Chapter 4: The Brotherhood

When Alexander Hamilton woke up, he found himself in a very large and comfortable bed. He couldn't remember the last time he had a proper night's sleep and was tempted to curl back into the blanket and go back to whatever dream he was having. At least, until he remembered what happened before he blacked out. The former aide-de-camp sat up immediately and felt his neck, half expecting to feel a coarse rope around it. Instead, a very soft bandage was covering what he could only assume was a rope burn and felt another one wrapped around his head from whatever knocked him out.

Alexander looked around the room and was surprised to be met with a very expensive looking bedroom. It was decorated simply; cream walls, freshly washed drapes, linens, and comforter, and expertly cleaned furniture. He slowly stood and moved the drapes to look out the window. He was on the second floor of what appeared to be a very nice country home, like ones he heard littered the southern states. Whoever brought him here must have been reasonably well off, he assumed. He closed the drapes and noticed a fresh pair of clothes neatly folded on the vanity. He was still in the outfit from his attempted execution so he was grateful for some fresh clothing. Whoever had him brought here left him an elegant dark green button up and black trousers with simple black shoes. Each article of clothing was clearly made by experienced and expensive hands. He put them on and finally fixed his hair up into its trademark ponytail after God knew how many days of not being able to.

A knock on the door startled the young man from his grooming. Alexander turned and was met with a young woman in a typical maid's uniform. When she noticed he was up, she began apologizing profusely for walking in on him. He could tell that English wasn't her native tongue by the multiple French words she dropped in every now and again. She was better than Lafayette was the last time he saw him, but not by much. After a minute of continuous apologizing, Alexander decided to stop her.

"Woah woah, hey, calm down. It's alright Miss."

She quieted down quickly, an embarrassed blush on her face, "I am very sorry, sir."

He chuckled and gave her a small smile, "It's fine. What's your name?"

She nodded and did a small curtsy, "My name is Margaret, sir. The... boss asked me to tend to you."

The way she hesitated to say "boss" made him suspicious. What servant would be uncertain about what to call their employer? "The boss?"

"Oui, er, yes. The Madam who had you brought to this house. Now, if you would please follow me. I am to take you to eat."

Alexander had already figured that whoever this supposed "Madam" was, she didn't want him dead, at least not yet. Hoping that this was the wise thing to do, he let the young maid lead him through the house. He was right in suspecting that the owner of this house was wealthy; everything around him showed the signs of money. He was escorted down a beautiful staircase and to a large door. Why architects thought doors needed to be so large, he'd never know. Margaret pushed the absurdly large door open motioned him into a luxurious dining room with a ridiculously long table. He remembered the there was a similar table at the Schuyler manor, as well as ridiculously large doors, and wondered if they were common features in houses like this.

Margaret motioned for him to sit in the chair to the left of the head of the table, a place usually saved for a valued guest or dear friend. Alexander thought that it didn't really fit for the current situation. He sat in the surprisingly comfortable chair as Margaret left the room, the still absurd door slamming behind her. He could faintly hear someone cooking in the kitchen; a personal chef, no doubt. This owner's wealth was starting to annoy him.

The door opened again and the young revolutionary was met with a familiar pair of black eyes. He stood and stared at the man who was his executioner just yesterday. Today, however, he was dressed completely in gray and white with a black symbol that he remembered from a long forgotten winters night in the pit that was Valley Forge.

"... It was you. That night at the camp. You... saved me."

The man chuckled as he began his approach, "Quite right, Mr. Hamilton. Or do you prefer Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton?"

He sounded American, but there was something about the way he spoke that wasn't what he was used to. Either it was an accent from another state that he was unaware of or English wasn't his first language, like Margaret. "I don't believe that titles matter much here, Mister Executioner."

He laughed; a loud sounding bark of one, but a laugh all the same, "An outsider would find that to be true, I think. Only the ranks matter here, my friend."

Alexander figured it was safe to sit down. "So we're friends, are we?"

The man sat opposite of himself and planted his arms firmly on the table, "Well, that all depends."

"On what?"

"How willing you are to work with us and how good of a persuader in you are."

A vague skill set, but not one he hadn't acquainted himself with. "Before I do either of those things, I'd like to know who I'm dealing with."

"I'd be worried if you weren't. One of the Masters and our... leader will be joining us shortly to do just that. I'd mind your manners around them if I were you."

There it was again, the hesitation at the mention of the person in charge, just like Margaret. Before he could ask about this odd trend, the door opened again. Two people entered this time, a man and a woman. Alexander had to guess that one of them was this Master and the other was the leader. The man was dressed similarly to the false executioner, but with black instead of white. His tanned skin, controlled look in his brown eyes and long, night-black hair made him stand considerably, so the hood made sense for him. He carried only two visible weapons, a handgun and a large knife, but he was certain the man had more on his person. The woman stood out just as much as he did. Her black hair and pale skin were certainly common enough, but eyes as gray as storm clouds weren't. She was dressed similarly to the other two, but in mostly black with hints of white and gray. She didn't have any visible weapons, but that didn't mean she wasn't dangerous.

The man sat next to the other and Alexander realized he had only gotten one name and several titles since waking up. The woman sat at the head of the table. Well, he knew who was in charge at least. The woman's gray eyes were watching him in silent observation. He could see equal parts interest and determination in those gray clouds. This woman knew who he was and was going to make sure he listened to her words, whether he wanted to or not. She reminded him of the determined spirit that lived in his sister-in-law, Angelica. The only difference is that this woman had all the power and he was at her mercy. For some reason, he felt concerned for his wellbeing.

Alexander decided to speak, but the woman held her hand up before he could get his first word out.

"No. No questions yet, Mr. Hamilton. We can discuss our business after lunch."

She was a first-generation American, he could tell. He'd meet many people with the same accent. People with British parents, but raised around other American children tended to have the same way with words. He would have taken further note of this, but the thought of a decent meal had his stomach almost audibly rumbling, but he was determined to get a name, at the very least, "I was merely going to ask the names of my hosts. I would at least like to know what to call the lovely woman I'll be dining with."

The woman laughed, a quiet but pleasant one, "Ah, yes. The ever-present charm of Alexander Hamilton. I've heard stories about it. To think I would encounter it in my own home. I am truly surprised, to say the least."

He decided he liked this woman. She was someone he could see himself getting along well with.

"In any case, you may call me Amelia. The man in front of you is Able and the man to his left is Connor."

He had no way if knowing if those names were real or not, so he just nodded, "Since we are on a first name basis, call me Alexander, if you would."

Alexander noticed the now named Able and Connor exchanging a look that made him wonder how Amelia had treated others besides himself up until now. He would have questioned it out loud, but the food was brought out and he was starving. He ate as politely and quickly as possible, he was still a guest after all. Lunch was a quick and quiet affair. He could tell that they wanted to discuss things with each other but didn't due to his presence. He understood it, he was an outsider to whatever loop he had found himself in.

Upon finishing, Amelia stood and instructed him to follow her. The young revolutionary did so, assuming that he was finally going to get some proper answers. Able went off upstairs and Connor followed close behind. He was led into a large study, lined with bookshelves and maps on all sides. Connor locked the door behind them and Amelia sat down at the large desk near the back wall. She motioned for him to sit in one of the two chairs on the opposite side and began pouring three cups of tea. He sat to her left and Connor stood at her right. She reached into an unseen dresser, pulled out a small piece of folded white cloth, and set it in front of him. He hesitantly picked it up and unfolded it. Carefully and meticulously stitched on the white fabric was the same black symbol that he kept seeing. Looking up at his two hosts, he eyed the same symbol over their hearts.

"... I will admit that this is a very interesting symbol. I feel I'd like it more if I knew what it meant."

Amelia chuckled briefly before placing a hand over her heart, and by extension the symbol, "This, Alexander, is the mark of The Assassin's Brotherhood."

He looked down at the black mark in his hands. He knew of assassins, you had to in his line of work, but he'd never heard of them being organized like this.

"Seems like you assassins aren't particularly good at your jobs if I'm still around."

Amelia snorted and leaned back, "Believe me, if we wanted you dead, you'd be buried in a cemetery by now."

She may have laughed, but the serious look in her eyes made him certain of her words. "What do you want from me?"

Connor answered him, "We are in need of your assistance in our fight."

"What fight? Against who?"

Amelia set her elbows on the desk, a vicious look in her eyes. "Against the Templars. The Brotherhood and the Templars have been at odds for eons. They seek to unite the world under their rule and destroy the Brotherhood completely. They almost succeeded here. They wiped out the first Colonial Assassin's Brotherhood and have been trying to take control of the country from the inside. I assume you remember a man named Charles Lee?"

"Lee? Of course, I do. I was John's second when he shot him, but what does he- ... ... ... He's a Templar."

"I'm afraid so. His actions during the Battle of Monmouth was an attempt to sway people in his favor and away from General Washington."

"That..." Alexander snarled and slammed his fist into the table, "... That snake! How dare he?! Good men died that day!"

"I can understand you're upset, it is reasonable, but back to the matter at hand. We've brought you here because the Templars are still intent on having this country. We can't have another England on our plates. That is where you come in."

"Me?"

"Yes. I've been led to believe that you are the key to winning this war. Now that I've met you..." Amelia gave him an appraising look, "... I think they may be right."

He ran his thumb over the cloth clenched in his hand, quickly assessing his options, though he knew what he'd do. "... ... What do you need me to do?"

"First, we'll get you home. I'm certain your family and friends are beside themselves. The Templars posted that you were dead in the papers."

"They what?!"

"After we sort this out, we'll put our support behind you and the Continental Army. A total of thirty assassins are free to spare, but each of them is worth thirty men and can kill more than that. Connor, Able, Margaret and myself will also be there to help."

"Alright... Wait. Margaret is an assassin too?"

"Yes. She's with the French Brotherhood."

"... ... How many of you are out there?"

Amelia stood, "I'm afraid that we don't have any more time to spare. We have to get you home and start the plan."

Alexander stood and followed the two assassins out of the room. He looked down at the white cloth, still in his hands. The mark of the Brotherhood had a sort of ancient majesty to it; a long and proud history that spanned entire generations. He carefully folded the cloth and placed it in his pocket for safe keeping. He may not have been an assassin, but he was a part of this now. A part of a legacy. Just the thought of it made him excited. He wasn't sure how or why he got mixed up into all this, but he planned to do all he could to help his country.