Chapter 7: Monsters in my Head
I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I own MaryLynn, Madame, and the Maverick brothel.
The lyrics provided are from the song "When I Fall in Love," performed by Marilyn Monroe.
Italics: Spoken in native tongue.
Bold: Direct lines from the Assassin's Creed 3 game.
Forgive me if there are errors. I stare at a computer screen for hours on end at work, so my eyes aren't as sharp as they used to be. ~
June 1774
Age and Youth sit across from ne another, engaged in what began as a casual game of fanorana. Age would smirk that wry, lazy smirk of his when claiming Youth's tokens. This would only fuel Youth in defeating the old man for once.
"Be patient, Connor," Achilles advises in a rasp. "Your eagerness to move your tokens only promotes my way to victory.
Connor grunts something inaudible in Mohawk under his breath, his eyes darting between to particular tokens on the painted wooden board. The master assassin chuckled with sealed lips, his long brimmed hat casting shadows over his dark eyes. His student had grown into a fine young warrior since he had first encountered the stubborn, thin boy banging on his door for the old man to train him. Four years and thirty pounds of muscle later, Connor was a skilled assassin. He was still stubborn as ever, mind you.
"Speak in your mother tongue all you want, boy. I know a smart-alleck remark when I hear one."
The Native assassin moved one token diagonally, distancing himself from a potential claim. The old man had not expressed any sort of emotion. He was gifted with the experience of portraying a face of stone, a face revealing nothing but a tranquil, unimpressed man. Although he would never question Achilles on such things, Connor wondered what ran through the old man's mind from time to time, having been former master assassin. What did a retired assassin think about? Did he find peace? Was he still haunted? Did he find purpose in life after all was said and done for the Brotherhood?
He silently prayed that he would not die alone.
"How goes business in Boston?" Achilles inquires, recognizing that contemplative, stiff look upon Connor's features.
"Business is the same as it was before. Minor missions to pass the time. There are no naval missions as of yet, but I am still weary."
"Is Johnson still treading low?"
Connor looks away, purposely focusing on the open window to his left hand side. Anything to avoid the old man's omniscient gaze.
"I have not heard anything of importance concerning William Johnson. He has been located from time to time, but there has been no suspicious activity."
Achilles moves his token, attempting to corner Connor's token.
"This must be wearisome, I presume, the man living and all.."
"Achilles, please. There was no need to kill Johnson after the tea extortion. Power was thieved of him, as well as money. His plan to purchase my peoples' land was stunted."
"So you think. Johnson is part of the Templar order. They have their ways in regaining stolen resources. They are not stupid as you may think they are."
Connor furrows his brows further a deep line forming between them as he moves his token to escape Achilles' oncoming token. Achilles was not ignorant. He knew that the young man wanted peace, and di not want to have to kill a man if he deemed it not necessary. However, a man should not be spared just because his plan of greed was stunted, especially if he possessed allies that could set him back on track. Sometimes death was the answer to stop a man completely in his tracks. Alas, Connor was young. He did not understand. The old man understood, but could not help but feel frustrated that his words of advice were not heeded. 'He'll have to learn the hard way, unfortunately..'
"Ease yourself, Connor," the old man says. "Heed advice from someone who bears far more experience in these situations than you do."
"I handled the situation as I saw fit. I saw no need to eliminate the man. I saw that his plan was stunted," Connor firmly reiterated his explanation, not faltering in his stance one bit despite Achilles' words.
Achilles sighed in frustration, moving a token that cornered Connor's token, granting him access to claim the young man's token.
"Did you see that coming?" Achilles smirked, alluding to more than just a silly board game.
"No," answered the young man, his eyes narrowed at the scene of the claim on the board.
"My point exactly, boy. Don't doubt a man who knows what he is doing.."
The sound of the front door colliding with the wall had shaken the delicate furniture with fright. The house was old enough, no need to slam doors! Immediately afterward came a booming, deep voice and frantic, heavy footsteps.
"Ratonhnhaké:ton! Ratonhnhaké:ton!"
Connor's eyebrows rose as his dark eyes shot open. He bolted from his seat at the sound of his bet friend's desperate call and entered the foyer to find Kanen'tó:kon out of breath.
"Kanen'tó:kon, what is wrong?" Connor inquired hastily, his accent thick and apparent when speaking his friend's name.
A wave of feathers and the clacking of beads sounded off with Kanen'tó:kon's every move. He had sprinted through the forest to reach the Homestead. Catching his breath seemed harder than usual, even though he was more athletic than he was in his adolescence.
"Calm down," eases the Native assassin in Mohawk.
The discussion transitioned into English for Achilles' sake. The old man made his way to the foyer, his polished black cane in hand. The discussion between the pair of young men was heated.
"It is Johnson! He plans to take our land with all the money in hand. There is a meeting in session right now. You must stop him!"
"Johnson? He possesses the money? The tea was destroyed! He has not been active in business! How-"
"I warned you about letting that man go," Achilles raised his voice, irritated and yet not surprised that this would happen once he learned of Johnson's life being spared. "Do not think it is so easy to stop Templar action."
Connor squeezed his eyes shut, his lips snarling at the truth in Achilles' words. He knew that the old man was right. He thought that he was doing the right thing. If the destruction of the tea and the elimination of tax collectors stopped the man's financial income, then killing him would not be necessary. If it was not called for, why thieve a man of his life? His decision to not assassinate Johnson was a mistake, and here it was to spit in his face several months later. 'No, I did not see this coming. How could I not see this coming? I thought…I thought it was best..'
"Ratonhnhaké:ton, we must leave now before it is too late!" implores Kanen'tó:kon. "The Elders speak with him now, but not for long. I will take you to Johnson Hall."
Nodding quickly, Connor motions with his hand for his friend to lead the way. On the way past the door's threshold, Connor asks in Mohawk, "How long has this meeting been in session?"
Achilles assumed that the young men discussed tactics in their native tongue, their voices fading as they sprinted down the stone staircase. The master assassin shakes his head, his hand becoming heavy atop his cane. His student was a fast learner indeed, but how much of his pride and heart would blind him in his mission to eliminate the Templars? To eliminate his own father, the Grand Master? While good intentions were admirable, they could harm the ones you intend to save.
"The curse of the youth," mumbles Achilles as he limps his way back into his office, the fanorana game left unfinished. "He is cursed with a child's heart despite his mind of an assassin. Don't destroy the people you so desperately need to save."
The trek through the forest was hurried, the verdant beauty a blur to their alert eyes. Racing through the Native assassin's mind was the big question of the day: Did he make a mistake by sparing William Johnson's life? Had anyone been harmed or the mission stunted under his vigilance? He had been so careful, calculating every step of Templar action. Was this one act of mercy more troublesome than Connor thought?
It was in the past now. There was nothing to be done except assassinate the man once and for all.
Stopping at the edge of a cliff, with descending levels of rock below, Connor and Kanen'tó:kon stood behind a large tree. He quickly informed the Native assassin on the meeting 's location across the way and up the opposing cliff.
"The water is well guarded. Take heed. The meeting should be visible at Johnson Hall once you reach the top. Johnson is one to talk louder than he should."
Throughout the explanation, Connor began to rub the rosary beneath his military as he allowed the information to sink in. Kanen'tó:kon placed a large hand on his oldest friend's shoulder.
"Are you alright, Ratonhnhaké:ton? Is something wrong with your chest?"
"N-no, I'm fine," Connor murmurs, dismissing the action altogether.
The stout young man nodded, choosing to let this observation go.
"Be careful," he says. "I will wait for your return here."
Nodding twice, the Native assassin begins to run, jumping from the cliff's edge to reach a nearby tree top. He navigates the tree tops, jumping with ease from branch to branch. As soon as he becomes close enough to the lake, Connor dives head first into the clear blue water below. Remaining low in the water, he quietly swims over to a patch of long grass, careful to peek through the blades and locate the guards without being noticed.
One near the bank.
Two walking around a large rock, alternating positions.
Two more at the cliff's edge up at the top, positioned several feet apart.
And whatever guards Connor could not locate…He would be sure to surprise them well.
Swimming in what would be a blind spot for the first guard, Connor reaches the lake bank, walking on the balls of his feet in a low, predatory stance. Sliding his hidden blade in the side of the guard's throat from behind, Connor covers the man's mouth and muffles his gurgled cries before reaching a moment of eternal silence. Gently bringing the man down to the ground, he progresses to the other two guards stationed near the large rock some odd number if feet away. Doping into the lake once more, he navigates through collections of tall grass before positioning himself behind the large rock. One by one, he sneaks his way to each guard, slitting their throats with a slick sheen of his blade. Three down. Good so far.
Connor begins his ascent up the cliff, the jagged levels of rock taking a toll on his arms and shoulders. 'I knew I should have added pulling up my body weight in training before. The one time I don't…Now I regret!' Nonetheless, he continues, grinding his teeth and keeping his breathing low. He encounters another guard as he reaches a new level.
"'ey, stop there!" calls the guard.
Silly words. In one ear and out the other. Connor lifts himself up from the edge and steadily stomps his way to the guard. The man readies his musket and says,
"Stop, I say, or I'll-guurrggghhh."
Blade pierces his chest, just beneath his rib cage. Unfortunately, this alerted a second guard. This routine was becoming rather boring, to say the least. 'I never stop and I never will, so please be quiet..' thinks the Native assassin as he stabs the other guard. Good. No swarms of these pests. Clear to continue.
Finally reaching the top of the cliff, he could hear remnants of Johnson's speech.
"…There are those who will betray and manipulate you. We either work together or take the land by force.."
Some guards were positioned nearby. Best to maneuver amongst the shrubs and avoid a bloodbath to protect the Elders. Doing so, Connor crouches, quickly making his way through the shrubs and occasionally behind trees. He tracks Johnson, who stood before a hair circle of seated Elders, listening with stern faces. Analyzing the situation, he deemed it best to assassinate from the air. Therefore, he must reach the back of the building, climb, and dive to Johnson's death from above. He executed the plan with ease, eliminating one more pesky guard, covering his mouth so his cries were unheard. He scaled the building quickly as Johnson's speech came to a close.
"Have I not always been an advocate?" Johnson attempted to guilt the Native Elders, his Scottish accent thick and heavy. "Have I not always sought to protect you from harm?"
"If you wish to protect us, then give us arms. Muskets and horses that we might defend ourselves!" argued the Mohawk Elder, sitting to the far left. He knew very well that guards stood behind his seated form with muskets in hand. The old man was not intimidated, for he spoke with conviction. Let them stand there looking superior…These young men knew nothing about war and peace.
"War is not the answer," reasoned Johnson, his tone soft yet condescending all the same.
The Mohawk Elder stood up from his upon the earth, his stance wide and shoulders squared.
"We remember Stanwix! We remember you moved the borders! Even today, your men dig up the land- showing no regard for those who live upon it."
The old man stepped up closer to Johnson, intimidating the Scottish man with his firm voice and unwavering gaze. Hiding his intimidation, Johnson smirked, his bright green eyes breaking eye contact.
"Your words are honeyed, but false. We are not here to negotiate. Nor to sell. We are here to tell you and yours to leave these lands."
Once the Mohawk Elder has finished his statement, Johnson looked into the old man's sharp, dark eyes once more as he raised his chin up.
"So be it. I offered you an olive branch, and you knocked it from my hand."
Johnson signals with his hand for his men to close in on the Native men with their muskets raised before continuing his words.
"Perhaps you'll respond better to the sword."
Another Native man stands up, his eyes alert at the raised muskets pointing in his and his brethren's direction.
"Are you threatening us?" he says, his fists tight by his sides.
"…Yes," Johnson answers with a dramatic pause.
Glaring from the rooftop, Connor seethed at Johnson's threats. For a millisecond, the Mohawk Elder spotted Connor, careful not to draw attention to the Native assassin. Before Johnson could continue his command for his men to strike the Elders, Connor leaps with widely spread legs from the roof, his blade erect and ready to feel the slick slice of Johnson's pale flesh.
He came down with a heavy "thud," Connor crouching over a fallen Johnson. The guards are alert more than ever, running to corner the Native assassin. Ready for a fight, Connor leaps up into a standing position, flicking out his tomahawk, a weapon best suited for groups to be killed. The bodies blurred as he dug his tomahawk in one neck, into another chest cavity, and against a drawn sword to block an attack. He became so accustomed to battle that his senses were so immensely sharp that he would later on forget that he participated. The experience left his mind quickly, perhaps to ease his heart. The body had to take over in these moments, not the heart.
The Elders were fighting off the guards as best as they could. Noticing that the Mohawk Elder was in a tight spot, he quickly handed him a knife to defend himself. Back to back, young and old, the warriors fought off the remaining guards, pools of bloodshed and greed sopped up by the once lively earth. When all was done, Connor heaved aloud, sheathing his tomahawk. He walked over to Johnson who was still alive.
"Ah no...What have you done?"
"Ensured an end to your schemes," Connor firmly speaks, his downward gaze upon the dying man unforgiving. "You sought to claim these lands for the Templars."
"Aye," sighs Johnson, "..that we might PROTECT them! Do you think that good ol' King George lies awake at night, hoping that no harm comes to his Native subjects? Or that the people of the city care one whit about them? Oh sure, the colonists are happy to trade when they need food or shelter or a bit of extra padding for their armies. But when the walls of the city constrict- when there's crops that need soil- when there's…when there's no more enemy to fight…We'll see how kind the people are then."
"The colonists have no quarrel with the Iroquois," Connor calmly argued, kneeling on one knee next to Johnson's body.
"Not yet," interjects Johnson, coughing blood that stained his pale lips. "But they will. Tis the way of the world. In time, they'll turn. I…I could have stopped it. I could have saved you all…"
"You speak of salvation, but you were killing them."
"Aye, because they would not listen," breathed the dying man, struggling to speak the words. "And, so it seems, neither will you.."
With a roll of his eyes and a gaping mouth, William Johnson's head fell to the ground, his final breath a prolonged sigh rising into the thick air. Connor looks down on the man with hardened eyes, his heart tightening at the sight of blood decorating the man's face and hands. How much of this blood stained Connor's own hands and face? The thought sickened him to his stomach. Rising up to his feet slowly, his eyelids become heavy, feeling pity swelling in his chest.
"May the Faceless One grant you the peace that claimed to seek," ** he bids in Mohawk.
Before he stood up, Connor captured sight of a piece of parchment poking out of Johnson's coat pocket. Narrowing his eyes, he tugs at the parchment and finds that it is a letter addressed to a man named John Pitcairn. Pitcairn...why did that sound familiar to Connor? Having no time to read the letter and pick his brain for a name, Connor sticks it into the inside his white coat before standing up. Bidding the dead man goodbye and good luck in the after life, the Native assassin was met with the eyes of the Mohawk Elder, who returned the blade.
"Thank you for your aid, brother. This man spoke of peace when all he sought after was greed."
"He will not be a bother any longer. Reach sanctuary before more of his men come."
"May the spirits protect you, young one," said the Elder, his expression gratuitous and yet grim over the truth that their lands were sought after. This pursuit would continue, unfortunately.
Connor nodded his respect, bidding good luck in the same fashion. He remained until he saw the Elders break apart and disappear into the forest. Do not let their age fool you. They were far more experienced and able to defend than one presumed. As one aged, however, the need to fight seemed to dissipate. Only when it was deemed necessary that battle was chosen over peace.
The way back down the cliff and across the lake was grueling. The cool water of the lake washed away some of the blood, but the heaviness of Johnson's parting words did not leave him. Shelving the words in his mind, he finally reaches Kanen'tó:kon, who say up erect before lifting himself up to stand.
"Johnson..." Connor breathed aloud, pulling down his hood to wipe away water from his forehead, "..is dead."
Kanen'tó:kon attempts to help Connor stand up, but the stubborn assassin swats away his hands. The stout young man does not take offense. Connor,
Ratonhnhaké:ton, was always one to help himself.
"The blood on your clothes tells me so," smirks Kanen'tó:kon. "Are the Elders safe?"
Connor nods, catching his breath.
"Wonderful. Well done, and thank you, Ratonhnhaké:ton."
As Connor stands up straight, the stout man notices the black rosary hanging down Connor's torso, the silver crucifix having captured his eye. His dark eyes bulge out in unmistakable irritation.
"Why is that around your neck?"
The Native assassin cocks an eyebrow before looking down to see MaryLynn's rosary out in the open against his soaking clothes.
"Oh, this was-"
"Years away from your people, and you convert to the white man's religion? Ratonhnhake:ton, I feared this would occ-"
"Don't you dare question my loyalty to my heritage," Connor interrupts with a deep growl. "Before you interrupted my words with accusations, I was going to say that a friend gave me this necklace as a gesture of her gratitude."
"Her? A white woman? And what if she is seducing into the white ways?"
"This woman helped me on my mission. Never has she asked for anything of me. Kanen'tó:kon, how long have you known me? And you doubt my judgment?"
"I apologize. Can you blame me, though? The Elders have dealt with white missionaries coming to our villages to convert us to another way of spirituality that is not our own, dismissing the fact that we have our own beliefs. They deem us inferior."
"Not all of the colonists are forceful in that manner, my friend. I have met colonists who have actually respected me, and treated me as their own."
"Do they? But for how long? What happens after all of this?"
The stout man sighs deeply, rubbing his eyes. He did not wish to initiate an argument with his oldest friend. It hurt to whip accusations in Connor's face, but Kanen'tó:kon worried over losing his friends to the colonists, the people who attempted to coerce his people into their way of life. He had dealt with the unreasonable bunch, while Connor spoke of another type of people. This only confused Kanen'tó:kon further. And a woman? What was this woman motive? Was she kind? Was she deceiving Connor? The stout man found it difficult to express what he felt, so his words often poured out in a harsh manner. He meant well; let that be known.
The rest of the way back to the village was painfully quiet. Both young men walked at distance from each other, tension between them thick enough to slice with a blade. Once the tall wooden fence of the village came into view, Kanen'tó:kon speaks once more, hoping to ease the tension in his voice.
"The village misses your presence, Ratonhnhaké:ton."
Connor sighs, feeling guilt swell his heart as he listened.
"As do I miss its presence…Its smell, its sounds, its feeling," he admits, his eyes glazing over slightly. "I'm sorry for not visiting as often as I should. This mission is nowhere near complete, and I am restless."
"But you are just one man. With all due respect, my friend, how are you going to change the colonists' situation? Even more important, how are you going to change our people's situation? I fear that sides will be draw and chaos will follow."
"I will do what I can. I will protect whomever I can, no matter their blood. Human beings are human beings."
Kanen'tó:kon bites the inside of his cheek, his thick brows furrowed. He looks away from Connor and up at the skies as if to pray to the spirits to look after his friend and the judgments he made.
"Just be wary of who you deem 'friend' and 'enemy.'"
Connor nods curtly, his lack of contact apparent as well. The heavy conversation had added to the recollection of Johnson's parting words. How did harming people protect them? What sort of thinking was this? To protect the innocent does not involve harming the innocent.
Standing several feet away from the village's entrance, Connor's nostrils widened, smelling fresh elk meat cooking over an open fire.
"Who is cooking the meat? I smell…elk."
"How did you do that?" laughs the stout man, relived to have something positive detract from the serious conversation.
Connor smirked at his friend, crossing his arms. He knew he was always hungry after a grueling day. Kanen'tó:kon's laughter eases as he looks to the young man beside him. Connor returns the gaze.
"Age has made you solemn, my friend. Find what makes you smile," advises the Native assassin.
"What do you speak of? I have just laughed at your impeccable sense of smell."
"I refer to our conversation from just moments ago. Much has happened to dampen your usual cheerful mood."
"I suppose so. You find something to make smile as well. It seems age has saddened you as well."
"It will leave me once everything is over. Then, we will all be at peace. One day, I promise you."
Connor bids his goodbye before leaving Kanen'tó:kon to himself. Walking over to the entrance, the tall wooden fence winding into the internal sanctuary of the village, the stout man looks up to the skies once more.
"What are you telling him?" he mumbles to the ancestors, shaking his head.
Connor returned to the homestead by sundown. Strangely enough, the hunger had wavered, and he no longer wished to eat. He figured that he should have a meal despite his ever-changing hunger.
The stone staircase up to the front door felt as if it were given extra steps to climb. His heavy feet scuffed against the old stone, his shoulders hunched over. Opening the red door, Connor enters the Davenport mansion, his feet continuing to scuff against the floor. Candlelights could be seen alit in Achilles' bedroom. This most likely meant that the master assassin was seated before his rickety desk, writing away in his large leather bound journal.
Connor hoped to walk past his bedroom without the old man addressing him.
"Is Johnson dead?" asked Achilles, not looking up from his scribbling in the journal.
Sighing aloud, the Native assassin grunted a "Yes," and refused to offer any more conversation. The old man knew well enough that his student was still not accustomed to executing assassinations and leaving his heart out of the matter. It was wise not to take the stress of one's profession back home at the end of the day. Still, Achilles left the young man to his thoughts.
Making his way into the kitchen, which was also lit with candlelight, Connor sought after a loaf of bread and hoped that there was some left over stew that Achilles had made earlier. Taking a peak into the black pot, it saw that it was chopped up red potatoes and thick pieces of venison meat. Groaning at the smell, Connor fetched a bowl to scoop up the stew. If the old man was asleep, Connor would have just brought the pot over and ate straight from it! He was much too tired to care. He removed his blood stained white coat, his shoulders popping with the motion, and tossed it aside. His did not bother with his military shirt. His growling stomach protested that it be relieved first.
Easing himself down onto a wooden stool, he settles the hot bowl atop the counter. He leans on his elbows as he fiddles with the spoon to scoop up a hearty portion of potatoes and meat. Halfway finishing with the stew, the Native assassin pulls out the letter he confiscated from Johnson's dead body. Breaking the dried wax seal, he casually unfolds the letter, munching on a potato bit. He nearly choked on his food while skimming through the letter.
John Pitcairn was a Templar instructed to destroy Patriot weapons and supplies so as to disarm them, leaving them defenseless in battle. The colonists would not be able to retain their resistance and, most dreadfully, die in their fight for freedom. Slamming his fist against the counter top, Connor tosses aside the letter in frustration.
This battle was far from over. Where did he even begin to locate John Pitcairn? Or if he even was aware of this order? How much did he know of the Patriots? Connor cursed aloud, banging on the table.
Why was this so hard? Why was this doubt feasting away at his insides more and more each time he eliminated a target? It was a doubt that could not be spoken of or even admitted to until the doubt manifested before his eyes. He felt torn between two worlds. It did not help that his parentage was of both Mohawk and British descent. He understood both groups of people, and wanted to fight for both. It was difficult when both groups quarreled and demanded a one-sided stance. Which was right? Which was wrong? Could he save them?
He pulled out the onyx beaded rosary from his military shirt. MaryLynn. She spoke of all her doubts and frustrations s easily to him. She even seemed relieved once the words left her lips, fading away into the past. If only he could do the same. He longed to tell her of everything that plagued his mind and heart with stress. His doubts. His frustrations. His questioning of his unwavering idealistic views for people to unite. Despite being a ruthless warrior, he was also a man with a bleeding heart. He cared too much.
He sighed aloud, hunched forward in his seat. He hadn't seen the blonde woman in quite some time. With this newfound investigation, he didn't think he would have much time to stop by the Maverick or the Green Dragon Tavern. Furrowing his brows, Connor squeezed the crucifix, wishing he could let her know somehow that he thought about her…he thought about her quite often.
July 1774
"When I fall in love
It will be forever
Or I'll never fall in love
In a restless world like this is
Love is ended before it's begun
And too many moonlight kisses
Seem to cool in the warmth of the sun
When I give my heart
It will be completely
Or I'll never give my heart.
And the moment I can feel that,
You feel that way too,
Is when I fall in love with you.
And the moment I can feel that
You feel that way too,
Is when I fall in love
With you…"
With the deep tones of the piano keys came the scanning of blue eyes over the crowd of men. Yes, they were cheering, but she did not care for them very much. She cared for only one face, which was unseen in the crowd. MaryLynn hadn't seen Connor in weeks. No matter how much she knew of his never-ending missions, she still ached for his presence. A secret part of her wished that he would be in the crowd, waiting for her when the music had died down. No. Just a hopeful wish.
She sighed quietly, a melancholy weight lowering her shoulders and dropping her eyelids. She turns around to face the fireplace, away from peering eyes. Surry noticed a change in MaryLynn's mood. His lips downturned heavily, sorry to see his showmate so sad. He was not sure how to question her on her mood without possibly upsetting her in public. He calls her name, gaining her attention. Her eyes were glazed over, looking back at him but not truly seeing him past the dark mist of sorrow.
Surry offers a sympathetic smile, his dark eyes softening at the woman's expression. She bids a partial smile in return, knowing Surry was concerned about her. She nods, silently saying that she will be alright.
Several minutes passed before a man had approached her, holding what seemed to be a bottle tied with a brown leather ribbon.
"Excuse me, mademoiselle?" he says, his voice a gentle rasp.
"Yes?" she responds in a low tone, finding it harder to keep the mask of the vamp on her face.
"Forgive my intrusion, but I am Stephane Chapheau. Connor sent me to give you this gift."
Her eyes widened at the mentioning of Connor's name.
"C-Connor?" she stutters, her voice soft and higher in tone. "What did he send?"
Stephane humbly presents the bottle, which he informs is the best, most expensive whiskey from his tavern.
"He had told me that you like your liquor strong," chuckles the French cook.
MaryLynn laughs aloud, her eyes crinkling. She gladly accepts the bottle, feeling something tickle her fingers. She turns the bottle around to find a feather, similar to the ones that he stuck in his decorative armbands, stuck in leather ribbon. A sign of him. She smiled warmly as her heart soared.
"How is he?" MaryLynn eagerly inquires, cradling the whiskey bottle in her palms.
"Eehh," sighs Stephane, rubbing his forehead underneath the white rag tied around his head. "Hard at work on an investigation. I apologize, I cannot say any more on the matter."
"I understand. No need for apologies. How did you know who I was?"
"Connor gave me a decrete description. Basically, you are not difficult to notice, and that is a compliment."
"O-oh my," the blonde woman flushes, her palm flat against her hot cheek.
The pair moved over to a quiet corner just after MaryLynn bid Surry goodbye with a kiss on the cheek and a, "See you tomorrow night, honey." Stephane felt bad that he had to leave his tavern (a trusted employee watched over the place) and meet the woman that Connor fancied in such a messy state. He straightened out his apron and stood up tall, hoping to appear more suitable.
"I'm so sorry! I never introduced myself properly. I'm MaryLynn."
"It is no trouble, MaryLynn, really. I should have introduced myself like a gentleman. I am Stephane Chapeau."
The two had shook hands, Stephane eagerly following his gesture with, "I must say, it is nice to put a face to the name."
"He speaks of me?" she says with a husky voice.
The French cook chuckles, shaking his head.
"Yes indeed, mademoiselle. He is not a talker, but he does say that you are a good friend and ally. His manner changes a bit when you are mentioned, though."
"What do you mean?"
"He is not so grincheux,…grumpy."
The blonde woman titters at the adjective.
"He is a restless person," she reasons. "He means well."
"Of course, I am not complaining. He has been in possession of this rosary. It was yours, I understand?"
"Yes," she looks down bashfully, smiling at the memory of embracing Connor's waist in King Chapel's in the golden light of the candles. "He had done something lovely for me, and I wanted to give him my most prized possession to thank him."
"He should thanking you," says the French cook, his smile subtle. "He changes when you are mentioned., as I said before. Whatever it is you do, mademoiselle, keep doing it. It seems to calm Connor down."
"Oh dear, I wish I knew what it was. I just value my time with him very much."
Stephane smiled warmly at the blonde woman's dreamy expression of heavy hooded eyes and flushed cheeks. Aahh…he was once the same way with his wife before she and their child were killed. Time was cruel, but he knew that one day he would reunite with both his love and his child. Clearing his throat before the horrid memories could resurface, Stephane began to say goodbye.
"I hope you enjoy the whiskey, MaryLynn. It is the best I have for sale! Connor must truly be fond of you."
MaryLynn was not sure how to verbalize her emotions. Connor was not one to express himself, but hear these words from someone who worked alongside him…
Butterflies. Butterflies in her stomach. That was all her mind could register of the matter.
"Have a lovely night, Stephane, and thank you."
"You too, MaryLynn. Au revoir."
Watching the French cook leave the tavern, MaryLynn stroked the long neck of the whiskey bottle. Looking down at the gift, she fingered the feather stuck in the leather ribbon. Pulling it out gingerly, she holds the feather before, studying its fibres in the light. She kisses the feather lovingly, sticking it back in the leather ribbon. All the way back to the brothel, she held the whiskey bottle close to her bosom.
"Come back soon, Connor," she whispers, her sadness whisked away ever so slightly.
**: According to the Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) perspective on life and death the FaceLess One is known as the "destroyer who brings death. It is the Faceless One who takes away a dying person's final breath. The Life Force, or soul, leaves the body and embarks on a Sky Journey. The goal of the Sky Journey to reach the source of creation, the Sky World. However, not every Life Force is ready to accept that their physical body is dead, so the Life Force may linger for a few days. Ceremonial practices are held to guide the Life Force onto their Sky Journey and leave their physical bodies behind. Please note that not all Native American tribes withhold the same exact beliefs on life and death. Each tribe is different in their own way. This is actually very similar to the Ancient Egyptian perspective on death, in which a deceased person's soul must journey in the afterlife in order to reach a dimension of complete bliss and eternity (judgment on the person's life plays a huge part in this). For more information on how the Iroquois/Haudenosaunee viewed life and death, please refer to Dianne M. Longboat's article, Indigenous Perspective on Life and Death. She also provides modern Iroquois/Haudenosaunee beliefs on life and death.
So, basically Connor was bidding William Johnson good luck on his journey back to the Sky World when he said in the game, "May the Faceless One grant you.."
Author's Note: Hello everyone. Thank you so much for patience. As I've said, work takes up my time. I am overjoyed to hear that you are enjoying this story. I appreciate it greatly, even if my updates are rather slower. The next chapter will take time as I'm debating on adding a visit or two from Connor before he participates in the Battle of Lexington & Concord and the Battle of Bunker Hill. I want to portray the war scene as best as I can.
Off I go. Hope you enjoyed this Connor-centered chapter. I want to show his doubts and frustrations, which I felt were not exploited enough in the game. I want you to feel like you can understand Connor and where he is coming from. MaryLynn will take the spotlight back, no worries, ha ha! ;D However, I want them both to have their own spotlights from time to time.
Thank you again, and bless you.
~take care