Hello all! Thanks for all the follows, favs, and reviews!
So I have some important stuff to get out of the way, most of which can be found on my profile. I ask of you guys to go and check it out a little later so I don't have to repeat myself.
But, one of the main things is that if you have followed my updates (all three of you, probably lol), you'd realize that I posted my story on AO3 after a long time of trying to get an account. I plan on moving all of my AC stories there in time- maybe not my oneshots, but mostly all of them. If you guys could go and show your appreciation for the stories, I'd really appreciate that.
A bit of a slower, shorter chapter, but the next two have a lot of action, so they balance out.
As always, I don't own Assassin's Creed or Ubisoft's portrayal of historical figures. I do, however, own my OCs.
May 21st, 1778
"Sounds like quite an adventure."
"Yes, but I'm happy to be home. I tell you, I must've been sick for five days afterword. I'm not built for seafaring."
"Oh, but just to go! It sounds exciting, adventurous! And the locals? Oh, I wish I could find a way, but prices are prices."
"Maybe Connor could take us on his next trip. He goes there for trading sometimes, at least, when the routes aren't being blockaded."
"Oh, I don't want to trouble him. He seems like a nice man. You don't want to drag me along and heckle him."
"Believe me, it's not a trouble."
I set my teacup down onto it's saucer and placed it back on the small round table in the parlor. Anne, sitting across from me, had her auburn hair in a bun and a lovely spring dress on, preparing for the warmer months to come. Beside me, Hewie was bouncing on the arm of the chair I was sitting in, and Caroline was playing with some dolls at my feet. I bit into a small biscuit as Anne went into the kitchen to refill her teapot. While she was occupied, I slipped a cookie into Hewie's hand, and he bit into it, a sly smile growing on his face.
When Anne returned, she poured me some more tea and sat back down. "So," she sighed, getting settled. "You said you've moved? This homestead sounds lovely from your description."
I nodded. "You should see it for yourself. It's not far from here. And the people are happy, and safe from the war."
Anne's face dropped. "I wish I could, but I want to wait for Howard. After he serves his time in Philadelphia, he's going to return home for a little." She smiled as she took another sip of tea. "I'd send Hewie and Caroline with you, but Howard would flay me alive. I don't think he'd appreciate me sending his children with you into the woods. He'd get those thoughts, if you know what I mean."
As Hewie and Caroline spoke up in my defense, I rolled my eyes. "I don't want to cause trouble, but you'd always be welcome." I offered.
For the second time Anne nodded. Then, a look of concern overshadowed her face. "Speaking of the army, are you still working for Washington and his men?" my mother inquired.
"I've been taking a break," I answered honestly. True, I hadn't spoken to Washington in about a year, not since Trenton. I don't think Connor has been keeping in touch much save for the whole Church fiasco. Frankly, I was more than happy to leave the sounds of war behind me for now, so I could focus on more personal, pressing matters.
"To be honest, I've been hearing rumors of the French coming to help," Anne cast a glance to the flag she had made. She had taken the liberty of hanging it above her mantle, where it sagged loosely and looked kind of sad. "But others say this war is still far from over. I wonder what will happen."
"We'll beat them right back across the sea!" Hewie chimed in, swinging a fist so wildly that he nearly fell off the arm of the furniture.
The three of us laughed as my half-brother was forced to catch himself from falling off the furniture. "We'll just have to see," I answered vaguely, sipping my tea.
"So," Anne drummed her fingers on the little table next to her chair. "What have you been up to, Ava? You can't have possibly been going into the trading business with your friend, have you?"
I shot a look out the window as I pondered my answer. The clouds were staring to part to reveal the sunset over the harbor down the road, sending shades of pink and orange shooting through the sky. It was getting warmer, and summer was drawing up fast. I blinked once, getting lost in thought.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Things got back into full swing as Connor and I dropped off Haytham at New York and headed back for the homestead at the beginning of May. We returned to find a new white church and a bedridden Achilles, who was so tired he didn't even greet us until later the next morning. That return trip certainly did not do me any favors. Upon getting back on solid land, as Connor returned the missing supplies to the patriots, I remained in bed myself, sick to my stomach from seasickness. I dragged myself out of the manor over the course of five days to find the herbs that would help ease my quarrelsome stomach.
It wasn't as much a return to form as it was an exercise in bad decision making on both of our parts. From what I learned, Connor still had intentions of meeting with his father to further their relationship. As much as I wanted to tell Connor that he shouldn't do it, that his father shouldn't be trusted and was only going to lead to violence, I also knew it wasn't my place to say anything. I stayed awake for many nights thinking about what I should tell Connor, and it was only after a long time of thinking and debating with myself that I determined that the only thing I could do was to keep a close eye on my friend. His jabs at me before we left for the West Indies confirmed that Connor wouldn't take kindly to someone trying to control his choices. Besides, I really had no proof that Haytham was a threat aside from my own speculation and experience, and that would get me nowhere with my friend's stubbornness. If this was what he wanted, then I could only make sure he didn't get killed in the process.
As for me, I excused myself after I recovered from my sickness and made for New York at my first opportunity. Methoataske was still as fresh on my mind as she had been a month before, Haytham's words only increasing my anxiety about finding the woman, and I regretted not being around for the last few weeks to continue my hunt for her. With a few pelts I scrounged up, I paid for a few days in a nearby inn and spent all day and night observing that storehouse by the harbor in the hopes that my bidding of time would pay off.
The place was as empty as I had first seen it and remained like that for the next two weeks. No lights were on, the walls looked ready to fall off in shambles, and a persistent feeling of emptiness remained as I sat for five days, watching like an owl, until I would retire back to my room at the inn and sleep off my disappointment.
I considered hunting Monroe down again, and I spent an entire day trying to find him only to discover that he was no longer in service. Then, I considered getting in touch with Anna Strong, but the look on her face if I indeed decided to reconnect drove that possibility far from my mind nearly as fast as it entered. Dragging Connor into my personal affairs was the last resort, but I would throw myself back into the ocean before I did that. I knew well and good that I was on my own for the time being.
But then one day, luck decided to rear her ugly head again.
I was perched atop a building overlooking the building and the ocean, the boredom enough to make me fall asleep, when something caught my eye. It was a mousy looking man, small and quick. He darted from between one of the alleys, looking around as if he was sure he would be caught. I stood up, suddenly intrigued, as the man darted into the open, heading for the door to the storehouse.
He tested one of the doors, only to find it locked. Upon knocking on the door, he gave up, but then proceeded to take a few slips of paper out of his shoulder bag and slip them under the door. Even from this distance, I could feel his bewilderment as to why he was delivering letters to an apparently closed building. With a shrug, he gave up, and headed back down the road, passing under my building, his shoulder bag swing tantalizingly at his side. Just waiting to be stolen.
I followed him on rooftop for a bit, ducking out of sight should he have looked up once or twice. By the time he turned into the busier streets of New York, I had climbed down and assimilated with the crowds, keeping a close eye on my target. From the back, he looked no older than twenty five. A courier, perhaps, with no knowledge of the Assassins or Templars.
As the messenger shambled past the crowds, I hurried to keep up with him. We brushed past crowds of people together, still keeping pace. I stretched out an arm, anxious, and attempted to slip it into his shoulder bag.
My hand found it's way in and I seized a handful of papers. As quickly as I approached, I drew back, twisting into an alley and pressing myself up against a wall, heart pounding as I clutched the things to my chest. I waited for what felt like a season or more, but there was no sound that indicated that I had been caught. I released the air I had been holding and raced down further into the alley, shrouded in shadows.
When I had weaved my way in and out of different paths and put enough distance between the courier and myself, I collapsed under a lantern on a bench near a market full of people trying to buy things before night set in or setting up for an evening on the cobblestone. I had grabbed three papers; one was neat and proper and folded, another was very crumpled, and the third was two halves of the same paper. I don't know if that happened because of me or the writer.
I unfolded the neater looking letter first, reading silently in the faint candlelight.
Dear Skutelawe,
The edge of the paper was slightly crumpled and there were a few angry ink blots next to her name. I was sure that the writer had tried to write 'Methoataske' several times and failed beforehand.
As I have stated before, to hunt for this Assassin would be downright foolish on your part, although I now do believe I am having my own doubts about this predicament. In many ways, I believed that this Ava character was someone insignificant to the wider picture, and to go after her would be not only unnecessary, but at risk to the very principles we seek to uphold. To go after her would be rash and downright mad, but you have heard my words a thousand times over, thus I see no reason to berate you again with this same rubbish.
Recently, however, I've spent time with both Ava and Connor, for our paths because crossed when my hunt for Church had turned to the frontier. I had to spend about a month with them on a ship, observing them and knowing their relationship. My son is my own dilemma, but I've learned much about this girl that you would most likely deny. She is undoubtedly clever- that much I can say. She knows enough not to trust all that I say to her in full. And while she may be hasty in thought and hampered in actions, her fighting skills are commendable enough. Lastly, she and Connor have formed a decent bond that should prove a damaging pull to the relationship I have with my son. Only time will improve all of these characteristics.
These realizations have given me two courses of action. One, it only strengthens my opinion that you should not go after her. If she and Connor live anywhere close to each other, which I can only presume, than you could be fighting two very skilled Assassins on your own. I will not be giving you help, and I guarantee that you will not be able to handle both Ava and Connor by yourself. Two, it has only made me understand that perhaps we should keep a closer eye on her. I do believe that Cory has trained her too much, and as a result has turned her into a larger threat. Not to mention that she has as much deep resentment towards you as you do to her, and that only adds fuel to an already blazing fire.
She's coming for you. You best prepare yourself.
May the Father of Understanding guide us,
Haytham Kenway.
I sat there in that alley, mulling over Haytham's words about me. At once, I felt proud that I had relied on my instincts and not gotten drawn into Haytham's supposed openness. Uneasiness soon washed up and replaced it, but it was not for me. It seemed that Haytham was still trying to communicate with my friend, and here, he just admitted to himself that he shouldn't be trusted. The man was a Templar first, and an ally second. I couldn't say the same about Connor: fathers are fathers, but that was another problem.
I cast the letter aside and exchanged it for another one, the crumpled one.
Grandmaster,
This letter was surely Methoataske's. I recognized her shoddy handwriting anywhere.
I fear that the time to kill the impure is now at hand. But I lack resources to do so. If what you say is true and you will not provide me resources, then I will have to draw them up myself. Charles calls me foolish to try to kill the Assassins, yet here goes out by your command to join with the _ himself.
If you insist that she should not be captured, then I think you are mistaken. I have been trying for years, even had the impure in my grasp, and she is still not dead. I will not be denied of her. She will join her father before long. Our peers in the northern end have reported disturbances from the surrounding areas. She is coming. She is everywhere with that boy of hers.
May the Father of Understanding guide us,
Skutelawe
I bit the inside of my cheek and chewed on it slightly. Half of the things mentioned in this letter made no sense whatsoever. The thing that really made my blood run cold was how desperate Methoataske sounded. She wrote about me with visible ferocity, the letter torn from pressing the quill too hard in some areas. There was one area in particular at the end of the fist few lines that had been rubbed away, aggravating me. I could feel the poison of her words seeping into me and filling me with fear and dread. Her hatred was tangible even from this distance, and should I have stared too long, my worry would have grown into something worse. I folded the letter back up quickly, shuddering.
I slowly held up the two halves of the last letter. It was dated today; it must be going straight back to Haytham. It looked like it was torn right in two with bare hands in an enraged moment. The handwriting was scrawled and almost ineligible. I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my forehead.
Grandmaster,
Should it be your desire to stay in this old shack for the next few days, then very well. Perhaps discussion to find the impure can be met then.
I will send a man each night at the end of the week. Follow him to my safe house. Should this letter be compromised, I dare not reveal my location. There are eyes everywhere. I can hear voices through the walls. May this not last long, for I fear our mission will get nowhere with me staying here. My father is speaking to me in my dreams, and I have tried to follow his voice to no avail. The impure will win. I will give my life before that happens.
-Skutelawe
If I thought that her last letter was jumbled, this one made Methoataske seem insane. Something about her now…didn't seem in the right of mind. I leaned back in my chair, hands tightening around the paper. The thing that intrigued me most was this safe house. Everything was right there, laid out in writing. It was so simple, and yet too simple. There was no way that Methoataske and Haytham didn't know something was wrong. Was this a trap, and they were setting the bait? There were so many variables, I just couldn't wrap my head around it.
I sat there for another hour or two, pondering what it was that I should do before I returned for home. This letter that I had just read needed to be sent before anyone noticed it was missing. I was sure Haytham was already aware that something was wrong if that courier had indeed noticed I had pickpocketed him. So, I needed to remedy that before the night was over.
It took me a few bars before I was pointed to a courier, fortunately a different one than I had previously found. He was big and stocky, suds foaming in his beard, and he held onto a tankard like he was afraid the thing was going to fly out of his hands. I pulled a seat up and sat next to him in between two of his friends. They were all extremely drunk, and I was greeted with glares and a spit or two as I pressed my elbows into the table.
The courier hiccupped, spilling his ale everywhere. "Whadda ya want, lad?" he grumbled, taking another sip. "If this is about Mary Lynn, then don't bother. The lass had it coming."
"I want this letter delivered to Fort George," I dropped the formalities. I held up the torn pieces of Methoataske's letter. "Tonight. No questions asked. Understand me?"
The men at the bar chortled, and the courier's inebriated face twisted into a strained grin as he fought to form words against the alcohol. "I don't think you know what you're dealing with, boy." He chuckled. "No one man gets into Fort George. No one knows what goes on in there."
"Tell them Skutelawe sent you. They should accept it."
With a shake of his head, the courier downed his drink. "Still a no from me, lad. Go to the brothel and loosen up; you look like you need a woman's touch. Besides, let a man enjoy some time with his friends. It's been a long day."
I bit my lip. One last option. I unhooked my coin purse and dropped it onto the table. A few coins came spilling out, adding emphasis. All the men at the table immediately stopped talking and stared at the thing, their eyes bugging out like they were going to pop out of their sockets and explore the purse themselves. The courier paused mid-drink and set his tankard down, trying to form words but nothing would come out.
"Deliver that letter, and I can give you that," I sighed, crossing my arms.
A pale flash caught my eye. One of the courier's portly hands was skimming along the countertop, reaching for the bag of coins in the middle of the table. My patience, what little left there was, evaporated on the spot. Immediately, I seized his head and slammed it into the table. He shrieked in pain, earning some shocked glances form his friends and appreciative whoops from the other drunk patrons. The courier clutched his nose, blood leaking from in between his fingers, and glared at me in fury. "What the Devil are you doing?" he bellowed, but I grabbed his collar and pulled him in close. I could count his yellow teeth.
"Listen to me. You can get your coins and get as drunk as you want after you deliver my letter." I snapped. "Tell the men at the gate that the letter was reassigned, and you were knocked out in a bar fight and didn't remember your job until later. Don't mention who gave it to you. Say that, and all of this can be yours, but only after your job is done."
The man fanned his busted nose. "You're insane!" he exclaimed, his words a touch stuffed.
"Two hundred pounds." I finalized. "That's my offer. Take it or leave it. Your choice."
The courier fell silent as the people of the bar returned to their doings. At last he stood up, making a grab for his coat. "Save me a drink, boys." He slurred as I got out of my chair.
"Come and find me when you are sober enough to walk." I directed him. With that, I marched through the bar and slammed the door behind me.
I waited outside for about two hours before the courier stumbled through the door, looking patched up and well enough that he could pass as normal. I handed the letter to him, and with one final glare, he was off down the street, racing as fast as his porky little legs would carry him. I sat on the bench outside the tavern, watching the streets clear of people and gazing up at the moon and stars as they reappeared in the sky. The thought of that safe house Methoataske mentioned was still weighing heavily on my mind, and I couldn't shake out that nervous feeling that remained after reading that letter.
At about midnight, almost an hour after I gave him the mission, the courier returned. He looked quite shocked, but unharmed. I rose to greet him.
"How fared the delivery?" I asked softly.
"Well, I arrived at the gates, and this man with a musket nearly shot me in the head, so that was a bloody good start," the courier growled. "When I said I had a letter for this person you mentioned, they brought this older looking man out to meet me. He had a cape, and silver hair—one of those damn Brits, you know?"
I nearly forgot my next words. They sent Haytham out to see him? "And then what?" I pressed on.
The man looked down. "Well, the English fellow asked why the letter was so late, so I told him what you had said to me." He twiddled his thumbs. "He seemed to buy it. But then he asked why it was so torn."
Ice shot through my veins. "And what did you say to him?" I did my best to sound bored, but I think he caught my apprehension.
"I told him that I had torn it in the bar fight, and I would be more careful next time. He sent me on after that with a few coins, and he said I would've gotten more if I wasn't so late, so I think he bought it."
I sighed, relief chasing away the cold I had felt only moments before. I unhooked the coin purse and tossed it to him. "Go enjoy your drinks." I said. "Just don't do too much, alright?"
The courier didn't say anything, but as I walked away, I could hear his footsteps like scurrying mice feet hurry back into the tavern and slam the door. I smirked as I pulled a horse away from the entrance and rode out of New York. As for the rest of the letters, I cast them into a fire that night while I camped in the frontier. I stared as ashes fluttered into the air and floated away with a warm breeze. The warmth of the fire and the night gradually wore me down, and I closed my eyes ready and willing to embrace sleep. Dreams crashed over me that night, still deep and dark and muddled down like a bog. I slept uneasy that, and rode back to the homestead the next day. I had an itch on the scar on my lips, and no matter how much I scratched it, it just wouldn't go away.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
I shrugged and turned back to Anne. "Nothing much." I responded idly. "Just traveling from New York. Nothing remotely interesting."
Anne looked slightly taken aback. "Shame. You usually have such grand adventures," she sighed wistfully as she stood up to head back into the kitchen. "Guess it's been a slow month?"
I shrugged. "Suppose so. The war hasn't been letting up. Been hard to go from place to place."
My mother's grin returned. "Speaking of which, it's getting a little late. Would you like to stay for dinner, Ava? I just got some fresh chicken this morning before you came. Hewie's been begging for some."
At once, Hewie and Caroline piped up, again, begging me to stay. A weary smile grew on my face.
I did stay for dinner. And I stayed that night, too. It was nice, being with Anne and Hewie and Caroline. No letters. No Templars. No plots. Just family. And that was exactly how it needed to be sometimes.
So, I already have some of chapter 38 and practically all of chapter 39 written out, so expect some quicker updates from me this time.
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