July 3rd, 1863

Little Round Top- Temporary Union Encampment, occupied by the Twentieth Maine

Mid-Morning

The sun shown over the large summit of the large Round Top. Margaret wanted to admire the grounds, especially since there wasn't any fighting going on around them. All was quiet, but not all was at peace. She stood in front of an angry man, a man whom she had wed and given her life to, a man whom she had given children and put up with his horrid mother for.

Lionel's face was a thundering fury, as red as the hair that grew on top of his head, crushed by the very dark blue captain's hat. Margaret faced him bravely, still clothed in her Assassin's robes.

"Why?"

At that question, she had her eyes casted downward quickly. "I wish I could tell you. Really, I do. But there is no answer that you, or I for that matter, could accept."

"You're gonna have to do better than that Maggie."

She took a deep breath. "Fine. You want an answer, I'll give you one. My family has been apart of the Assassins for centuries. My brother, my aunt Cordelia, my mother and my father are all Assassins by birth and we will die as one. We fight the Templars in an endless battle over control of the whole world, and over artefacts that while are mythic in description, almost fanciful, I can assure are real and very dangerous."

"You must think me mad to believe that hogwash."

"But it's the truth!" Margaret glanced around. "For the past three years, Henry and I have been trying to stay the fighting, to bring a swift end to this wretched war. And for the last several months, we've been trying to keep this horrid clash from happening."

Lionel's face twisted into a look of horrid disgust. "You mean…. you've been here fighting?"

"Would you rather I was unfaithful to you? Would you prefer I spread my legs for a man who is not my lawfully wedded husband, of who I conceived several children and lost one with, for years while you stayed in New York to support this family?!" Margaret hated getting emotional but this was a situation that called for calmer, cooler heads. Lionel didn't look at her as she continued, "I wanted to tell you, but Father wished me silent. So did Henry and everyone else. Only Aunt Cordelia urged me to tell you, to come clean to you about the life that I led in the shadows, but I hesitated."

"Why?"

"Because…..I'd thought that you….I'd thought you'd never believe me. Or. Or that you might put me out on the streets, divorce me."

She moved to embrace him, but he pushed her off. Margaret swallowed her tears and hardened her heart at the motion.

"Please." She tried once more. "Please, Lionel. Something horrid is coming, a terrible battle that will shake the foundation of this country. A lot of men are going to die and I don't want to risk words being left unspoken between us."

"If that is what you're fearful of, then you should've come to me sooner."

Margaret allowed a tear to fall. She turned around quickly as the hairs on the back of her neck stood straight up. The two watched a soldier approach.

"Pardon me, Captain. Madame." The young man took off his cap in respect. She kept her head bowed but nodded to him all the same.

"What is it, private?"

"Uh, sir, Colonel Chamberlain said we are moving. He wants us to form regiments and follow him to a new location. Orders from on high sir."

"Inform Colonel Chamberlain that we shall be mobilizing here shortly."

"Yes sir."

Margaret shoved her tears down before facing the man that she loved.

"I'll be going to see Buster here shortly. He's a friend," she added quickly before Lionel interrupted, "who was wounded twice yesterday. He's in hospital now, and I'd think I should go and find him, see how he's doing. Go and get your orders. It seems us being good soldiers are the only thing that we have in common."

She walked off before Lionel could say anything else. Margaret walked downhill, trying to keep herself from falling face first and taking a pretty nasty tumble down the steep hill. At the halfway point, she heard someone follow her and thinking that it was Lionel, she gave an annoyed huff.

"Lionel, I'll talk to you later. I told you-" she turned around, stopping in surprise when she saw it was Lieutenant Chamberlain. "Oh. Hhm. Excuse me, Lieutenant. I thought you were someone else."

"Oh no problem, ma'am." The young man smirked underneath his mustache. "Find your husband alright?"

"I did, but….." Margaret trailed off, ending with a useless shrug. She swallowed and changed the subject. "Are you going to see Buster as well?"

"Yep! Then we'll meet up with Twentieth."

"'Meeting up'?" The two started to walk down the hill again.

"Colonel Rice is supposed to be relieving Lawre-er, Colonel Chamberlain."

"Well, I suppose that would be the safest option. Since your regiment is all worn out form the fight. And out of ammunition."

Lieutenant Chamberlain gave a laugh. "One guy was guarding several dozen Reb soldiers with an empty rifle."

Margaret couldn't help but laugh at that, before they came upon yesterday's dead. The mood quickly changed to a somber respect for both sides. Margaret walked a couple of paces before she stopped, and was unable to pull her eyes away from the bodies that were left to feed the crows. There was a boy, no older than eleven it looked like, wearing a Confederate uniform right next to another poor boy around the same age wearing the blue of the Union. Both of them had gaping wounds on their sides, their faces frozen in abject pain and horror. Margaret couldn't pull her eyes away from their grey faces, their pale eyes staring off, in an unseeing way.

"War….is terrible."

Margaret swallowed. "That's good. It's good that it is as terrible as we know it. Otherwise…..otherwise we would all grow far too fond of it."

She started down the hill, saying a prayer for the poor souls behind her. Lieutenant Chamberlain followed quickly, until Margaret suddenly realized something.

"Where do we go?"

The dark-haired lieutenant smiled. "Follow me."

He took the lead. Margaret followed, her eyes scanning the treetops and shadows out of habit. It was a rather lovely day, but riddled with so much death. And there was unfortunately more to come. On their trek, Margaret had an intense debate raging through her. All she needed was access to a pigeon and some paper and ink.

She decided that it was time for the mission to end.

Henry was going to leave the Confederate army and rendezvous with Margaret at Gettysburg. There was no way they were ever going to stop this fight.

They had been trying, pushing and pushing against the tidal wave of war, only to be pushed back time and time again. They hadn't gained any ground in this fight. And Margaret realized, as the youngest Chamberlain and her approached a Union encampment, they weren't destined to. The Battle of Little Round Top, the whole entire Battle of Gettysburg, the fight for Fort Sumnter, Bleeding Kansas….it was all destined to happen.

She cursed the Isu, even though they had nothing to do with this.

It was…just old habit, she supposed.

Margaret turned her hood up on her head as they entered the encampment, sticking as close to Thomas Chamberlain as she could. The camp was chaotic in a sort of way that most military encampments were. She followed Thomas through different 'alleyways', little walking paths between the tents, asking as many soldiers as he could about the location of the medical tent. They followed the directions and found the tent around mid-morning.

And it was a sight to see.

A horrible sight.

There were operations going on right in the open. Men and boys getting their legs or arms removed, screaming for God or their mothers. Surgeons wearing bloodied aprons moved about the area, some were smoking a cigar as they moved from soldier to soldier. Margaret's stomach turned at the sight of the piles of bloodied limbs.

Oh, God. This is true war.

This is the war that is fought in the light of society. This isn't some fantastical tale about two orders locked in ancient combat, wining battles through subterfuge and secrecy. This was out in the open.

This was bloody, brutal.

Savagery.

Tom looked just as pale and as sick as she felt but they pushed onward. Pushed through the crowd and saw where the soldiers who had survived the butchery were recovering. Tom flagged down an overworked field nurse who was in the middle of carrying a bowl that was stained with bloodied handprints.

"'Cuse me ma'am. But I was wondering what if you knew where Sergeant Kilrain was?"

"I'm sorry, Sir, but I can't answer your question." The woman informed as she hurried off.

"To quote a very popular Southern phrase, 'Bless her heart'." Margaret said as the woman disappeared. Tom sighed. Margaret glanced around, her eyes scanning the crowd before landing on someone who looked like he had information. She walked up to him.

It took him a moment to realize that he had been approached by someone. He looked up. "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Sergeant Kilrain. He's with the Twentieth Maine. Wounded yesterday twice."

"Sergeant Kilrain….." The man muttered as he flipped through his papers. He ripped off a sheet and handed it to her. "His body was moved to the burial ground. Don't know if it's been put under yet."

Margaret felt the floor drop out from underneath her. Dead? How could that be possible?

Yes, he was wounded in the arm.

Yes, he was wounded twice.

YES, he was wounded twice in the same place.

How…

Thomas ripped the sheet of paper out of her fingers and read it, shaking his head as he did so. "This says that he died this morning."

"Yes Lieutenant. And?"

"But….that can't be possible."

Margaret felt her legs wobble, but she kept them stock still. She couldn't take a step, couldn't breathe. The news sent her tumbling downward and she was unable send it through to her mind.

Buster Kilrain. The oldest family friend that she had. A man that had gone through hell and back, on both sides of the light, was done in by bullet wounds. She felt so sick to her stomach.

"Mrs. Lelan?"

Tom's voice was watery, far off.

When did that happen?

Her legs buckled. It was by God's mercy that she didn't crumble to the ground. Tears blurred and burned her vision. She choked on a sob.

Tom managed to move her out of the medical area, away from the stench of infection and the rot of the wounded to a secluded area where she could cry in peace. Margaret looked upward, blinking away the last tears.

"I need….a paper and writing implement."

"Okay."

"And then a bird."

"Uh, what?"

"I've got to send a message to Henry." Margaret swallowed, quickly clarifying, "My brother. He's with the Confederacy. Trying to accomplish the same thing I did. But…I couldn't. We couldn't…. we failed. We failed Buster, we failed Colonel Shaw and his regiment…we failed you."

Tom remained silent. He sighed before digging through his pockets. "Here."

Margaret turned, her face going blank in surprise. "I can't take your things."

"I insist." Tom placed it into her hands. "Write to your brother. Leave this horrible place."

Margaret took the paper from the man with a smile of thanks. He sat there for a few moments before announcing that he was going to find his brother and tell him. He stood shakily before moving off, still looking a little out of it. Margaret sighed as she scribbled out a message, not even bothering to put it in code. Once the ink had dried even a bit the woman stood and made her way towards the wooded area in search of a bird to serve as messenger. Her hands drifted to her pockets, where deeply stashed was a miniature device pilfered from an Isu laboratory. An imprint device of sorts, one she could put into the minds of any animals to show the image of the person they were going to be delivering a message to.

She sighed as she dipped inside the wooded area.

It became painfully obvious that Margaret was getting on in years due to the fact that it took her far too long to catch such a simple bird. However, once the creature was in her hands, she tied the message around its leg, implanted the device before sending it off. It flew off in the direction of the field. Margaret watched it go, hoping against hope that Henry would be able to leave soon.

She had a feeling, though, that that it wouldn't happen.