This ain't no place for no hero.
This ain't no place for no better man.
This ain't no place for no hero
To call "home."
-Short Change Hero, The Heavy
Exhaustedly hauling himself out of the frigid, churning water, Thomas collapsed to his hands and knees on the frozen shore. His body shook with effort to expel everything as he hacked and coughed up mouthfuls of icy liquid. At least the river wasn't particularly filthy. Well, he hoped so, considering how much of it he felt as though he'd just swallowed. With a painful groan, he exhaustedly rolled to his back. Ignoring the muddy bank he lay upon, he swiftly ran his hands along himself, taking inventory. Save losing his tricorne, everything appeared in order. No broken bones or serious injuries, thank bloody hell. His baldric and weapons were intact as well.
Fuck, it was freezing.
In spite of his best efforts, he shivered nearly uncontrollably. Laboring to focus on the sight of the dark, silvery branches of the trees hovering above, he found himself rapidly blinking. In spite of the lingering moonlight, his vision seemed strangely dimmer than usual. His clothes were also already beginning to harden along his skin due to slightly freezing. Well, that sure in the fuck wouldn't do; if he didn't find shelter within an hour or so, things would go south pretty damn soon.
He struggled to collect himself, gasping for breath. Slowly making his way to his feet, he stumbled and almost crashed back down into the snow. Hands flailing and scrambling for purchase against a tree trunk, his fingers clutched at the bark. "Fuckin' assassin," he muttered, throat aching with effort. Where in the hell was she?! He knew she hit the water a little ways after him. Seeing how she so god-damned readily shoved him off the cliff, he could only assume she could swim.
It took a while, but he was finally able to get his legs moving. Beginning to wander the shore, his gaze swept the area, searching. "Connor?" he stammered, lips twitching into a grimace. "The fuck is ya at?" he swallowed, voice raw and throat itching. Momentarily closing his eyes again, he slapped himself on the cheek to regain his focus. Scanning around, he finally picked out a fresh set of footprints in the snow. The undergrowth still sparse along the shore, her trail proved unexpectedly easy to discern. Strangely, she hadn't bothered to cover her tracks. They led parallel to the river and then slightly to the left into the forest, which was eerily still and devoid of sound.
Then again, stumbling upon her sprawled out on her side along the snowy ground certainly explained why.
"Holy fuckin' Christ!" Hickey shakily snapped. His breath white and misty in the cold, he snorted, "The bloody hell ya think ya doin', girlie?!" Gingerly toeing at her leg, he jumped back when she suddenly she reeled back her heel at him.
"I would appreciate if you would refrain from kicking me," she tiredly chided. Her side heaved as she took a deep, guzzling breath.
"Makin' sure ya ain't dead," he sniped.
Save waving him off, she made no reply. Running a hand up and down her arm, no doubt to warm up, she slowly rolled over to her back. Her eyes slid closed as she let out another ragged sigh. Like him, her clothes were soaked. Nevertheless she'd managed to divest herself of her weapons, long coat and waistcoat, which sat in a jumbled pile next to her. Were his teeth not chattering and his hands and face swiftly numbing, he would've appreciated how her wet tunic clung to her torso. Especially the clearly visible view of her bodice and chemise beneath it. There also came his bizarre relief at hearing her sound her usual nonchalant self. Well, save her gulp and stuttering hiss as she slowly moved to feet. Nonetheless, outside of steadying herself against a tree for a few seconds, she slipped into her typically silent, predatory gait.
Looking across the river and not finding any of the redcoats after them, she shrugged, "We have survived, so it seems."
His swimming vision caused his irritability to dance dangerously close to all out wrath. So he settled for growling, "Ya be a right bastard, Connor!"
In spite of her paler complexion from her time in the river, she briskly pointed at the cliff behind him, "Would you rather be shot through instead of taking the fall?"
"Fuck to the no! But-"
"So what do you propose I should have done otherwise?" she scoffed.
"Bullocks!" he threw a hand up in the air, "I don't bloody know! Go murder 'em like ya always be apt to go doin'?!"
"As I previously relayed," she gestured for him to follow her up the bank, "The ground was too soft and I had no time to ambush them from the trees as an alternative."
Too exhausted to do anything but shoot her a malicious look of reproach, he furiously trailed behind in her tracks. He barely acknowledged her as she commanded him to stay behind while she circled back for their horses and supplies. In fact, he settled for sliding down to sit haphazardly on a large boulder while she muttered instructions for him to remain in place.
When looking back at it, Connor realized that his lack of insult or threat to abandon her was a rather strong indication that Hickey was quickly losing his wits. Mostly due to his extended exposure to the cold. A pity, as it would've saved her further trouble on their strange little journey.
Sneaking the horses out of the stable back at the tavern didn't prove particularly difficult. Not when Connor bribed the stable boy to keep quiet. All in all, it took her about an hour or so to ride back to the shore of the river with both their mounts. Mostly on account of having to find a way their side of the river bank that didn't involve taking a second plunge over the cliff.
Of course, Hickey was nowhere to be found.
Her initial reaction was to curse him for giving her the slip. But it quickly occurred to her that it would make no sense for him to break their alliance at this point. Not at the very least without his supplies and a decent mount. So she allowed her vision to slip to grey. Her instincts taking over in tracking him, the shimmering gold lines of his trail nearly blinded her. Which could only mean she had to calm herself or else her strange gift would overwhelm her. Taking a series of deep breaths, she shook her head to clear it. Ah, there it was; his ghostly image haphazardly stumbling forward, she swiftly traced his route deeper into the forest.
Confused when the trail ended at a bunch of dead shrubbery, she dismounted. Pulling them back revealed a small opening to a cave. Thankfully, the dark didn't pose much of a problem due to her second sight. But judging by the increasingly bright flicker of dim light bouncing off the stone walls, someone was already here. Likely built a fire as well. Silently nocking an arrow to her bow, she looked around and once again focused on Hickey's trail. It returned, though her stomach clenched in spite of herself at the image of him barely able to keep to his feet.
She admittedly wasn't surprised to see his crumpled form splayed out on the dirt of the cave floor. Frankly, she assumed he'd finished a few flasks of liquor and passed out. Yet the sluggish, erratic pounding of his heartbeat echoing in her ears due to her heightened senses sent her reeling. Something was certainly amiss.
"Hickey!" she hissed, racing over to him and dropping to her knees. He was face down, though thankfully not completely in the dirt and smothering to death. "Hickey?!" she snapped again as she shoved and rolled him over to his back. Ignoring her rising dismay, she clinically took in how he proved deathly pale. In spite of that, the rhythm of his heart continued weakly fluttering in her ears. A good sign he wasn't wholly dead, yet he was most assuredly in danger of slipping away. Judging by the way his eyes were half open and unable to focus on anything. His fingertips were also starting to turn blue, as were the edges of his ears and down along his neck.
The upside of it all was that he was at least able to get a sizable fire going within the cave before he collapsed. Going so far as to light it within a surprisingly neat circle of stones, it would save her time in attempting to bring him back to full health. The bad news was that he was a solid twenty feet or so away from it. Judging by his babbled muttering about the cold, he was likely attempting to burrow into the dirt for warmth. A common side effect of people in the later stages of freezing sickness. With no other option to ensure his survival, she'd have to strip him out of his wet clothes and bundle up with him.
By the gods, this mission was getting more and more absurd.
Cursing in her native language, it took Connor a hell of a lot longer than she liked to drag Hickey's dead weight to the edge of the fire. Even longer to arrange him on pair of blankets that sat on the floor of his tent she swiftly set up. Converting her native modes of measurement in her head, she determined he had to weigh around eleven stone or so. Clocking in at approximately 185 centimeters, he wasn't exactly short either. In other words, he was a heavy oaf. To make matters worse, he was increasingly dangerously cold to the touch. Nor did he respond when she thumped him on his chest, save a slight shift of his eyelids. Completely passed out and sickly pale, even more of his skin was gradually tinging blue from exposure. So time was of the essence in divesting him of his damp, half-frozen clothes.
Connor always found the colonists' aversion to existing in various states of undress and showing skin amusing. Within her culture, especially during the younger days of her grandmother, the men and women went about topless during the humid days of summer. Admittedly, within her lifetime, many of the villagers adopted some of the colonists' style of dress through trade. Conversely, they thankfully had not taken to the colonists' strange sense of shame at showing skin. Particularly in regards to its necessity to healing. She also wasn't fully aware of the layers of livery the colonists insisted on wearing.
Stripping Hockey of his navy frock coat, beneath it came the matching navy Continentals coat trimmed in crimson and gold buttons. His white waistcoat proved the second phase. Next came a dark blue knitted scarf and the black cravat about his throat. Then, his ruffled tunic. Maneuvering him out his boots and tan breeches was an exercise in patience a well. However, she paused when divested him of him of his double layer of undertunics.
His form appeared surprisingly lean and lightly muscled. Likely, all those years of soldiering kept him from exploding in girth from his constant drinking. He also bore a litany of various old scars. The tell-tale, round wound from a musket ball just below is right clavicle. A long, silvery, diagonal slice across his upper abdomen. The deep but neatly stitched dagger or bayonet welt located horizontally along his left bicep. The healed slash of the dagger she'd hurled into his right shoulder when she escaped the gallows some months ago. But it was the inked markings along his skin that immediately seized her attention.
Tattooed on his left pectoral and right along his heart, there lay a large green, four-leafed clover. Above it in archaic script read, "Fe Mhoid Bheith Saor." It certainly wasn't in English, so she had no idea what it could possibly mean. Written beneath the clover in the same script lay the word, "Dempsey." Wrapped along his right side and below his ribs in black ink was a list of names, two by two and four lines long. "Abigail & Peter" were first, followed by, "Darcey," "Meryl," "Siobhan," "Caitlyn," "Aidan," and "Eamon." A stylized, Celtic cross covered his right deltoid above his bicep. Just below his inner elbow on his left forearm, also in black, was handsomely rendered flintlock pistol crossed with a sabre. Both weapons were inked above a crown of England, which Connor recognized from various British regimental colors. She found her fingertips tentatively tracing the four-leafed clover. Yet when he shifted a bit, garbled words escaping his blue-tinged lips, she swiftly realized her distraction was wasting precious time.
She immediately made easy work of yanking off his woolen stockings, followed by his long johns. Now, he was left in his small clothes as she tossed a couple of blankets and a bearskin over him. Connor then quickly shed her own clothes, for they were wet as well. Left in her small clothes and chemise, she laid out all of their livery along the rocks to dry. Stoking the fire, she ensured its flames licked upward as high as possible. While she was sweating, she knew Hickey needed the environment to maximize warmth. Unbraiding her hair, save the plaited section at her left ear, she efficiently combed it out before sitting by the fire to let it dry, along with what she was left wearing. For if she remained wet, she too would come down with a fever.
After a while, she finally felt dry enough. Letting out a deep sigh, she looked over her shoulder to take him in. He'd fallen into a fitful, twitchy sleep, his breathing ominously shallow. Shaking her head to clear it, she steeled herself to action. After all, she was a woman of her word and it would not do if he died in circumstances within her control.
"Thomas?" she pointedly whispered, cautiously sliding into the blankets next to him and making sure the tent flaps were tied back to let in the heat of the fire. She knew she could defend herself despite the close quarters. At the same time, she doubted he would attempt assault, even if he was fully conscious. Regardless, the proximity still set her on edge.
Mouth pressed into a thin line of determination, she tentatively dropped her arms to him. Resolutely intertwining her legs with his to maximize his contact with a warm body, she swallowed as she tucked her head into the space between his shoulder and neck. He suddenly jerked and groaned at her actions, breath ragged as he still shivered. Startled and pulling back, she regrouped when he made no attempt to paw at her. Pressing her ear to his chest, she was relieved to hear his heartbeat wasn't quite as erratic. And his skin was already slowly returning back to pale. Her hand to his forehead reinforced that he hadn't come down with a fever. At least not yet.
"Thomas!" she repeated, slightly slapping him. A second one sent him jerking awake. His glossy, hazel gaze slitted with discomfort, he searched her face with confusion. Furrowing his brows, he met her dark gaze with disbelief as she repositioned her arms around his torso.
"'S hurts!" he hoarsely whispered, pressing his nose into her neck while he hunched himself closer to her.
She abruptly jolted her shoulder away from the unexpected contact of his slightly parted mouth on her skin. Then again, she immediately realized he meant no harm as he restlessly sighed against her. "What hurts?" she cleared her throat in question.
"Ev'ry fuckin' thing!" he slurred. Crossing his arms tighter against his chest, he heaved, "Bloody freezin'-'"
"You will remedy yourself within some hours," she emphatically retorted.
"Ya gonna kill me," he stiffened, feebly pushing himself away from her embrace. "Ya don't be likin' no proximity," he weakly argued.
"To the contrary, not if it results in your death," she locked her arms around him again. Normally, one of his size could easily break her hold, but not in this instance. All he did was erratically nod in disagreement. "Sleep," she brittly ordered, struggling to ignore how naturally her body fit flush against his.
"Fine," he groggily huffed, "Have it be ya way."
Neither of them said another word as sleep overtook them both.
Thomas suddenly jerked awake to the feel of something warm, secure and oddly enough, soft pressed all up against him. The second thing he noticed was the earthy smell of dirt, grass and a tinge of sweat. Even more peculiar was that it was mingled with some alluringly spicy scent. Like soap, except not all girly and coy. Taking a deep breath, he let it sweep over him for a moment before opening his eyes.
"Shit, shit, shit!" he hissed, freezing at finding Connor sleeping flush against him. To make matters worse, her arms were clutched around his torso, as his were around her. That whiff of apparent loveliness from before? Well, that turned out to be coming from where his nose was buried in her hair. On top of that, he was in naught but his small clothes for some inexplicable reason. While she was in a thin chemise, thank god she wore small clothes beneath it. It at least left something to the imagination. Yet her legs were intertwined with his. That and the feel of her tits pushed up against his chest was starting give him some rather…carnal reactions.
Well, wasn't this fan-fuckin'-tastic? Likely, she was going to murder ever-living the shit out of him once she awoke to his usual morning hardness all shoved up against her.
"You took a chill in the river some hours ago," her mouth drowsily moved against his skin along his clavicle, her eyes still closed. "Our combined body heat should ensure it does not move into a fever. Or worse."
He despised the way her warm breath inexplicably caused goose bumps to suddenly break out along his arms. Or how she could surely hear his heart starting to pound in is chest from her position. Not to mention, the firm feel of her back shifting and pulling as she stretched a bit. Yeah, he had to get the fuck out of here.
"I gotta take a piss," he snarled.
"Be off with you then," she brusquely shoved him away before rolling over to her other side and burrowing deeper under the bearskin.
"Gladly," he snapped right back. She didn't reply as he crawled out of his tent.
Letting out a curse as his bare feet hit the nearly frozen ground beyond the campfire, he quickly yanked on his boots before marching out of the cave and relieving himself. It was still dark out, not a lick of sun peaking over the horizon. Still, it didn't occur to him until he returned to the cave that staying outside his tent wasn't an option. Not when he was this exhausted and it was this freezing. Running his hands up and down his arms in a vain attempt to stave off the cold, he muttered in annoyance as he glanced around to determine his options.
"I need you alive and not to freeze to death," she called out, voice muffled from within the tent, "And you cannot do that out there."
"What, the she-wolf ain't afraid I'll be takin' advantage of 'er?" he taunted, now hopping around in frustrated little circles to keep his circulation up.
Her reply seemed to take forever before she slowly said, "You have had plenty of opportunity to do so in the past." That you did not do it in Bridewell is all I need to know, was left unspoken. "Additionally, I believe you are well aware of what will happen should you allow your senses to take leave of you."
"Yeah, yeah," he groused, "You'll knob off me balls and feed 'em to me 'afore you slice me wide open with them blasted wrist blades 'o yours."
"Something rather close to that," she retorted.
"Bloody Christ," he rolled his eyes.
Since when in the hell had he ever feared some mouthy 'lil git? Since she almost snapped your neck and choked you out all by her lonesome back in prison, his mind reeled, And since she's almost killed you a handful of times. Well, he wasn't afraid of her, per say. More along the lines of finding himself having to remain relentlessly aware of her tendencies to act first and think later. Not to mention, her lack of predictability forced him to stay on his toes more often than not. At least it kept things fresh and peculiarly thrilling, in a macabre sort of way. That comely face and her lithe form surely didn't hurt either.
His tent was small and bordering on claustrophobic. Meant for only one, its canvas walls seemed to close in on him when he crawled back into it. But it was exceedingly warm in spite of the dying embers of the fire pit outside. "Hurry up, you are letting the warmth out," she yawned, looking up at him through tired, half-lidded eyes as he carefully maneuvered next to her. Why in the hell did feel like a boy at his first bedding as she flicked back the furred covers and nodded for him to slide back under it? Seeing his quizzical look, she shrugged, "I cannot afford to lose time in caring for an invalid if we are to track the Hessian all the way back to Boston."
"Oh, thanks ever so much for ya concern, mate," he mocked, rolling over to his side so that his back was to her. "And what the bloody hell happened to ya stupid 'Don't go touching Connor or she'll slice me balls off' rule and wot not?" he groused.
"You are of no value to me dead."
He couldn't indeed argue with that. Still…"Ya know, poppet, a 'lil finesse would do ya some good once in a while, eh?"
"I prefer veracity to your usual lies," she snit, even as she pulled up the blankets and skin over him. "Now go to sleep. There are three hours until the sun will rise and we must be on our way."
He stiffened at feeling her back press against his as she readjusted herself. Unable to nod off until he could hear her breathing slow, Thomas finally allowed sleep to settle over him.
When Connor groggily stirred awake with her back nestled against his chest and her head pressed into his shoulder, her first reaction was to burrow deeper into his warmth. Her second was to stretch a bit to get more comfortable. It was only her third reaction that caused her to clutch at her sheathed dagger at her side and easily within reach. Yet the pattern of his breathing didn't change as she froze. In fact, it was slow, steady and pleasantly tickling her neck. Odd, she had very little inclination to shove his arm from around where it rested along her ribs.
For now, she would blame it on the need to remain warm. That had to be the only explanation, versus any sort of comforting familiarity. Relaxing slightly, Connor drew her hand from her side and sniffed at the air. Judging by the lack of its frostiness, it was around an hour before sunrise-
"For fuck's sake, woman, go back to sleep!" Hickey abruptly muttered in exasperation.
His voice raspy and breath hot against her ear, she was annoyed at how he'd startled her out of her thoughts. No doubt he felt her tense up a bit. Letting out a loud snort, she hissed, "Perhaps you should follow your own advice?"
"I was! 'Til all of ya movin' about woke me the hell up again," he carped. Without another word, he tucked in the blankets around them, effectively cocooning them closer. As he dropped his chin back to her shoulder, he ran a quick hand up and down her waist. Almost as though soothing her back to sleep. After a few moments, his breathing slowed, signaling he'd drifted off.
Too tired to think any further on their proximity, Connor soon found herself slipping back into sleep. It'd been quite a long night, after all.
When Hickey awoke again, the sun was up and it was finally morning. The tent was empty too, as was the cave. He admittedly didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
Yawning and stretching, he left the cave to find Connor already dressed and prepping her mare. However, she'd stoked a fire outside and some sort of meat was roasting on a spit over it. God-damn, if it didn't smell delicious. It was then he realized he was starving. "It will be done in a half-hour or so," she said, her back still to him. "Your clothes are dry by now," she pointed to where there were neatly folded on a large, flat rock, right next to the fire. He would've complained that they were in danger of being burnt to a crisp. But as he dropped a hand on them, he could appreciate how they were nice and warm to the touch.
"Huh," he simpered, "Well 'en, would ya look at that? Thanks-"
"You should head down to the river and clean up," she interrupted him from where she was leaning down and checking the hooves of her mare, ensuring no slipped horseshoes. "We need to get on the road soon if we expect to make any progress. Especially considering you have already slowed us down."
He was about to reel off an insult until he realized that she'd likely ignore him. Rolling his eyes, he pulled on his boots, grabbed his clothes and headed down to the river.
Wrinkling her nose at how her stare inexplicably traced along the solid lines of his back as he retreated, Connor found herself letting out a deep sigh of relief as he left.
He was such an exasperating, irksome, arrogant, lecherous lout, just to name a few of his overarching qualities. His tastes were base and boorish. He mocked her at nearly every turn. He cared for nothing outside of women, money and alcohol. He freely confessed he only joined the Templars for the pounds that lined his pockets. When she just about killed him back at the gallows in New York, he was ready to pass from this world with nary a regret. He constantly undressed her with his eyes. And he had no qualms about thieving and smuggling for the sake of monetary gain.
So she despised that the longer they worked together, the less cause she had to expect his knife in her back.
He had plenty of opportunities to kill her, yet he had not done so. He also had numerous occasions to let her get killed during their undertaking. Yet he'd shoved her out of the way or gave her ample warning to an approaching enemy. While he tossed out endless lewd remarks, he'd never made any move to physically engage her. At least not beyond the colonists' cultural need to be so frustratingly tactile. He had no respect for anyone putting any sort of airs. He refused to give a damn about one's birthright or social class. He always valued talent and skill over empty promises of such. While he appeared utterly indolent, he put in solid work while on their missions, whether it came to gathering intelligence or fighting just as brutally as she. In spite of his coarse language, he certainly wasn't lacking in intelligence. He couldn't be, considering he ran one of the largest black market operations in the colonies and contained so many contacts.
Overall, such a dichotomy left her perpetually bewildered and perturbed.
She also hated the fact that she wasn't blind. He wasn't a bad looking sort, unfortunately. His bright, hazel eyes, straight nose and strong jawline could be appealing. That startlingly tall and well-honed form was impossible to miss as well. All lightly carved, hard muscle beneath warm, flushed skin, as she discovered last night. His accent bore a tantalizing draw, his voice rough and lacking any sort of pretension. As loath as she was to admit it, she could see how one could find him…physically engaging.
By the gods, if she wasn't vigilant, she could only imagine various and rather awkward situations she could fall into regarding Hickey getting under her skin. She certainly could not afford any mistakes in misplacing her trust with him. Or to be colored by any sort of distraction. That would not do at all.
"Thomas," she steadily called out, interrupted from her wandering thoughts at hearing his lumbering approach behind her, "I take it you are ready to depart?"
"Well, would ya look at that?" he snickered, purposely moving into her line of sight to her right. By now, he was washed and freshly dressed.
"Look at what?" she firmly asked, shoulders stiffening.
"Nothin'," he smirked, eyes sparkling, "Just, I think that be the first time ya bothered callin' me by me first name." Not granting him a reply and worrying her lip her lower teeth, she preoccupied herself with checking the straps of her saddle one last time. "Oh, and how in the hell do ya go abouts doin' that?" he waved all around her.
"Of what do you speak?" she retorted, her back still to him.
"Hear me a comin'," he shrugged, wolfing down his breakfast now, "Without seein' me a comin'. I ain't never able to get the drop on ya."
"I cannot help it if you colonists are of so heavy foot," she replied, briefly taking him in over her shoulder. Her gaze flicked over him in detached consideration. Arching a brow at her aloof expression, Thomas nodded for her to continue. "Besides, if I allow my attention to falter, it could result in my death," she slowly added, "Or worse."
"Hmph," Thomas nodded, "It must be a hell of a lot 'o fun to always be livin' in fear of someone lookin' to slit yer throat at every turn," he sarcastically said.
Letting out a deep sigh, she spun on her heel and watched as he put out the fire and scattered the ashes. "Such is my duty to something vaster than myself."
"But can ya take that to the bank 'o cash it out?" he asked. Shockingly, it wasn't said with his scorn as he'd done last time, when she hunted him down at her would-be execution. Rather, with real question as he swiftly saddled his mount.
"There prove far more significant concerns than money. Or power. Or influence. Or even one's own life, at least when aiming to protect the greater good," she quietly retorted. "I…" I do not expect a flagrant opportunist such as you or your ilk to ever comprehend such, she was about to doggedly continue as she mounted her mare. But she bit her tongue at his mystified expression when his attention settled on her. "I live by that convention, simply leading others who choose to believe in it," she continued instead. "Yet we do not force our beliefs on those who choose their own path."
"Until your 'lil Brotherhood goes slayin' anyone who refuses to fall in line with ya?" he bitterly replied, snatching up the last of his encampment, "Men like William Johnson, eh?"
It would not occur to her until years later that he accused the Brotherhood rather than her directly for the man's death. Nor that she never explicitly told him that she was the one who committed the act.
She sniffed in disagreement, thoroughly unmoved. "Johnson attempted to cheat the Iroquois Confederacy out of its rightful land," she sniped. "Then again," her nostrils flared with contempt, "I do not expect a colonist to comprehend how poorly the Six Tribes faired at the Treaty of Fort Stanwix. Which, may I remind you, Johnson took it upon himself to contrive."
"I don't be needin' no lectures from you, girl," Hickey shot back, face awash with derision, "I was there in any case, as 'ole Willie's right hand."
"So do not make me rethink sparing your life back in New York, then," she sneered, reining in her mare, "For you are just as guilty as he."
"You troublesome 'lil chit!" he snapped, eyes blazing with reproach as he mounted his horse, "Willie was tryin' to save your lot 'specially!"
"Then he should have given us the means to defend ourselves against incursions!" she snarled. "Are those not the same rights that you colonists demanded of the British? Is that not why you find yourselves at war to protect your land and loved ones? Yet you refuse to lend us the same freedoms?!"
Hickey clenched his fists around his reins as he spurred his horse to a trot. "I ain't gonna waste my breath askin' if ya ever been in a war, as you seem to be doin' just fine murdering folks left 'n right," he grit his teeth, mouth twisted into an ugly scowl.
"Your hypocrisy knows no bounds, Hickey," she declared with rising animosity, "For you certainly bear no qualms with my abilities when it suits your motivations."
"That be 'cause I at least take the time to go plannin' on how to use 'em," he accused. "You, on the other hand? You just go chargin' in, never botherin' to ask no questions. Or come to any sort 'o conclusion on the best way to go 'bout makin' sure ya ain't gettin' no one else caught in your crossfire."
"My actions ensure the liberty of choice and justice for the many!"
"Even if folks outside 'o our 'lil warring clubs be generally ignorant sorts?" he taunted.
"It proves better than control and repression!" she rebuked.
"No matter if a bunch more go dyin' 'cause 'o it?" he icily declared. "Look here, I doubt ya ever been privy to watching a woman weep for her husband 'o son lost in a battle. Ya ain't never stuck around long 'nough after ya shot a man through his throat to see him choke on his own blood in a sorry attempt to beg for his life. Or seen him cryin' out to his mother for a quick death after ya go eviceratin' him with those fancy blades 'o yours," he condemned. "Nope, ya just go 'n slaughter 'n rampage as ya fuckin' please-"
"Do not accuse me of such merciless disdain! Nor should you ever presume to know anything of what I must undertake," she barked, pointing an accusing finger at him, her face darkening with barely contained wrath. Eyes slit to dangerous black, she ground out, "You dare spew your tirades against me? You, who are so proudly feckless and smug in your existence?"
"Hey now!" he sharply warned, "Ya best be watchin' yer mouth, girlie-!"
"You who are driven by naught but greed and self-indulgence?" she brazenly plunged on, spinning about in her saddle and ignoring his sneer as she turned her back on him. "Unlike you, I never forget their faces. Nor do I ever take my burdens lightly. I only execute my duties to save those who cannot save themselves."
"At least I ain't blinded by life's impossibilities. And I sure in the hell ain't vainly fightin' against people's natural want to go screwin' over each other," he disparaged. "What, with yer diatribes 'bout freedom, 'n choice, 'n lettin' the world discover its own truth-"
"It is better than aiming to control and crush anyone underfoot who prefers to use their own intelligence to live out their lives!" she curled her lip in warning, now trotting beside him.
"And what of the sorts who ain't got the power 'o the means to make they own way? Don't they need protectin'?" he demanded, cheeks beginning to flush. "Willie was tryin' to avoid a war with your people and all that noble sort 'o crap. For the sake of his pretty 'lil wife, Ms. Molly, who be of your tribe. For the sake of his children with her, who the colonists ain't never gonna accept as they own. If only so they don't go dyin' in the comin' battle between me kind and the natives! Or do ya even bother to give two shits 'bout them sorts?"
"All we wish is to be left alone!" she scowled. "Yet, you colonists infringe. You attempt to cajole us into trusting you, with your honeyed words and promises that all shall be well should we cede to you our livelihoods and reject our way of life," she spat. "My aims will lead my people on their own path to protection and their continued self-realization."
"Oh-ho, sure it will. 'Til someone more powerful comes along and sends you lot into ruin." he snorted.
"And so we end his life," she snapped.
"Until the next mad man comes 'long and takes 'is place?" Hickey jeered.
"No, until the people find their own way!" she sent him a withering look.
"So how does that be goin' with you 'n yours so far?" he gave a mirthless chortle, to which she let out a low growl. "Oh, you can go 'n shoot daggers at me with yer eyes all ya want, sweetheart," he led his horse to road, Connor following, "But it be truth. Sure, I ain't personally never had no problems with the tribes, as they ain't hurt me none. But their days be numbered, ya mark me words."
"How dare you!" she seethed.
"Hey now, 'afore you go stickin' one of yer blades in me back," he glanced behind himself to find her fuming in her saddle. Hunched down, her mouth was pressed into a thin line of repressed rage. "Just let me go explainin' me self, yeah? All I'm sayin' is the tribes won't be 'round for long, though not because us colonist be supposedly superior. Frankly, we ain't shit, to tell ya the truth. Why? 'Cause we, like all people, be greedy 'lil sons 'o bitches. It be pretty plain 'n simple."
"If only we all contained your resolute confidence in our fellow man," she sarcastically quipped.
"If only ya could admit that people don't never 'ave their fellow man's best interests at heart," he rejoined. "Wot? Ya think I don't wish the world be all rainbows 'n kittens? Except I learned real young 'n real quick that most certainly ain't the case. Once the colonists get a taste for fresh land they can farm and all these pretty 'lil trees they can cut down and sell to the highest bidder," he waved to the forest surrounding them, "They'll go doin' everything in they power to go 'n get it. Ya wanna know why, Connor?"
"Why, Hickey?" she clenched.
"'Cause people be right evil bastards, that be why," he declared with simpering aplomb. "They be selfish 'lil gits who'll stop at nothin' to get a leg up on their neighbor. It's a god-damned shame, but history be showin' it always be the truth."
She gripped the reins of her mare so tightly, she was sure her knuckles were beginning to turn white beneath her gloves. Her heartbeat roaring in her ears, it took far too much of her will to calm herself at his caustic words. So she settled for insult. "As though you know a thing about my people and their plight," she jeered, "You, who are born of the conquerors who have tried time and time again to steal that which does not belong to you."
He let out a jarring laugh at that, even as he held up a hand of surrender. "Don't go lookin' to choke me out, woman," he quickly said, "I just be a 'lil taken aback that you think your kind be the only ones who've gotten run into the ground by those that got all the power 'n prestige. It's obvious you be forgettin' where I come from."
"I doubt I bothered to ask," she heatedly countered, "Save your feverish musings mutterings of Ireland deep into last night."
"That place ov'er the sea ain't exactly the safest haven," he grunted. "Like your people, we be privy to the bloody English's whims. To them, we ain't no better than a colony to their rich landlords. And before ya go asking, it's been like that for well over a couple 'o hundred years," he swallowed, looking away from her for a moment. "Fuckin' English ain't got no qualms 'bout starving us out 'o house 'n home. Nor of usin' our men for labor, our women for their bed sport and our children for servants."
Furrowing her brow, she clapped her mouth shut. Surely, he could not be serious? "But you do not speak as the ones who come from there." She'd always found Duncan's soft burr comforting. Dobby's proved slightly different but just as fascinating. For despite being born in New York, she retained the speech of her parents and their origins from the so-called Emerald Isle. She'd also heard other colonists who spoke in a similar fashion. "In fact," she continued, "You sound more akin to those from England and its great city of London."
He guffawed at that, retorting, "That be 'cause me parents moved me family to its slums when I had but six or so years to me. Even went so far as changin' our surname when we left home. Hence, I be speakin' like a right proper English bloke. Gotta name like one of 'em too, now."
Brows shooting up to her forehead in surprise, she asked, "So you are more English than Irish-"
"No," he swiftly corrected, pointing a finger at her. "In grand 'ole England, the Irish be hated. That be why I appear more English than Irish, girl, as it be servin' me purposes. Then again, no matter how much ya try 'n dress it up, a man's blood always runs from his homeland. Which is why no one important knows of my true heritage, at least not here in the colonies. Let's just say that it be safer that way."
"But to deny your very essence-"
"Naw, I ain't denying shit," he cut her off, face twisting into a grimace, "People just don't ask 'n only be assumin', 'tis all. Like how if they don't be lookin' at you close 'nough, they assume you be of some far off land. Like Spain 'o Italy 'o some other place that be breedin' black-haired, dark eyed, olive skinned beauties."
Staring off into the distance for a long moment, Connor muttered, "Long ago, Achil…someone told me that I should disguise myself in such a way. I did not believe him when he relayed that ordinary people are not so forgiving of those of the tribes."
Gawking at her for a moment, Thomas couldn't miss her forlorn expression. Without thinking, he reached out and ran a quick hand along her horse's mane, scratching under the mare's chin. Remarkably, she did not spur her mount away him. Nor did she gripe out a warning at his proximity. "He be right, for better 'o worse," he shrugged, withdrawing, "People be soddin' arseholes."
"Apparently," Connor quietly replied.
Her blood seemed to slowly cool its boiling wrath as she mused on his words. While he was utterly wrong in his estimation of society, she was unaware of his heritage. Making a mental note ask Achilles, and perhaps even Duncan and Dobby of what they knew of Ireland and its people's apparent troubles, she occupied herself with her thoughts for a while.
After a couple of miles of traveling in silence, Thomas looked back at his companion. Taking in that she now sat up a bit straighter and her expression wasn't quite so vicious, he softly began, "Ya know what, darlin'? In the end, I be similar to you."
"Whatever you wish to think," she arched a brow of disbelief, shooting him a dubious, sideways glance.
He gave a lopsided grin at her scoff of disagreement. "Just look at you, poppet! What, with your soldier clothes, 'n ya high falutin' English, 'n your British name of 'Connor.' A name which any idiot with a lick 'o sense knows can't possibly be ya true one. Don't go gettin' ya knickers in a twist," he raised a hand at her wary expression, "It ain't like I'm gonna go screamin' 'bout that from the rooftops."
"As though anyone would believe the likes of you," she retorted, though her expression slid back its usual one of detachment.
"Anyways," he rolled his eyes for a moment, "Like me, you've had to go splittin' yer self in two to go movin' about them that 'as the power. And like me, I doubt you ever gonna forget where ya really came from."
"Perhaps," she solemnly nodded.
"Yeah, so I be soundin' English. But in me heart," he pointed to his chest, right over the spot where she knew his tattoo lay, "I'm always gonna be Irish to the core. So like you, no matter what ya be wearin' or how ya be speakin', ya ain't never gonna stop being what ya was born into. Even when ya go breathin' yer last breath."
"As you say," she coolly said.
They rode in strangely companionable silence for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, the weather worsened once the sun started sinking below the horizon. The wind kicking up, visibility promptly became an issue. Especially with the untimely arrival of the icy, biting sleet. Looking over and seeing Thomas curse and wrap his scarf about his head, Connor pulled her hood tighter to herself. Taking in the descending, black storm clouds a few hours ride ahead, Connor came to a hasty decision. While she could tolerate the deteriorating climate, they would both be in less danger if they rested indoors for the night.
"I have utilized a hunting lodge a few hours ride from here," she called out over the increasingly howling wind, gesturing to get her point across. "We will stay there the night."
"It be a plan!" Thomas hollered. He always preferred anything to making camp outdoors.
"If we ride hard," Connor shouted towards the slash of lightning illuminating the distant mountains ahead, "We should head off the tempest."
Giving a grunt of agreement, Thomas reigned his horse to follow in her wake. After all, sleeping within walls always beat out being at the mercy of the elements, right?
Author's Notes:
"Fe Mhoid Bheith Saor" - "Sworn to be free" in Irish Gaelic. While Ireland doesn't have an official motto, many consider this their motto. It's also a lyric from the modern Irish National Anthem.
"I do not expect a colonist to comprehend how poorly the Six Tribes faired at the Treaty of Fort Stanwix." – the Treaty of Fort Stanwix between the Iroquois and the British was brokered by William Johnson and signed in 1768 at Fort Stanwix in Rome, New York. It's mentioned by name by one of the tribal chiefs in the cutscene at before William Johnson's assassination in-game at Johnson Hall. To make a long story short, the Iroquois lost some land rights southeast of the Ohio River and felt they were tricked by the British into giving up those explicit land rights. It also set stage for future hostilities between the colonists and the natives.