back to the ground by Achilles' cane.
"Wipe that look off your face, Cora," he reprimanded. "I know you are nowhere near faultless in this."
"That is not true, I did nothing!"
The Assassin laughed bitterly. "I seem to have forgotten that you are incapable of doing anything wrong."
"Finally, he admits it," she taunted, smiling again as she crossed her arms.
The Assassin narrowed his eyes at her, balling his fists to try and keep his anger controlled. Cora had spent much time with the man, and she was learning the language of his body quite quickly. It was obvious to her that was was beyond furious, and she took some secret pleasure in that.
"I have had enough of this," Achilles said angrily, shaking his head. He looked at them both for a few moments, brows furrowed, before a grim look settled over his face, as if he had just come to some serious conclusion. Sighing, he leaned on his cane. "Clean up, and do not be late for dinner."
Connor didn't know how to feel as the old man walked away. Achilles was not pleased, that much was evident, but Connor had thought he would react much more than he had. Somehow, though, he had a feeling that this matter was not over just yet. He could feel Cora's eyes on him, could practically see her mind working to find a way to blame all of this on him, but after what had just happened, he knew the best thing was just to walk away.
Cora watched the Assassin leave, yet somehow her heart was calm, as if all the anger had melted into a sad little puddle. Annoyed more than angry, she sighed and turned towards the stables to find solace in Ealga's company as she had so many times before. She muttered curses at the Assassin, sending a malicious glance to his retreating form. That coward, running off without even saying a word to her. Sighing, she wondered if this partnership, no matter how temporary, even had the slightest chance of working.
The three of them sat at the dinner table, silent as they ate. Achilles eyed the two youth in front of him, tapping his finger on the table as he watched the tension between them. Sighing, he wondered if his decision was unwise after all. Yet they had to figure out how to work together, to tolerate each other, if they wanted what the other had. Cora needed his skill to get her revenge, and Connor needed her intelligence to get Charles Lee. Both knew this well, yet still they were determined to make every waking moment of his existence one of perpetual peacemaking.
"I need a favor of you," he finally said, addressing neither of them directly. "I have a message I need sent, but it holds delicate information." This was not a lie, necessarily, but if he really needed a message sent, there were other ways than making Connor take it himself. Connor furrowed his brow, confused by the request, but he nodded all the same.
Achilles glanced at Cora, hoping that his idea would come out as he hoped. She was wearing a look of relief on her face, likely at the fact that she believed she would not be subject to training, or Connor's presence, while he was gone. Achilles stayed silent a few moments longer, letting her enjoy her relief while she could. The room was silent, the occasional clink of silverware on the plate the only noise permeating the stillness of the air, the only sound cutting through the thick, awkward tension between the two seated across from him.
"Cora, you will accompany him," Achilles said simply, setting down his fork as he braced for her reaction. Yet instead of her protests and complaints rising in the air, excuses as to why she could not, she stayed silent, unable to do anything but stare at him with a mouth open in shock. In her place, Connor pushed away from the table, staring at Achilles with resent in his eyes, as if he had just asked him to give back his Assassin's robes.
"You will leave in the morning," he said as he stood slowly, leaning on his cane. "The trip should take no more than a day there and a day to return."
"Please," Cora finally said, her voice abnormally small. "Do not make me go. I am sure I will be nothing but a hindrance to him, anyway," she added, giving Connor a glance through narrow eyes. Achilles rolled his eyes.
"This is exactly why you will go." Moving away from the table, he sighed. "You two wish to work together, to take in the advantages of the other's skills, yet your arguments leave no time for planning. If you wish to accomplish a task as large as defeating the Templars, there can be no room for mistrust and malice. Since neither of you want to even try to get along, I am forcing you to."
"It will not work," Connor said finally, through gritted teeth. Perhaps, but Achilles knew them both well enough to be confident that it would.
"Get rest," he said, ignoring the younger Assassin's words. "You will have a long day tomorrow."
Cora rose, walking calmly out of the room and up the stairs, her expression unreadable. Connor, on the other hand, let out a groan, balling up his fists at his side.
"You really think that making me spend two days with her will do anything? You know how she is, Achilles. You know there is nothing you can do to make her see differently!"
Achilles shook his head – in his words, Connor was only solidifying what he already knew.
"Sit, Connor." Connor did not make a move. Ignoring his refusal, Achilles continued. "That is the problem. You are trying to change the way she sees things, just as she is trying to change your perception. You should know as well as anyone that sometimes you cannot change the way someone is, you can only try to understand."
The sun had not yet risen when the Assassin knocked on her door, jolting her from a vivid dream. Confused, she sat up, the dream still lingering in her head, clouding her perception of reality.
"We must leave if we are to make good time," a voice came from the other side of her door. Cora said nothing in return, but the Assassin left anyway, not bothering to check and see if she was really awake, as if he hoped she was still asleep so he had an excuse to go alone. She turned her body and put her feet on the floor, rubbing her forehead and trying to shake the cold grip that the lingering emotions had on her heart – fear, grief, terror, and some unexplainable warmth.
She had been alone, wandering among the tall grass, a sense of peace calming her as she felt the sun on her skin, the wind tousling her hair. When she broke into the clearing, the ocean had been visible, far beneath the great stone cliffs.
Ireland.
Though she had never seen it, she had always thought her father's soul would have gone back there, floating among the winds with the spirits of his stories. She called to him sadly, closing her eyes and saying all the holy words she knew, making her appeal, begging whatever Great Spirit ruled over this land to please, please bring him back. For a day. For an hour. Even for a single moment.
In a heartless rejection of her plea, thunder crashed around her, sending her into a fit of panic.
"Run," a voice whispered in her ear, chilling her to the bone. She did run, more out of terror than obedience. Fear gripped her as she made for the ruins of a castle, trying to get out of the merciless storm. She wandered through the fortress before coming to a small room with a stained glass window holding the image of a beautiful woman. Intrigued, she had stepped into the room, but the door slammed behind her. Whirling, she felt as though she had shrunk to the stature of a child, the paralyzing fear of a child's heart freezing her in her steps. Looming over her was Oliver, a cruel smile on his face.
"Go to him," the voice again whispered. She did not want to, but her body had moved without her consent.
The screams of the wind still echoed in her ears as she pulled on her clothes, placing her knives and sword in her belt and a gun in the holster at her back, concealed by her jacket. Sliding on her satchel, she slipped her sketch book and a few pastels inside. At least then she'd have a distraction from the Assassin once they stopped for the night.
When she made it outside, the Assassin was waiting with both of their horses. He had saddled Ealga, and though it brought up an irrational anger within her, she said nothing, mounting her horse after being sure she had everything.
Achilles was standing at the door of the manor, watching them go from a distance. Cora sighed and looked away, trying her best not to resent him. After all, she had just come to like the old man...
The Assassin led the way, and neither of them spoke to each other. The air between them was thick and filled with hostility, only made worse for Cora by the terror deep within her belly that lingered from her dream. She would have likely found some impudent quip to bother the Assassin with had she not felt such heaviness in her chest.
The ride was long, and they stopped only occasionally to stretch their legs and let the horses drink. When they stopped, they would stand far apart from each other, pretending the other did not exist, as if they were determined to prove Achilles wrong and come back neither friends nor mortally wounded from attempting to kill each other. Cora was miserable and longed to be back at the manor, even if it meant training and chores. At least then she had somewhere she could escape to if the need should arise, but out here in the wilderness she was alone with her thoughts and her enemy.
It was well past noon when strange noises echoed from within the forest; the squeal of a dying animal, and an ominous rustling in the trees.
The Assassin said nothing, but turned back to her, meeting her eyes in unspoken communication. He obviously wanted to check things out, and Cora's adrenaline spiked as he held a finger to his lips. He stopped his horse, dismounting, and Cora followed suit, watching him closely.
The two crept through the forest, silent as falling snow, moving towards the voices. The Assassin fell back to Cora's side, whispering, "Poachers." Cora had no idea what he was intending to do, but he took his tomahawk from his belt and began to walk towards them, giving her a pretty good idea of it. She stood there for a moment thinking him an idiot for walking straight into probable conflict, but followed him anyways.
There were six men among the trees. Two of them were working to skin an elk, not noticing their approach. The conversation fell away as the others looked from Connor's weapon to the woman behind him and back to Connor again, their hands slowly creeping to their own weapons as the pair got closer and closer. Connor may have left them there, or attacked from above, but one of the men's voices had caught his ear. Now, standing before the group, he did not see the man he was looking for, the one he had thought he heard. Months ago, a group of poachers had come to the lands near the homestead, attempting to set Myriam's house on fire. Luckily Connor had made it there in time, ending the threat, but one of them had gotten away.
Connor looked at the group, surveying their weapons and how able bodied they seemed. If it came to a fight, which he was sure it would, it would not be too difficult.
"Leave this place," he said sternly. "You cannot hunt here."
"Says who," one of the men said, tightening his grip on his rifle.
Before Connor could answer, that familiar voice sounded behind him.
"Long time no see, friend," he laughed. He had Cora in his grasp, one hand on her neck and the other across her waist. "Didn't know you brought whores back to that homestead of yours. She's a good one, I promise," he laughed, moving his hand up her body. Cora gave no reaction – she was used to crude treatment any time she saw someone she had bedded before. This man had been particularly unpleasant, leaving her face and arms bruised when she returned to the fort. Henry had been so concerned afterward, worrying over her like a mother hen. At the time it had made her feel safe and treasured, but now it just made her angry – if he had really loved her and cared for her, why did he care for her wounds and then take her to another job once she had healed?
Yet the man had been easy to draw secrets from. His will was soft and malleable and he willingly told her of all he knew of the Assassin from the contact he'd had with him on the homestead, among other things that Oliver had been glad to know.
When he gripped her breast roughly, she looked into the Assassin's eyes, giving him a lifeless, emotionless stare, save for the fires in her eyes that he had come so accustomed to seeing. Cora watched him as his eyes widened and then narrowed, as his grip on his tomahawk tightened and he took a step forward.
"Enough," he snarled. The poacher's only reply was a laugh, and the Assassin pulled out a gun, the click signifying he was ready to fire loud in Cora's ear. Just as he did so, the men around him pulled their rifles on him, six guns all ready to end his life.
"Not quite," the man laughed. "I'll take her, and you'll watch."
Cora felt like laughing at his confidence. Of all foes she would face, this man did not scare her at all. She could handle herself. Cora gave the Assassin one more hard look, hoping he knew not to be foolish and try anything. Turning in his arms, she looked up at him through her lashes, letting her hand go to his neck. The poacher was obviously confused, but he did not move to restrain her.
"You do not have to take me. I would gladly give myself to you," she whispered, thinking only of how amusing the Assassin's face likely looked behind her. Grabbing his hand, she placed it on her waist, just above where her knives lay. With her other hand, she brushed against the bulge at his groin, eliciting a gasp from his lips.
She smiled, trying not to laugh at how easily men could be distracted. Leaving his hand at her waist, she let her own hand slide down, finding a knife and slowly taking hold of it, pulling it up unnoticed and forcing it into the man's side. He gasped, stumbling backwards as his hands went to his side.
"You bitch," he muttered, staggering before falling to his knees. Cora turned back, a hand going to the hilt of her sword as she heard multiple gunshots. The Assassin was unharmed, and two of the poachers already lay on the ground dead or dying. Sometimes it was easy to forgot how lethal the Assassin really was.
She took a step forward, beginning to draw her sword out of its sheath, when a hand gripped her shoulder, yanking her to the ground. She hit the forest floor with a grunt, the air leaving her lungs as the poacher climbed on top of her, pulling the knife from his side. "I'll make you pay, you fucking bitch."
She punched him hard, sending him reeling. Taking advantage of his vulnerability, she rolled him over, straddling him and striking his wound. He cried out in pain but did not falter, slashing at her with the knife he held. Cora caught the blow in her arm, hissing as her forearm stung with pain. Not taking the time to even glance at the wound, she tightened her thighs around his waist, trying to get control of him. He struggled, thrashing around as she grabbed for his knife. He held it above his head, and she went for it, leaning over him. Just as it was in reach, he grabbed her braid, jerking her back and turning her over again, pressing an arm against her chest to keep her down. He brought the knife to her face, laughing bitterly as he wiped the blade on her cheek, leaving a stripe of blood. As he brought it down, she slipped her arm under his, finally knocking the blade away.
Anger overtaking him, his hands made for her neck, grabbing her jaw and forcing it to the side, twisting, twisting... She could see the Assassin fighting two last men, but the sounds of the battle were dulled by a loud ringing in her ears. Just as he cut down one man and turned to the last, she felt the pressure building in the base of her skull.
He was going to break her neck. Gasping, she tried to call out, but no sounds came. The Assassin made quick work of the last man and whirled around, taking in the scene before him. The poacher was straddling her, hands at her neck, and she stared at him; a lifeless, cold stare. And the blood... There was so much blood. His body reacting before his mind could, he ran to them, shoving the man off of her.
Cora turned on her side, breathing hard as she tried to regain her senses. Just as she was able to prop herself up on all fours, a hand was on her shoulder.
"Are you hurt?"
"No," she managed, momentarily forgetting about the cut on her arm. She let the Assassin pull her off, and watched as his eyes ran down her body, checking for a source of all the blood on her clothes. His hand was still on her shoulder, holding her up until he was sure she would not fall. As his eyes still scanned her, she put her hand on his arm, looking into his eyes.
"Thank you," she said genuinely, even giving him a small smile. It may have been the first nice thing she told him and meant, but it got no reaction out of him. He simply gave her a nod before walking a few paces back, picking up his tomahawk from where he had dropped it when he had tackled the poacher.
As he bent over to retrieve it, one of the men laying on the forest floor sat up, holding his rifle, barrel aimed straight for the Assassin's skull.
She wanted to warn him, yell to him, but no words passed her lips. Instead she flung herself at him, tripping just as she made it to him and knocking him over, flat on his back. The pop of the gunshot reverberated around them, echoing in their ears as Cora reached for her pistol, sliding it out of it's holster easily. She aimed and fired in one smooth motion, and the man dropped back again, finally dead.
Connor stared at her, watching her reload the weapon and reach back to put it away again. How was it that just yesterday they had been trying to kill each other, yet now they were watching out for each other in battle. Everything about this woman's actions caught him off guard and left him confused and reeling.
She got up first, holding out a hand. He took it, letting her pull him up, thanking her.
"At least we are even now," she shrugged, not meeting his eyes. "I do not like owing a debt to anyone."
Connor nodded, brushing the grass off of his coat.
"We should continue on," he said, watching as she made her way to the man who had tried to kill her, retrieving her knife and cleaning it on his shirt. She looked at him for a moment, her face emotionless and her eyes sad, before turning back to face Connor. She smiled and nodded, placing the knife back in her belt and wordlessly heading back towards the horses.
Connor had noticed her wound as soon as they had dismounted. It was a gash on her forearm; not deep enough to worry him, but needing to be cleaned nonetheless. By the way she cradled the arm, clutching it to her abdomen, he knew it was causing much discomfort, but by the haunted look in her eyes, he knew not to say anything just yet.
"That wound should be cleaned," he said a while later, eying her forearm once he had let her catch her breath as he pretended to be preoccupied with cleaning his blades. He had known her long enough to know that she desired time to process things.
She glanced up at him, an odd paradox of on her face, both annoyance and gratitude, exhaustion and restlessness. Connor stayed where he was, waiting until she agreed before he pressed her any further. Finally she extended her arm, resting it on her knee permissively.
His fingers were gentle as he took her arm, examining it carefully.
"It is not too deep, but it will likely leave a scar. Unfortunately there is not much I can do to prevent that." Cora gave a breathy laugh, dismissing his comment as unimportant.
"Why do you think I would care," she said, half teasing and half curious.
The Assassin shrugged, keeping his eyes on her forearm as he ran water over it, ridding it of dirt. "Ellen's daughter once made a fuss that she had developed a scar. I figured women do not care for them." Cora laughed quietly.
"I figured by now you would have realized I do not care about such things."
He said nothing in response, focused on wrapping her wound.
"Besides," she said quietly. "I do not mind scars... I like them." The Assassin looked up at her then, eyebrows raised skeptically. "They have stories," she went on, justifying her words. "Memories."
"Most want to forget any memory that leaves a scar," he said, securing the bandage and looking her in the eye. "But you revel in them?"
"Is there any shame in that? To let those scars, those memories motivate you, remind you why you fight, why you resist... You seem to do the same, if I am not mistaken."
"Perhaps," he said, looking away, distracted by his thoughts.
"I have seen many scars in you, Assassin," she said gently, leaving the implications of her words hanging in the air like the dampness after rain. He sat up straighter, furrowing his brows slightly as he slid his hand off of her arm.
"Perhaps both of us carry many."
He looked at her straight in the eyes, unflinching and unafraid. Cora's stomach grew tight and anxious, every part of her body commanding her to look away, to leave. Yet something in his eyes kept her gaze steady.
The quiet between them was almost natural, intimately so, the silence seeming to do all the talking that was needed. Connor tried to read her face, tried to see what she was thinking. Her eyes were glimmering, but with trust or uncertainty, he did not know. They were close, so close he could almost feel her breathing hitch as he shifted his knee. This woman was so easily startled, yet how fierce she could be when she wanted to... A puzzle, indeed.
She had not even noticed that they had been touching each other until he had moved. Finally, her eyes broke from his glance, glancing at where their knees made contact, staring wide eyed as if there was a dagger sticking out of her thigh. When she looked back up at him, he was still watching her, looking at her with some odd expression that she couldn't place. The way he was looking at her, his eyes free of malice or lust or selfishness, almost made her uncomfortable. No man had ever looked at her like that, not even Henry, and it made her uneasy. It was too intimate, too genuine... Cora had no idea how to handle it.
She shot up, walking past him and mumbling her thanks for his help with her arm. Wide eyed and still reeling, she went to her mare, weaving her fingers through her mane, if only to find something to hold onto, to make her steady. Since she had met him, her relationship with the Assassin had been defined by anger and mistrust and blame... How was it that one simple moment, a wordless, meaningless moment, could shake her so harshly? It unsettled her how easily he could change her intentions, how he had seemed to melt away her malice against him with one single kind gesture.
She needed to get away.
Cora nearly threw herself onto Ealga, swinging her leg over so forcefully that even the mare shifted uneasily, not used to such force.
"Cora," the Assassin said, jumping up and stepping in front of her mare, grabbing the reins. The way her name came off her tongue was what pushed her over the edge. She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. She needed to think.
"I will be back," she said forcefully. "I promise."
The Assassin considered her words, concern in his face, before he nodded grimly and stepped away.
"I will return," she said again, hoping to make him understand yet somehow doubting that he would trust her to ride away unaccompanied.
He would not let her, she was sure... When she closed her eyes she could see him drag her off the horse, hit her with the barrel of his gun, speak vile words into her soul. But when the man in her head finally looked at her, it wasn't the Assassin's face; it was Oliver's.
She took a deep breath and opened her eyes quickly, the anxiety disappearing under the guise of that familiar fire Connor had become so accustomed to. When he saw that stubbornness flash in her face, what could he do? She would go with his permission or not, and perhaps it was time to show her that he knew she would not run anymore. If there was anything he had learned to trust her with, it was the fact that she would not try to flee, that she would not really harm him. She had proved as much when they had fought earlier, and again when she had pushed him from the path of that bullet. There had been a time when he was sure she would have sliced him open neck to navel if she'd had the chance, yet when she finally had him backed into a corner, she did not harm him.
Connor took a step back and nodded, giving silent approval as he watched her blink with surprise. He could almost see the cognitive dissonance behind her eyes, the complexity of her emotions that needed to be worked through.
"I will be back by nightfall," she promised, not giving Connor time to answer before she rode off.
For the first time, he believed her.
Cora had returned just after sunset, only able to find her way back by the glow of the fire the Assassin had started. She had ended up not going far, only traveling up the stream, where she had taken her boots off and dipped her feet in the water, letting the coolness of the stream comfort her flushed skin. She scrubbed at her face, washing away the dirt and blood and lingering touch of the poacher.
She had sat there for a long time, knees against her chest, forcing herself to realize that all men were not Oliver. Not all men were cruel and sadistic, finding some sick gratification in the pain of others. And not all men were like Henry, who claimed to care for someone, all the while watching them endure torture of the body and the mind and choosing to do nothing. She had known pain and suffering for so long at the hands of men, it was hard to remember a time when there had been anything else.
Then, the guilt took hold. Had it been that easy for them to erase the memory of her father, of her brother? Her family? People who had loved her and protected her, laughed with her and cared for her. Yet it seemed so long ago... Another lifetime.
The Assassin sat next to the fire, the flames illuminating the angles of his face. He looked up as she approached, gesturing to a place next to him.
"Rabbit," he said, using his knife to cut a piece of meat for her. She nodded in gratitude, and the two sat their silently as they ate.
"How did you know I would come back," she wondered aloud, glancing at him as she chewed. He looked back at her, pausing for a moment.
"I did not," he said.
She smiled involuntarily, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. As she plopped another piece of rabbit into her mouth, she wondered if the heat in her face was from the fire or something else.
"What is the story with that," he asked out of the blue, pointing to the small burn on her unbandaged forearm.
"What?"
"You said scars have stories," he said, looking back into the flames.
"Oh," she said, surprised that he was bringing this up. "I was helping my mother to make bread, and I burned myself." The Assassin nodded, but said nothing.
"What about that one," she said, pointing to the faint scar on his cheek.
"When I came to ask Achilles to train me, he refused and I had to sleep in the stables." Cora laughed. That sounded like the old man, alright. "In the night, a group of thieves came. I confronted them. This is from the leader's war club."
Cora winced. Head injuries were the worst. "Ouch."
The Assassin shrugged.
"I can beat that though," she said, her voice an excited song.
"Can you," the Assassin responded, his eyebrows raised in amusement.
"This one here," she said, pulling up the sleeve of her jacket, "was from a sword."
"A sword," he said flatly, as if disappointed.
"Not just any sword – it was double edged, and the man who wielded it was the best mercenary for hire in all of Boston."
"What happened to him?"
"Like I said," she smiled as she plopped a piece of bread into her mouth. "He was the best mercenary for hire."
"What about this one?" Running his finger over his own temple, he referenced the light, jagged scar in the corresponding place on her face.
And so it continued. She showed him the long scar on her foot from stepping on glass, the various scars from jobs she had taken throughout the years. He told her of the scar he received on his first voyage on the Aquila, and the one he had gotten from shrapnel in a battle on the sea.
"How did you get one on your palm," she asked, running her thumb over the one that crossed over her own. Yet while his was faint and jagged, likely accidental, hers was straight and thick, made from much more sinister intentions.
"Ah," he said, smiling slightly as if it was some secret joke. "The old man asked me to retrieve a parcel in a cave. The place was falling apart, and I almost did not make it out. When I slid under some rocks, I cut my palm pushing against the rocks."
"I have one, too," she said, opening her palm to him.
"What happened?" He could see the change in her demeanor as soon as he asked. She had been lighthearted and relaxed, but now she was rigid and her face looked stern, as if she was trying to keep her features from betraying any emotion.
"Some stories are best left untold," she said finally. His face softened and he did not press her, but that did not stop the scene from replaying in her mind.
Jane, the girl her age who had been with her in the service of Oliver, had borne him a son. He was a beautiful, sweet child, and somehow Jane managed to love him despite the monster that was his father. Jane had been bidden to service a young man, the son of a rich Boston elite. One day the young man had been speaking with a friend when she had arrived. The two had felt a bond immediately, and began meeting secretly. Cora still remembered the first night Jane came back after meeting with him. She had this dreamy look in her eyes and spent every waking moment humming and smiling like a lovesick puppy. She loved him right away. She would whisper to Cora about him in the night, telling her of how gentle and kind he was with her, never touching her unless she wished it and never speaking harshly or letting his temper run wild. They met secretly for months before he even kissed her. Shortly after that, Jane came back serious, cradling her son in her arms and running her hands over his hair.
"George says we could run away," she said, her voice no louder than a whisper in the breeze. "He says he would care for us, for him... Raise him as if he was his own son."
Cora had been so unsure how to feel. She had never met this George, and while she wanted nothing more than for Jane to be able to leave and be happy, she was unsure of this man's true intentions. Yet she trusted her friend and her judgment, and if she loved him, Cora had no doubt he was a good man.
"He asked me to marry him, Cora. Me!"
Cora had given her a sad smile and hugged her, letting her cry in her shoulder.
The night that she was to leave, George had donned the uniform of the guards at the fort and snuck in. When he arrived at their cell, Jane had held her son close, whispering words of comfort as she prayed he would not wake and make noise.
Cora had led them through the crypts, torch in hand. They moved silently, terror gripping them as the fear of being discovered grew with every step, every breath. When they finally reached the end, George had looked at her, putting a hand on her arm.
"Come with us."
"Oh yes, Cora, please come with us!"
Cora almost did. Yet something had drawn her back. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was Henry or the hope that maybe her still being there would let Oliver take out his anger on her and not go look for Jane. Whatever it was, she found herself shaking her head.
"I can't."
Jane had started crying then, and when George wrapped her in his arms, Cora knew that Jane would live a long life, happy and loved, surrounded by her children and her children's children, something that Cora would never know. Saying goodbye had been one of the hardest things she had ever had to do – Jane was her sister. Her other half. As she walked back alone, it felt as if someone had taken a sword and sliced her soul in two.
Oliver had found her before she even made it back to her cell.
Cora had been tortured before, but that night had been the worst. After that, she was left alone in the tiny cell, bleeding and broken, for three days with no food and very little water. After, Henry had come, gathering her into his arms and whispering words of comfort. He had been shaking, but with tears or anger she never knew. She heard yelling in the distance that day, but if Henry had done something or said something, he never mentioned it to her.
To this day the scars she carried from that night were real and brutal. The one on her palm, the jagged, thick scars along the inside of her right thigh. The emotional ones were even worse. Although her bruises and wounds eventually healed, the ones on her heart never did.
Neither could sleep that night.
The Assassin sat across from her, sharpening his blade. The fire had been highlighting the strong features of his face so well that Cora could not resist grabbing her sketchbook from her bag. Carefully, she crafted the shape of his eyes, the line of his nose and the curve of his lips. She tried to be discreet, but sometimes when she would look up he caught her, though he gave her no indication of what he was thinking. Finally, though, his curiosity must have gotten the best of him.
"What are you doing?"
"Sketching," she said slowly, gauging his response. "You... have nice bone structure."
She wanted to slap herself as soon as the words left her lips. Nice bone structure? Really? She figured he would ignore her and go back to his knife, but instead a smile crept onto his face, showing itself just for a fleeting moment. He let out a breath of air in what you could almost call a laugh, and for some reason Cora couldn't help a laugh from escaping her own lips. Yet while his was small and slight, leaving you wondering if it had happened at all, Cora's was sweet and bell-like at first, enchanting to Connor's ears. Soon, though, as she lost control her laugh disintegrated into loud gasps and choking noises, almost resembling the sound some animal would make.
As she continued to laugh hysterically for a reason she could not identify, she could have sworn she saw a smile linger on the Assassin's face as he went back to sharpening his knife.
Perhaps that was the moment the first little sliver of trust for him entered her heart.
