Chapter 1: Sweet Boy
I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I do own MaryLynn Mortenson, Madame, and the Maverick brothel.
Italics: Sentences in italics indicate Connor thinking/speaking in his native tongue. This will apply to future chapters as well.
Warning: Rape scene towards end of this chapter. I tried to make it as brief as possible.
*Update 7/9/13*: The rape scene was shortened and details omitted. The full version is provided on Archive of Our Own (MarilynMunster is my pen name). I did this to be safe with the rating and to comply with rules.
Boston, March 1770
Rocks were projected like silver bullets from the riotous crowds. They have had enough of being whipped around like ragged dogs by the British soldiers and the unseen force that was King George II. As wads of saliva were spat on the ground the British "red coats" stood upon, a dozen or so of the said soldiers thrust collections of angry colonials against building walls. Their bodies collided and clashed, backs crackling against the bricks as they shoved forward, trying to be freed of the red coats. Few people were able to escape this entrapment, slithering their way out of the entanglement of limbs. One of them ran into the alleyway away from King's Street, struggling to ease the violent thrashing of her heart.
A young woman, on the verge of turning twenty-one years of age, grasped at her chest as she struggled to breathe. Stumbling over her numb feet, she slowly made her way to a fairly quiet section of the alleyway, her unoccupied hand shaking as it anchored her weight against the brick wall of a building. The pounding of her heart, the rush of thick blood pumping through her veins was deafening as she leaned her back against the wall.
Flashbacks of the crowds drowned her dizzy head. She could still see the colonists bearing their teeth in fury, tumultuous over the ongoing mistreatment from the red coats at the Charter House. These recent moments all danced wildly before her mind's eye. The uproar was too much for her senses. To be entrapped between the bodies of strangers and a brick wall was pure torture. Even an inch of movement was not permitted by the thrusting arms of the red coats and colonists alike. A wave of panic had given her enough adrenaline to push through the bodies, freeing herself. Dear Lord, she thought she would die of fear in that pit of sweating bodies! The crying of scared children was the last straw to escalate her peaking anxiety. A sense of no escape in a pool of bodies terrified MaryLynn into yet another episode of panic.**
"Ea-ease me, Lord," the young woman sputtered, clutching her wool handkerchief tightly in a small fist.
As soon as the rhythm of her breathing stabilized, the high-pitched wheezing coming to a stop, a shout from a nearby rooftop had captured her attention. Whipping her head towards the source, the young woman came to find a man in a blue coat aiming his musket down at the crowds below. 'Wait...he is about to shoot the people below! They are innocent!' Her heart threatened to quicken once more, feeling helpless as she stood in the snow. Before she could gasp aloud, a Native boy appeared like a phantom in animal skins behind the man, slitting his throat with what appeared to be a weapon resembling a hatchet. Covering her gaping mouth with both palms, she watched the scene unfold from below.
She mumbled with utter melancholy, "What has this land come to?"
"Your plot is ended!" the Native boy seethed, grabbing the man by the collar of his navy blue coat.
Chuckling, the man replied in a hoarse voice, his eyes glinting with mischief, "Not...quite."
Another shot of a firearm shattered the silence and noise. However, neither man nor boy was struck down. It came from another source that MaryLynn could not see. With the uprising tenors of screams, a hideous composition of gun shots are set off, the echo reverberating forever in her mind. She knew that innocents met their untimely death. At least the Native boy tried to stop this evil..
An accusatory point of an index finger withheld more power than any human could imagine.
Slander.
Betrayal.
Connor feared that he might collapse over the rooftop with the storm of emotions in his belly. In the depths of his heart, the heart of a child and a fighter alike, he silently prayed that his own father would recognize him and save him.
Alas, it was not to be, signified by a pointed index finger in his direction.
He watched as several people were shot to death on the street, women and children howling with cries. His heart stopped beating in that moment. His dark eyes met the smirk of Charles Lee, who stood atop a roof across the way. The smoking pistol in his hand seemed to mock Connor as its black smoke permeated proudly into the air. 'Curse you, Charles Lee!' his thoughts seethed. Yet again, he was unable to save people from this horrid man.
There was no time for nursing emotions. He had to disappear from the eyes of the red coats, or else the lips of their bullets would surely kiss him goodbye. Jumping from rooftop to rooftop, Connor leaped down to the ground in a section of fenced-in farm animals and haystacks. He set off in a dash, leaping over fences as he disappeared into the alleyway.
He lost the red coats for a short while. It would not be long before they track him down. Unexpectedly, Connor bumped into another body; the body of a young woman. He knocks her down to the snow by accident. No! No, this was not the time to cause more trouble! He helped her up quickly by the forearm, barely feeling her limbs due to the excessive layers of clothing.
"S-sorry, miss," he stuttered bashfully.
"I am fine," she assured him, her voice a breathy soprano.
She looked up at the tall boy, her blue eyes widening with shock. She realized that he was the Native boy from the rooftop just moments ago! She saw him. It was not he who was to blame for the shooting. She knew what she had seen. Her heart could not take any more of this insanity. Oh my, there was blood…Oh dear, the nauseating sight of blood on his clothes. She swallowed hard, trying her best to remain in the moment.
"Y-you are that boy...that Native boy."
"Shh!" he hushed forcefully, grabbing hold of her hands. "Please, do not reveal my presence!"
"N-no, you misunderstand. I saw what truly happened."
He was hesitant, releasing his hold on the young woman. He backtracked against the brick wall, his body stiffening.
"I saw you," she reiterated. "I know of your innocence."
Glancing over her appearance, he figured that the woman was young, but her speech and demeanor were much more mature than he. She couldn't have been an adolescent like himself. Her cheeks were not plump like a young girl, but molded delicately to reveal high cheekbones. Her face was pleasant to the eye, with reddened cheeks and golden curls poking out of the maroon handkerchief scarf wrapped around her head and shoulders.
"Who are you?" he questioned, his eyes darkening with threat, for beauty meant nothing to him in this moment.
"No time for pleasantries," she hushed the boy, a hand cupping along the side of her mouth to amplify the whisper.
She advanced towards him, and pulled him by the forearm to a nearby haystack.
"M-miss, their footsteps!" he whispered frantically, breaking free from her small hand. "I hear them coming! What are you-?"
"Hide in that stack. I'll steer them away."
"But-"
"Trust me!"
Figuring that concealing himself immediately would be wise, the Native boy dove into the haystack, vanishing with just a swift movement. It was not a moment too soon before four men dressed in red coats came rustling about, seeking out the boy with their narrowed, predatory eyes.
"Where has the bastard gone?"
"We just had him!"
"Oh my!" the young woman gasped, feigning a distressed emotion. "Thank goodness you've come!"
One of the men in red finally took note of the young woman, addressing her in a hastened fashion.
"Miss, calm yourself. We are seeking out the boy responsible for the shooting. Have you seen a Native boy pass by here?"
In a dramatic fashion, the young woman fanned out fingers and placed them across her cheeks, her blue eyes wide.
"Oh sir, I-I saw him run down that way!" she pointed towards a direction that would surely take the red coats far away from here. "I didn't know wh-what to do, I-I was so frightened!"
"Miss, calm down. We'll capture the Native bastard and all will be fine."
"Oh, thank you. Thank you, sir," she whispered in a breathy voice, her fingers leaving her face to brush along the man's forearm.
The said man in red cleared his throat and bid MaryLynn goodbye as he and his men dashed away. Once the group of men disappeared behind the corner of the brick building, the young woman listened in for faded footsteps. She then stuck a hand into the hay stack to seek out her new accomplice. Before she could touch him, the Native boy popped out, startling her.
"You sent them away," he spoke as a statement rather than an inquiry, brushing off stalks of hay from his animal skin attire. "Why?"
MaryLynn dismissed his question, deeming it not the most opportune time to explain herself.
"Go in the opposite direction in which they went," she instructed, indicating with an index finger where the red coats had gone. "This will at least grant you more time to escape."
"Why did you help me?" he demanded once more, bewildered by her kindness.
"You are against British authority, yes?"
He nodded. Connor knew that he had to refrain from discussing the clandestine Assassin brotherhood.
"I seek to stop them," Connor informed in a dry, hoarse voice.
"That's all I need to know," she smiled softly, pulling her wool handkerchief tighter around her face for warmth.
The Native boy was lovely. His full cheeks and wide eyes were precious. The freckles splattered across his cheeks had tickled her the most. The people of Boston would speak of his people's savagery, but she saw nothing of the sort. He was so awkward in his demeanor, so unsure of himself despite his attempt at confidence.
He barely met her eyes, looking away as he fumbled with his left sleeve. His shoulders were hunched forward. And yet, she found herself to be warmed by this purity. She urged him to leave immediately. Before he departed, she stood on the tips of her toes to match his height, planting a light peck on his cheek.
"Good luck," she whispered.
He flushes furiously in response to the young woman's affection. Without knowing how to return the affection, he resorted to running away, climbing up the brick wall and window panes with ease. Little did she know, in the shadows some several feet away stood Charles Lee, watching the whole scene unfold before him.
The man snarled, his mustache tickling his thin lips. A treacherous woman helping that piece of garbage? Absurd! That little whore. He had seen her before. She was affiliated with that red haired Scottish woman at the brothel near the Green Dragon tavern. A wicked smirk graced his lips, his mustache framing the sickening expression. The young whore had to learn her lesson; learn whose side truly reigned over her insignificant existence.
Before the blonde woman could depart from the alley, she was stopped cold in her tracks. Charles towered over her, her heels digging into the snow. She fought her limbs to cease their shaking. 'Never let a man see your fear,' she recited in her mind.
"I have seen what you've done. You helped the Native boy escape," Charles stated, looking the woman up and down with his beady black eyes.
"Please, sir," she begged, holding up her palms in a gesture of surrender. "I-I was only- Aahh!"
He thrashed her up against the brick wall, his torso pressed up uncomfortably against her body.
"I know what you are," he growled, smoke ribbons of the cold lacing his words. "You wenches are all alike. That boy is a target! A sweet face comes along, and you coo and sigh."
"You don't understand!"
He spoke no more, sliding his hand up her petticoat and long skirt. She attempted to scream for help, but his free hand covered it, his palm sweaty and tasting like copper. He invaded her inner thighs with his skin-cracked fingers. In that moment, MaryLynn had wanted to die. The vile man's violation of her womanhood continued against her will.
Charles' unforgivable act immediately stopped, a look of disgust contorting his greasy face.
Blood had spilled from her womanhood, staining both his white breeches and her undergarments.
"Blasted woman!" he spat, disgusted by the evident menses.
He pulled out of her entrance, shoving her body down to the snow. She openly wept, pulling up her pantaloons with shaking hands. Her blonde curls poked through her disheveled scarf, the damp hair matted against her cheeks and forehead. The rag that was plugged up her vaginal canal remained inside her. She was humiliated, the blood trickling down her legs, staining her lovely petticoat and pantaloons. Disgusted enough with the young woman's monthly shedding of blood, Charles quickly abandoned her, removing his maroon coat to cover the blood stain on his creme colored breeches. He was at least thankful that the young woman would not be bearing his bastard child.
The woman whooped and cried into the sleeve of her coat, utterly humiliated and dressed in her own blood. For what seemed like an eternity, she finally attempted to pull up her stained undergarments, forcing her shaking limbs to straighten up.
It would be a long walk back to the brothel in this state. At least she wouldn't be pregnant. 'Lord, give me strength. Please...'
The blonde woman returned an hour later to the two-story house that was the brothel, the Maverick. The candlelight exuded a golden mysticism from the window glass. Her knees buckled, threatening to give way to the cobblestone street. She refused to abide by their wish, the red door of the brothel nearly glowing in her blurred vision. Her trembling hand turned the rusted knob. She moaned at the striking pain in her lower stomach, biting into her lower lip.
Stumbling into the entrance hall, a couple of women gasp aloud at the sight of blood drenching the young woman's lower half. The women rush to aid their sister-in-business.
"MaryLynn, what happened?!"
"Who did this?!"
"Where did this happen?"
The questions overwhelmed her greatly, causing her breath to quicken rapidly. Her throat threatened to close, her eyes bulging with tears. 'Not another episode!'
"Alrigh', alrigh'! Back away, girls!"
A curvy woman with bundled red hair pushed her girls away from the panicking blonde woman on the floor. The blood, the red face, the paralyzing fear. The older woman knew exactly what had happened. She shook her head solemnly, helping the bleeding young woman up.
"It's alrigh', MaryLynn. I'm here, love," she cooed, her voice a gentle alto.
The young woman clung to the woman who was simply known as "Madame." Not one of the Maverick's girls knew of the Scottish woman's real name, actually. Rather odd. The plump forearm served as the young woman's only crutch, both physically and emotionally. Escorting her slowly up the staircase, Madame looked over her shoulder to the pair of overly dolled-up girls below.
"Heat some water an' fetch me some clean rags an' clothes."
The pair stood befuddled, still shocked by the scene.
"Now, damnit! Don' just stan' there like dimwits!" she shouted, the feisty tone returning to her voice.
Ten minutes later, with hot water and fresh supplies, Madame cleaned MaryLynn up in her small bedroom. The water in the copper basin was a deep scarlet from the amount of times blood-drenched rags were dipped. The young woman had not said a word throughout the cleaning, refusing to look at the older woman. Her face had been devoid of emotion, staring off into the empty air. She was unresponsive.
Madame respected her act of silence. In her heyday, Madame was no stranger to such dreadful things. Disgust. Shame. Humiliation. No one would wish to speak of those emotions shortly after a violation such as this. Once she dressed MaryLynn in fresh undergarments of pantaloons and a square-collared bodice made of cotton, the older woman spoke up as she brought MaryLynn to the bed.
"Ay," she sighs aloud. "I'm sorry tha' it had to happen to you, dearie."
MaryLynn finally spoke, her glazed eyes slowly retrieving a human essence.
"I try so hard to stay safe."
Madame sighed, knowing all too well that no one could control everything in life. She briefly knew of MaryLynn's abuse several years ago. It was times like this that the Scottish woman desired to take part in manslaughter, to annihilate every man that ever hurt a woman, whether they be with words or fists or their damn genitals. Her tone became morose, deep as she continued to speak. The wisdom that came with age foretold Madame that no such thing would ever stop violence against women.
"Try as you migh', dearie. Sadly, things like this happen, even when we don' ask for it."
"He saw me help this Native boy," the young woman rasped, slowly pulling the blankets over her body.
"Who is 'he,' love?"
"Lee...Charles Lee did this to me."
"Connivin' insect," Madame spat aloud, mentally condemning the man to hell. "This was over some Native boy? This is wha' this is over?! For Christ's sake-"
"Please, Madame!" MaryLynn retaliated as she sat up quickly, only to regret the pain in her lower stomach that came with the motion. "The boy, he is against the British! He said that he was going to stop them, the red coats. I had to help him."
"You don' listen to a boy, silly girl! He's probably scared, shakin' in his bear skins. Wait, when you say 'boy,' do you mean tha' he is a child or an adolescen'?"
"He's not a child," MaryLynn murmured, bringing the blanket up to her chin as she lay back down. "Probably no more than fifteen years of age."
"I see. Even so, adolescen' boys know nothin', no matter their heritage. They're still children to me. A child isn' going to know how to stop an outbreak from happenin', let alone a political struggle over freedom!"
As Madame shouted, she waved her plump hands about, her eyes enlarged with emotion. She exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of her hooked nose. She did not want to upset MaryLynn any further.
"I know you've got tha' 'bleeding heart' and all, but some people you can't go helpin'. You don' know wha' trouble they bring with them."
"I don't care," the young woman retorted, turning over on her side to face the window. "You didn't see him. He tried to stop a man from shooting innocent people. Up on the rooftop. All alone."
"You didn' say anythin' about this, did you? They'll hurt you more than Lee did."
"No, I went hiding in the alley after the red coats tried to corner crowds against the buildings. I had another...episode."
"Episode? Tha' panic of yours, eh?"
She could see the back of the young woman's head nod.
"I wish I knew wha' to call tha', dearie. From wha' you tell me, it makes sense you panic over those brutes pushin' you and those people against the wall. You panic over small things too, as if you're abou' to die. I don' quite understand, but I wish I had the cure for ya, dearie."
Cracking her back before sitting down at the foot of the bed, Madame asked the young woman, "Anyway, wha' exactly happened?"
"The Native boy bumped into me in the alley. My panic stopped once I recognized him from the rooftop. He was in danger, and the episode stopped, strangely. I helped steer the red coats away while he hid in a haystack. I wished him luck before he climbed a building to disappear over the roof. I hope he is safe now."
"Wha' am I going to do with you, MaryLynn?" the older woman sighed, standing up from her seat on the bed. "Stay out of this mess. For now, jus' rest. You're not workin' tonight like this."
Walking over to the bedroom door with heavy feet, Madame opened it to shout into the hallway, her head of frizzy red curls poking through the threshold.
"Emmaline! Get your arse washed up, you're up tonight!"
Once Madame left the bedroom, she closed the door shut, leaving the young woman bathed in a comforting darkness. The moon, with no shame whatsoever, exposed herself fully in the violet skies, granting MaryLynn some source of light. Slowly reaching over to an old nightstand of oakwood, she pulled out the single drawer to fetch a treasured necklace. Beads clacked against the wood as she retrieved an onyx rosary, the crucifix hitting against the drawer with a loud, "clack!" She eased back into bed, cradling the beloved rosary in her palms. Her eyes welled with fresh tears as she pressed the crucifix tightly to her bosom, the metal crucifix and onyx beads pressing into the cotton bodice. She never regretted accepting this rosary, even if it's original possessor was her mother.
"You may think I am stained, Mother, wherever you may be. However, I'm still worthy in the Lord's eyes. I hope.."
A mumbled prayer, recited over a dozen times, had finally granted the young woman sleep. Her last waking thought before surrendering to unconsciousness was of the Native boy's round face. His innocent, wide eyed stare when she kissed him for luck.
Sam had won over the shoppe keeper with grace. Connor should have been relieved, though his shoulders refused to ease from the tension. He had stumbled around the city like a fool, failing at halting the massacre. He growled under his breath, turning away from the conversing men. Once the printing process had begun, Sam bickering with the shoppe keeper, an old copy of the Wanted poster atop the oakwood counter captured Connor's attention. Narrowing his eyes with frustration, he swiped the poster from the counter and ripped it in two.
"Hey, hey!" yelled the shoppe keeper. "Do not make a mess in my shop, boy. I'm doing you and this grown arse over here a favor!"
"Calm down, he's just a child," Sam said, gesturing for the man to remain tranquil. "This kindness will not be forgotten."
"It sure as hell won't, Adams."
This "machine" as Sam Adams had called it was both astonishing and disgusting. Ink on paper without manually writing the words, transposing images onto dozens of papers. How could a machine dictate people's perception of him in such a light, only to change his reputation within a heartbeat? Could he not just defend himself with the truth? The Native boy exhaled through flared nostrils. This journey would surely be a burdensome one. Crumbling the torn pieces of the poster between his large palms, Connor shoved the ball of paper into one of his leather pouches. Perhaps a small fire with these pieces thrown in will cheer his spirits up later on.
It was only a day he had spent in the city of Boston, and already he had started a commotion. In the back of his mind, the young man wished he had never left the comfort of his village.
A couple of days later, MaryLynn was able to walk without immense pain in her nether regions. She came across a poster of Connor on her way back from the marketplace (Madame needed more fruit and meat for the kitchen). There was a tavern not too far from the brothel where she resided. The Green Dragon. Passing the said tavern by, she captured sight of a fresh poster plastered to the brick wall. The depicted face had a mop of black hair covering his eyes. Only his chin and frowning lips had shown. She stared at the large poster until she recognized that the portrait was of the Native boy. Covering her mouth with her palm, she hoped no one would notice her gawking like a little girl.
He was no longer a wanted man (well, boy) in this town. He was depicted as a hero in this newer version of the poster. It informed of him attempting to stop the massacre, an "admirable attempt, indeed," as was written on the parchment. She sighed with relief. Hopefully, he was alright. With a quick swipe of her hand, she thieved the poster from the brick wall. No one would mind such a menial thing. Tucking the poster in her coat, she walked away as if nothing happened. A charming little memento, no? Now, she could remember that clumsy, innocent Native boy. The portrait did not quite capture his demeanor very well, in her opinion. 'He was much more handsome in person.' MaryLynn smiled, relishing in the memory of his dark, curious eyes, a pout upon his lips. 'I pray for your safety, sweet boy.'
** The "episode of panic" mentioned throughout this chapter refers to what is today known as a panic attack. MaryLynn experiences these episodes now and then, so she would in today's world be diagnosed with a panic disorder. A structured, medical view on Psychology (versus a philosophical sort) did not emerge until the 19th century, so I tried my best to come up with a term that colonials would use.
Author's Note: Hello! This is the first bit of my new story for Assassin's Creed 3. I've been working on this idea for quite a while. I don't write chronologically, so the beginning and the ending are written, but not the middle so much. I will do my best to update when I can (life is crazy these days).
Feedback is greatly appreciated! As for my OC, MaryLynn: I chose to create an OC based on Marilyn Monroe because she is one of my idols and I treasure the memory of her. Plus, my Connor/Ratohnhake:ton collectibles are starting to out-number my Marilyn collectibles, haha. The idea was stemmed from arranging figures of them(and I like to experiment).
Happy Chinese New Year, everyone! Best wishes, and seize new opportunities. :)
-take care
Victoria