Wow. So according to Fanfiction, it's been 16 months since I've updated this story. I could say I was in a year-long coma, but to be honest school, work, and my personal life got in the way, and I lost my motivation to finish this story. I knew what I wanted to write, but I did not know how to get there. I knew it would be unfair to give you guys a rushed ending, moreso than leaving you hanging off a cliff for so long. However, I hit a burst of inspiration, and I already have half of the next chapter written.
Thank you to everyone that has stuck with me since the beginning and have been waiting patiently over the long months. And, a special thanks to my lovely editor and friend, for refusing to allow me to abandon this story. So, no, this fanfiction is not dead, and it WILL be finished. (Editor's note: I'll see to it)
Selah froze at the sight of the Assassin. What was he doing here?
Her heart began beating again, rapidly increasing in pace, as Connor approached. The features of his face was hidden by that godforsaken hood, only exposing his cold frown. Maybe he had allied with O'Brien. It made sense, both being from Achilles's Brotherhood, and both owning a bloodlust for the Colonial Rite. Or maybe he had come to finish their deadly dance once and for all, cowardly taking the opportunity of her weakness.
Selah couldn't stop that single tremor through her body. She must have looked like a mess, her long hair gone, covered in her own blood, and malnourished and gaunt. Or she looked like a lamb offered to a wolf. But she would not show the Assassin her fear, glaring at him defiantly.
Suddenly there was the metallic slink of a hidden blade being unsheathed. Apparently Connor had seen her as the latter.
"Get on with it, Assassin," Selah hissed.
God had a twisted sense of humor, having her be killed by the very ones she betrayed. Or perhaps it was a fitting end to her sins. If death had come for her, Selah would accept it rather than face the humiliation of failure yet again.
Connor raised his hidden blade and Selah closed her eyes.
Only to hear a sharp, ripping sound of leather. Suddenly the bruising pressure on her wrist vanished. Selah opened her eyes, only to see Connor had turned his attention on her pinned ankles. She glanced down at the restraint on her wrist, which was completely severed.
"What are you doing?" the captive demanded, confused
"Freeing you," Connor answered coolly.
Selah blinked. What? No, she couldn't have heard that right—
Suddenly there was another distinct snip, and the pain in her legs vanished. The prisoner glared at the Assassin suspiciously. Maybe he wasn't killing her as some sort of vow to his damned Creed, or that he had to give her fighting chance first. Or maybe it was too easy for his liking.
However, as soon as the last restraint was severed off, Connor took a tentative step back, as if trying to escape her personal space. He looked down at her with that inscrutable expression, not even flinching at her blazing glare.
"Can you stand?" he asked, softly, gently.
Part of Selah wanted to defy him. She wanted to slap him. Anything to spite him. She was tired of being a plaything. However, that childish desire was outweighed by that hidden, but strong instinct that flared within her chest. She was free.
Slowly, carefully, Selah shifted her weight to her elbows. She seethed, loudly, enough that Connor shifted forward and lifted a hand as if to help her. However, he wisely retracted his hand when she pushed herself into a sitting position. Pain coursed over her body in waves. Her skull pounded like O'Brien's sledgehammer was striking it, her legs throbbed in soreness, and her ribs seared with agony. The Templar shoved down the discomfort, swinging her legs over the side, planting the soles of her boots on the floor. Ignoring the Assassin's scrutinizing state, Selah pushed herself on to her feet.
Only for legs to collapse from underneath her.
The woman yelped as she watched the floor rush towards her, but it never came. Suddenly a thick, strong arm wrapped around her middle, pulling her to her feet. She found herself pressed against a warm, solid chest.
"We need to get you to Dr. White," Connor told.
Selah glanced up, only to flinch when she met his intense black eyes, but they looked with a strange gleam. Fear? Pity? Concern? No, it couldn't be. Why would he care?
Selah opened her mouth to tell the murdering bastard off, but another voice interrupted her.
"Hey, you found her!"
Selah glanced at the door to see a frontiersman silhouetted the threshold, a rifle in his hand. Looming behind him was a tall and broad preacher. The Templar blinked at the absurd party. Was this even real? She remembered the "medicine" Wolcott had given her. Was this a hallucination?
No. Selah could feel the solid warmth underneath her fingertips, the hot breath stirring the hairs on the top of her head. She could still feel the weakness and the soreness radiating across her body. This was real.
Not the Templars, not Haytham, not Shay, had come for her. The Assassins did.
But she was not safe. None of them were safe until-
"O'Brien," she gasped, looking up at the native that held her. "Where is he?"
Connor's eyes darkened at the name. "I do not know. But we will find him."
Selah glared. "To bring him into your fold?"
"To kill him." The woman only stared as the Assassin glanced over, at the mutilated, unmoving body of Jack Weeks. "Anyone who condones this madness does not deserve to live."
What… did he say? No! He was Assassin! He-
Her instincts kicking in, Selah recoiled from the native warrior, pushing off of him and gaining distance between them. Her knees wobbled. Automatically the Assassin moved as if to catch her again, only for the Templar stumbled back on shaky legs.
"Stay away from me!" Selah screeched.
"I just want to help you," Connor retorted, no hostility in his voice. The ex-Assassin only snarled at the words.
"Help me? After you tried to have me killed?" The old wound in her side throbbed, painful and hot. The wound he gave her. "After you murdered the Master Templars?"
The Assassin's eyes had a strange, dark gleam. "They had to be stopped."
"Stopped? They were trying to save the Colonies!"
"By sending them to war!"
"Merely because you cocked it up thoroughly en-"
Selah couldn't finish as her knees buckled once again. She hissed as her legs went out from under her, but this time she caught herself on the bloody table that held her. She glanced up, only to see Connor had moved closer. Too close.
She hissed and moved away, only for the world to tilt. She sunk lower.
"Enough!"
Suddenly another warm presence appeared by her side, with strong, large hands wrapping around her arms with surprising gentleness. Selah looked over her shoulder to see the preacher, frowning down at her, but his eyes were inscrutable.
Instead of speaking to her, he said to his compatriot, "You can finish this quarrel later. Right now we have to get out of here. And we have to get her to a doctor."
For a long moment, both warriors ignored her as they glared at each other. Selah already felt adrenaline returning to her veins, wanting to finish their fight once and for all. No doubt some part of the insane Assassin felt the same. Instead, the native warrior sighed.
"You're right," he relented, straightening.
With that, the preacher gently placed his hands on her shoulders, as if to-
"I can walk," Selah hissed.
The preacher blinked, but did not reply. Instead, he nodded and gave a gentle tug on her arm. Selah reluctantly submitted to his guidance, taking one step forward. Her legs were shaky and weak, and she had to concentrate taking on step at a time. She didn't even realize her upper body was leaning against the Assassin, but he said nothing as he kept her arms in a loose grip.
"Connor, what about the prisoners?" the frontiersman asked.
At first, there was no reply. Selah looked over to see the Assassin was kneeling over Wolcott's body. But instead of murmuring a prayer, the native was patting down the mad doctor's clothing. Finally, there was a metallic, jingling noise and Connor raised a ball of something. It glinted silver in the lantern's light. Selah's eyes widened when her brain translated what it was.
Keys.
"We free them," the native declared. He turned to the preacher. "You, Stephane, and Clipper get every prisoner out here."
Selah blinked, fully understanding the Assassin's meaning, if that particular look was anything to go by. She fully expected the Assassins to toss her aside to pursue their mission of freedom. However, the preacher only nodded.
"Consider it done, Connor," the man promised. "What about you?"
"I'll take Selah out of here."
Instantly the woman's skin crawled with the idea of being alone with a murderer. Or, was it the Assassin that saved her?
"What about O'Brien?"
"Um… I think I may have found him," a hesitant, fearful voice cut through the air.
Instantly the group spun around, only for Selah's blood to freeze. It was the frontiersman, but staring at them with wide eyes and blanched skin. There was a subtle tremor in his body, obviously afraid, but his body was frozen in place. Selah realized why, when her gaze locked on the knife pressed against the young man's throat. O'Brien's look was feral as he bodily held the Assassin between him and his enemy.
"Well, well, I should have known rats come in packs," the lunatic sneered.
"Release him!" Connor bellowed in a deep, harsh bark.
"And why would I be stupid enough to do that?"
"Oh, go ahead and kill him, Connor!" the frontiersman wheezed.
"But he wouldn't risk one of his apprentices, now, would he?" Somehow the Irishman seemed to make the word sound demeaning, as he continued, "This is all that's left of Achilles's Brotherhood, hmm?"
"And you were once a proud and just warrior," Connor spat back.
O'Brien only chuckled at the remark. "There is no black and white in this cocked up world. No pride or shame. No right or wrong. Only survivors. Isn't that what you are, boy?"
For a long moment, the native did not reply. His eyebrows were furrowed, his stone, dark gaze glaring at O'Brien. The other Assassins looked just as tense, muscles clenched. Do doubt they were torn between wanting to help their comrade and kept in place by O'Brien's sharp knife.
"No," Connor answered lowly, "I am an Assassin."
Suddenly a bow materialized in in Connor's hands, arrow notched and ready. Before Selah-or O'Brien-could process the movement, the native let the arrow fly. The Irishman instinctively flinched, trying to move out of the way. All the while the blade moved across Clipper's neck to leave a trail of crimson blood. But before she could work up a yell, the sharp tip of the arrow impeded in the Irishman's shoulder..
It must have dug deep in the joint, because O'Brien let out a loud bellow of pain. Loosening his grip on Clipper. The slice on his neck must have been shallow, as the frontiersman was as lively as ever, squirming out of his captor's hold. The Assassin retaliated his treatment by landing his elbow against the madman's chin, sending his neck back with a grunt.
"Now, Connor!" Clipper shouted.
Connor did not have to be told twice, already nocking another arrow, muscles flexing to let it fly. Only for there to be a savage growl, followed by a hiss filling the air. Selah hacked as a strong, harsh scent filled her mouth and nostrils. She brought up a hand to wave the haze away from her face. Only when she did, she froze.
O'Brien was gone.
Selah gasped, then she realized what had happened. A smoke bomb. So O'Brien was not above using the tricks the Assassins taught him.
Gazing through the smoke, she saw the preacher and the frontiersman hacking on the debris filling their lungs. He was on his knees, his hand stained red as it was wrapped around the slice on his neck, but he was alive. Selah glanced up to Connor, only to see a blur of movement.
The native tore through the smoke where O'Brien, vanishing like a white phantom. Selah only blinked at the sight, before glancing down at the bleeding frontiersman at her feet. The preacher was already by his friend's side. His countenance was somber, but not grave. His eyes met hers.
"He'll be fine," the Irishman assured. "Go, kill him!"
Selah hesitated, and she did not know why. The ones that had killed countless Templars, members of the Inner Sanctum, her family, and yet she hesitated. Yet Connor had given chase without a second glance at his subordinates. Maybe it was true, then, that Assassins only cared about their mission.
Looking down, Selah watched as the preacher ripped his own sleeve with a tearing sound, to create makeshift bandage. Connor trusted them. That they would not fail the Brotherhood. Maybe more than Achilles had even trusted his subordinates.
Swallowing, Selah took several steps backwards and took flight.
Connor sprinted down the dark hallway of the underground, as fast as his legs would allow. The world went by in a shadowed blur as he extended all his senses. He felt a hateful, raging presence at the very edge of his mind, moving fast. It tasted foul and bitter like death on his tongue, but instead of recoiling; the Assassin sped forward. It was time to end this madness.
Connor turned around a corner, with such speed his boots skidded across the ground, but he kept his balance as he leaped into another sprint. Then he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, telling of danger. His reflexes driving him, the native warrior pressed his back to the wall, just as a dagger cut through the air where he once occupied.
"You're like a damned rash!" O'Brien bellowed from down the hall and the chase continued.
The Assassin took so many senseless turns he lost count. He raced down pitch-black hallways, relying only on his inner sense to navigate the underground tunnels. It wasn't until the wooden barrier of a door appeared before him that the labyrinth finally seemed to end. Not daring to slow his pace, Connor held out a thick arm to shield his face. He charged through the door with a deafening slam.
The crisp, spring air and the stench of Boston greeted him like a slap to the face. As his eyes blinked to adjust to the lantern light of the street, the Assassin scanned his surroundings, trying to find the bulky phantom. Instead, he felt a flicker of hate above him. Sure enough, the native glanced up, only to see a shadow slipping onto the roof above.
Without a moment's hesitation, Connor launched forward, latching onto the smallest of footholds and propelling him up the side of the building. It was only a matter of seconds later when the warrior pushed himself onto the roof. Only for a solid elbow to slam into his chin.
The Assassin's head snapped back with a pained grunt and he felt his entire body tilt back without his permission. His hands flailed out instinctively, latching onto a collar of a shirt. O'Brien growled and automatically tried to shove his assaulter off, but Connor stayed on. Using all his upper body strength, the Mohawk warrior pulled himself up, using O'Brien as his counterweight.
The older and larger man dug his heels in to prevent from going over the edge, clawing that Connor's clothes. Once he realized he couldn't get the young man off of him, he instead pulled back, dragging the teenager with him. The Assassin grunted when he was viciously yanked forward, but reacted quickly. He wretched himself from O'Brien's hold, rolling away from his opponent and skidding into a crouch.
A sharp slink resounded as the native unsheathed his hidden blade. Then another, not belonging to him.
O'Brien charged forwards first, bringing his blade towards Connor's neck. The bulky Mohawk warrior easily shoved it away with his own, filling the air with horrible metal on metal noise. He brought out his second blade, driving it towards the Irishman's ribcage. Only for a thick, solid arm to block his, leaving his torso exposed.
With a savage growl, O'Brien slammed his brow into Connor's with a savage growl. The Assassin skidded across the rooftop, digging his heels into the rooftop for purchase. Before he even came to a complete stop, he pulled his bow from his shoulder, automatically notching an arrow.
Only to be greeted with the barrel of a gun.
"You really want to go through this again?" O'Brien sneered, aiming his flintlock towards Connor's head.
"This time it will strike your heart," the Assassin retorted with venom.
"Achilles didn't teach much of anything, did he?"
"He taught enough."
"Ah, I'm sure the rest of his ilk thought the same. Only for the Templars to storm in their houses in the middle of the bloody night and cut their throats while they were still in their beds." The ex-Assassin's voice had filled with rage at the words, as if the grotesque image was flashing across his eyes. "And then that bitch goes and lies with the enemy. She watched her brothers die, she watched them burn. She's killed Assassins, did you know that, brat? Yet here you are, coming to her little rescue." O'Brien's mocking tone turned into a sneer. "She doesn't deserve it."
"Maybe so," Connor replied in a cold, flat tone, not giving his opponent the satisfaction of hearing any other emotion. "You are not the one to be the judge of that, when you are guilty of the same crimes."
"Yet you are so determined to kill me. Mind telling me why that is, Assassin?"
"Because you are no Assassin."
Connor tensed the muscles in his arms, braced to let the arrow fly. He never had the chance.
Suddenly there was a dull, distant crack, like thunder of a faraway storm. But something was wrong. The odd sound made the hair on the back of the Assassin's neck stand on end. And then there was another clap. And another. And another.
High-pitched whistles sounded, but Connor couldn't determine where they came from. Until there was one, that sounded closer and closer, louder and louder. Until it assaulted the teenager's with the very volume. Then cold, unforgiving realization struck Connor.
O'Brien must have come to the same conclusion, because they both flinched away at the same time. But it was too late.
Suddenly the ground beneath Connor's feet erupted into a pillar of flame and smoke. A force slammed into his back, taking his feet out from under him and sending him tumbling across the roof. He grunted as he skidded to a halt, mere inches from falling over the building.
Connor gritted his teeth, trying for his muscles to move, only to feel searing pain. He pushed it down, instead summoning all the will left in his body. It was hard.
The Assassin's senses were muted. His vision was blurry, unfocused. A harsh scent assaulted his nose. There was a high-pitched ring in his ear, and all the boy heard was the garble of noise. It took several long moments to translate them.
The firing of distance cannons. Cannonballs whizzing through the air. The horrible crash of shattering wood, glass, and stone structures as the deadly projectiles struck them. Almost immediately, startled and terrified screams filled the air. Then came the dull, eerie tolling of bells. There were furious shouts and barks of orders, accompanied by sound of a stampede of boots on stone cobblestone.
Washington had started his attack.
With a seethe, Connor forced himself into a sitting position. He moved onto all fours, pushing himself to his feet. Only pain to explode from his temple, white flashing across his eyes.
The Assassin was sent back to the ground with a gasp. He turned into his back, only to see the gleam of an axe coming down on him. With supreme reflexes, the native warrior rolled to the side, just as the blade impeded into the wood where he once lay.
Connor's hand flew to his belt, tomahawk materializing in his grip. He lashed out, the razor-sharp blade burying into the flesh of O'Brien's leg. The madman let out a bellow of pain, and the boy was sure the metal struck bone. Taking his chance, he rolled onto his back, folded his knees to his chest and kicked out with all his might. His heels landed on the ex-Assassin's stomach, sending him flying back on the rooftop.
Connor quickly scrambled to his feet, twirling his tomahawk in his hand. O'Brien recovered just as quickly, climbing back to his feet with gritted teeth. The Assassin eyed the axe in the man's grip, sharp and deadly. He heard the tolls of the bells and the scream of people and the roar of the cannons behind him, but Connor's world focused on his opponent. He ignored the large, blackened hole that now took up the center of the roof. The pair glared at each other, circling each other like a pair of deadly dogs.
Finally it was Connor that broke the tense cycle. In a blink of an eye, he charged forward. O'Brien anticipated his attack, swinging his long axe in a wide arc. The Assassin ducked under the swipe, skidding to a halt behind his opponent. Before he even came to a complete stop, he slashed his tomahawk across the carpenter's back. There was the sharp sound of tearing cloth and flesh, O'Brien letting out a sharp howl as blood oozed from the wound.
The Mohawk warrior shifted to leap out the way, but his enemy was faster. The ex-Assassin spun around, and Connor wheezed as something hard and blunt struck his side. The pain flared from his torso, and he did not know if the crack that sounded was from a cannonball or his ribs. He was thrown to the ground, but used his momentum to lift his feet into the air, rolling backwards and landing in a crouch.
Connor gritted his teeth as agony pulsed from his side. He willed himself to his feet gripping his ribs. Only when he glanced up, he was greeted with a flash of metal.
The Assassin screamed as white-hot pain seared across his chest, drowning on the delicate sound of tearing cloth and flesh. He was sent to the ground once again, flat on his back. Connor lay his hand across his broad chest, only to feel something wet and sticky. With a groan, he tried to fight the sea of agony, to force his body to rise. Only for a solid boot to push him back down.
Connor peered through squinted eyes to see the dark shadow of O'Brien looming over him. Axe in hand.
"It's not every day one sees the end of a Brotherhood all over again," the madman drawled, almost in a pleased purr.
The native warrior snarled and tried to force himself up, but the man's heavier weight kept him pinned. O'Brien wore a broad, wicked smile as he glared down at his prey, axe raised high above his head. Blade glinting menacingly in the firelight.
Then time moved slowly. The axe came down, agonizingly slow. Connor felt his muscles tensed, bracing to feel the unimaginable pain of the weapon burying into his gut. But it never happened.
"O'BRIEN!"
The madman blinked the same time Connor did, the Irishman even snapping his neck towards the source of the shout. Only to receive a heel to the face.
O'Brien howled in pain as blood splattered from his broken nose. Completely forgetting about his fallen prey, he stumbled back, hands flying to his face. Only as he did, his legs trembled madly. It was the only warning before the large's man collapsed to his knees with a groan.
Immobilized, Connor could only stare at the sight. How—
Then he saw. Blood oozed from O'Brien's wounds, turning his shirt and trousers a crimson red. Stains covered the rooftop, and Connor did not know if it was his or O'Brien's or both. The teenager was amazed he could move after losing so much blood.
Then a voice cut through the night, severing the heat of battle, "Do you really think it's so easy to destroy the Templar Order?"
"Selah?" Connor murmured, forcing his gaze to look above him.
Sure enough, he was greeted with the woman standing between the two men. She looked like a terrible mess: her clothes were tattered and stained with blood, her body trembled with rage and exhaustion, and her once long, beautiful hair was gone, replaced by matted fur on her head. She was no condition to fight.
"Selah, get out of here!" Connor hissed, trying to force himself up.
The Templar ignored him, staring down at O'Brien. Connor instantly recognized that glare, the one that looked down on him every time he walked into the Homestead's basement. Every time he studied his enemies, learning what was the best way to assassinate them. Every time he killed a Templar.
It was Haytham.
"It is because we require no creed. No indoctrination by old fools," Selah went on, taking a slow step forward. "All we need, is for the world to remain as it is."
The woman paused just out of reaching distance of O'Brien, not even flinching as he glared up at her. Selah merely shook her head.
"You kill one of us, another will take our place. As long as people continue to look for a higher power, we will continue to guide them, just as the Father of Understanding guides us. You will never destroy us, John."
The man seethed. "But I will destroy you!"
Without warning, O'Brien charged forward, roaring like a bear. Connor moved, but Selah was faster.
She ducked back as the carpenter swung his axe. Before the Irishman could respond, the Templar spun around in her heels, snatching his wrist that held the massive weapon. He snarled as she wrenched his arm back. Leaving his chest exposed.
Connor did not hesitate. He pounced like a cougar, his hidden blades unsheathing like the beast's claws. Burying them in O'Brien's chest.
His body gave a single, violet jerk. His dark eyes widened to an impossible size. O'Brien's mouth opened as if to scream, but only a choked sound came out. Suddenly large trembling hands raised, fingers wrapping around Connor's wrist. The man grunted, like he was trying to push the Assassin away, but his body did not obey him.
"O'nen," Connor hissed, pushing his blades in further, straight into the bastard's heart.
The Mohawk warrior watched as the light began to fade from his eyes, but Selah was not as patient. The Templar ripped the axe from his weakening grip, holding it in two hands when the burly man could carry it with one, and raised it high over her shoulder. Her blood curdling scream echoed through the air like a banshee's as she brought it down with all her might. Severing O'Brien's head from his shoulders.
Connor flinched as blood splattered across his face, the taste of iron invading his agape mouth. There was a dull, wet thud. The Assassin retracted his hidden blades, unsheathing from the body with a sickening squelch. Connor shakily stumbled back and the body fell forward, collapsing into the roof with a heavy thump.
It was over.
John O'Brien was dead.
For a long time, the Assassin and the Templar did not move. Both panted heavily, and Connor could only hear his heart hammering against his ear. Pain and exhaustion coursed through his body, and he had no doubt Selah was in the same wretched state. He looked into those dark, fierce eyes.
They were filled with agony and hatred, but Connor did not believe it was at him. No, this was not the same glare she had given O'Brien. But rather she was too tired to mask her emotions, the ones that had been raging inside her for a very long time. Fear, confusion, loss…
The same ones that were inside Connor, ever since he was a little boy.
Then he began to wonder, if he was looking at a Templar, or a reflection of himself.
A whistle sounded, and Connor felt the air above him. He flinched instinctively and fell back to the roof, watching as the smoking cannonball sailed over his head. It tore a hole into another building with an explosion of smoke and fire, and the young man feared it was somebody's home. Sure enough, there was a terrified scream.
It was then Connor became aware of the melody of chaos around him. Civilians were flooding into the streets, either trying to rush to the safety of their homes or flee from it, or perhaps fly from the city itself. Soldiers forced their way through the stampede, letting out frantic shouts as they futile attempted to regain order. Fire continued to rain down from the heavens, destroying the land below it and anyone that could not escape its wrath.
"We need to get out of here," Connor exclaimed, climbing back to his feet.
He turned to Selah, to give her aid. Only when he faced the woman, he was greeted with the barrel of a flintlock.
The Assassin froze. Selah's grip tightened on the weapon, ripped from the belt of the corpse that lay between them. That dangerous glare returned, and her voice was as cold as ice.
"I'm afraid only one of us will be leaving this night alive, Assassin."