"Hiraeth […] is a Welsh word that many Welsh speakers claim has no direct English translation. The University of Wales, Lampeter attempts to define it as homesickness tinged with grief or sadness over the lost or departed. It is a mix of longing, yearning, nostalgia, wistfulness, and the earnest desirefor the Wales of the past." –Wikipedia

-o-

"Where is she?"

Georges looked up from the neat stacks of coins in front of him. A blond eyebrow raised lazily, arrogantly, up at the dangerously impatient Connor. "I don't know what you're talking about." He drawled.

"I know Jacqueline came to see you before she disappeared. Now I'll ask again: where, is, she?" He dragged out the last three words for emphasis.

The young kingpin took a long time, really considering if he should reply. "She went to Europe."

"She did what?" Connor grabbed Georges by the front of his shirt, in both hands to lift the thief fully off the ground. It didn't even make his eyes widen, like angry Native Americans interrogated him every day.

"She left to Europe, as I just said. Perhaps, oh, five weeks ago? Excusez-moi, Connor, but it wasn't as though I could stop her. You know how that woman is. Worse than a mule." Georges had his hands up in surrender beside his head, but was grinning at some private joke.

"Where did she say she was going?" Connor dropped him unceremoniously.

The trader brushed himself off with faux dignity. "France. Probably our old hometown for starters."

"Why?"

"To find the Templars who murdered her parents, I was told. She isn't going to back for a long time. She said a year at least."

Somehow, that made Connor even more frustrated. "How could you just let her leave?"

"I don't recall being the one who abandoned her for his father, do you?" Georges' patience had apparently run out, and his tone was biting. When Connor failed to reply, disarmed by the unwelcome jab, he continued. Georges seemed to take some perverse pleasure in throwing unexpected facts his way. "That girl's in love with you."

Connor was becoming increasingly flustered by this man and the conversation was quickly spiraling out of his control. He groped for a response and came up with a pathetic, "How do you know this?"

"How do you not know this? It's probably why she ran off." Confident he was not going to be killed, Georges pulled out a pipe and held it between his teeth.

"Explain." Connor gritted out shortly.

"You left her to be with your father, a man neither of you particularly like. Who, might I add, tortured her along with some associates you've since failed to kill. She's been an emotional cripple since then, which I'm sure you've been oblivious to, bless your heart. On top of that you've been keeping her in a state of considerably volatile sexual tension—oh, don't look at me like that, I can tell just by seeing at her that she's ready to pounce even me. How do you think she feels?"

His actions in the past several weeks came back to him, and Connor felt an unexpected surge of guilt. He paced away from Georges and back again, hands behind his head. "Then what do you suggest I do?"

The Frenchman shrugged through the cloud of smoke. "Wait."

-o-

When the shore of Bayonne came into view three months from their departure of the Colonies, Jacqueline watched a long time. The shapes of the skyline, the smell of the air, the colour of the water. It came back like the rush of the flood, so strong and powerful it was like a blow. She felt unable to tear her eyes away, yet at the same time aching to suddenly turn around and change her plans, leave France forever and never return.

But that didn't happen. The Aquila drifted up into the port, clunking and swashing the water around, before dropping anchor. The boardwalk was hefted out, and that was that. They were back.

Jacqueline was distinctly aware of Thomas watching her warily. "Ye gonna be all right there, lass?"

It took a moment for her response to wrestle its way past the knot of emotion in her throat. "Yes, I…think I will be fine. I should get started at once."

"Well, I'm comin' with ya." He followed her down the shrouds.

"No, you aren't." She replied sternly. If she could prevent it, she was not letting him get caught up in the Templar-Assassin conflict. "This is something I have to do alone. I went through it alone, and I'll end it alone."

"If ya think that, yer daft. I ain't just gonna let ya—"

"Thomas!" She snapped, landing down on deck. "I mean it. Stay and see the sights. But I don't want or need your help."

He frowned at her, and Jacqueline suddenly got the impression she had gotten with Georges—just because he was lighthearted didn't mean he was an idiot. "If that's what ya want, I shan't stop ya."

"Thank you." She said after a moment, and quickly left the Aquila.

Jacqueline took the first day to get her bearings straight. Some of the old streets had changed, been overrun or reoccupied. When she saw a familiar face—most of which were now wrinkled after a twelve-year absence—she turned the other way. She didn't want to be recognised. After wasting the hot afternoon in the fishing town, she bought a map and located a spot in the countryside. Before she left Bayonne, she discreetly and with a hint of amusement spat on the nearest curb.

"That's for Georges." She whispered.

Night fell slowly. The sun reluctantly dragged itself westward, trying to prolong his time in the sky before giving in to his pale sister, the moon. Jacqueline spent a long evening weaving through growing wheat fields and tall grasslands, thinly wooded areas and one small, gurgling crick. It was when night fell for good, and the stars poked through the sky and the moon cast gray-blue light across the world, did she finally reach her destination.

She stopped walking the second she saw it. Frankly, she was shocked it was still there after so long, but she supposed not many people came out of the city very far. It was overgrown, but there were still faint scars in the dirt where plants had taken their time growing back. For some reason, she removed her shoes when she walked closer, the way one removes headgear when entering a home.

The ruins of her childhood house were smaller than she remembered, but still very much there. Bricks were crumbling in the ragged shapes of walls. Jacqueline stepped through the outline of the kitchen, where a large shrub had sprung up. Her parents' bedroom had been decimated completely, taken over by the grass. The ghosts of the past haunted the air; the pounding on the door, the smell of bread, the silvery figures of her parents drifting through the blackened wood beams.

Something cold underfoot made her jump back in surprise, tearing her from her visions. It was an old cast iron cooking pot. She picked it up tenderly, as one would a newborn child. It was heavy, somehow lodged into the ground to last all the years she had been gone. It was rusted and filthy, but she held it up to her face and pressed her cheek against to the gritty surface. She wanted to feel the house again.

When she opened her eyes, her gaze fell on a sight outside the house. She set the pot down tenderly. She stepped out of the ruins, taking her boots on the way, and approached the wooden crosses. There were no names, and no markers, but there didn't need be any. She already knew who lay below.

Kneeling at her parents' graves, Jacqueline rested a hand on one of the crosses. The wood was tied tightly together with twine. "I'll find them." She told the bones.

There were flowers at the graves. Withered bunches of wildflowers tossed hastily across the short grass and weeds that had grown over the mounds of soil. Jacqueline picked up some of them and made her way back to Bayonne. It was easier to get back, and she soon found herself entering the way she had left. The nearest inn looked promising, and she magnetised there. A few members of the Aquila crew recognised her and waved or said hello over their drinks, but other than that no one paid her any mind.

Jacqueline walked up to the innkeeper, a weathered and tanned older man. She remembered to speak French at the last second. "Excuse me. Would you happen to know anything about those two graves up on the hill? I found these on them." She held up the dying flowers.

"Ah, the Savage graves." He nodded understandingly. Jacqueline recalled her surname—Sauvageot, or Savage in English. Now that she was older, she realised both her parents' names had meant, "savage eagle". It made her smirk.

"Those graves have been there for years." The innkeeper went on. "Victims of a nasty fire. Old townsfolk found two bodies and buried 'em. Some say the pair had a child, but it must've perished in the fire, the poor thing. Anyway, not many visit those old graves anymore except for one. He comes by every month to put new flowers there. He should be stopping by soon. Always drops in here on his way, since it's so close to the edge of town. You're free to keep a room and wait; I'll tell you when he arrives."

"Thank you, that would be ideal." Jacqueline put a few coins on the counter, and saw with a start they were British pounds sterling. "Oh! I'm sorry, I'm just back from the Colonies."

"Not a problem, miss, I take these too. Lots of regulars only use their currency." The innkeeper smiled, and his face wrinkled up. He was like a nicer version of Achilles, Jacqueline mused. He handed her the key to her room, and she hurried away to find it.

The room was tiny and smelled of fish, like the rest of the town. She sat on the bed and wished suddenly that Connor were with her. She'd been holding it off since the minute she'd stepped aboard the Aquila, and now it came racing back. Wallowing in the wave of homesickness, she laid back and fell asleep in her clothes.

-o-

The next day was mercifully overcast, blocking out the brutal late summer sun. It rained around noon and the rest of the day smelled like water on stone, the petrichor refreshing and sharp. Recovering from the emotional hardship of the previous night, Jacqueline numbly roamed the streets. She bought a baguette from a bakery and ate it with orange spread. There was little for her to do while waiting for her quarry to drop into her lap.

Again, she thought of Connor. It was some kind of profound aching, right deep in her soul, which missed him. It made her feel a little foolish, but it was true. She could imagine him in her situation: he would never wait for this person. He would take the initiative and hunt him down, probably interrogate him, and move on to the next lead. He never had the patience and wherewithal to do what she was doing now. Everything had to happen right away and as soon as physically possible. Perhaps he had already found Lee.

Someone tripped over her feet, bringing her out of her reverie. "Sorry." Jacqueline pulled her feet in closer, but really didn't care that much.

The man she'd tripped was older, perhaps old enough to be her father or even grandfather. He had a dignified air about him, but his downturned eyes suggested a fall from grace. Jacqueline felt a little worse about tripping him. "Pardon." He muttered, tipped his hat, and hurried away.

Bored now, Jacqueline wandered back to the inn. When she arrived, the same man was bundled in a corner, concealing something under his jacket. She glanced at him but continued on to address the innkeeper. "Any sign of him yet?"

"Oui, mademoiselle." He pointed. "That's he."

The older gentleman looked away, as though ashamed of being pointed out. Jacqueline pulled out a chair with a screech and sat across from him. Her hands clasped on the table, she asked coolly, "Do you know who I am?"

"Yes." He nodded, not making eye contact. "That little girl."

Jacqueline leaned forward and saw that he was holding a fresh bundle of flowers. "What is your name?"

"Norman Durand, mademoiselle, and I can say with shame that I was one of five who killed your parents." He admitted. From his front pocket he removed a Templar cross on a chain, wrought in polished steel.

In response, Jacqueline reached down the front of her blouse and showed the glinting Assassin necklace she wore. Norman nodded, as though expecting nothing less. "We are two of a kind, then."

"What makes you say that?"

"We have both lost much, and gained little." He coughed into a handkerchief, and when he tucked it away, it was spotted in blood. "I can tell. Your only advantage is that you are young, healthy, and beautiful. I am none. I am glad you became an Assassin. It's a fitting role, as you've come to kill me. I know that is your goal, and I beg you carry it out."

This took her by surprise. "Why?"

He sighed, wearily, and raised a hand to the innkeeper. The old barkeep brought two mugs of black beer to their table. Durand drank deeply from one before speaking. "It's a long story. I hope you want to hear it."

Jacqueline sat back, patiently interested, and gestured for him to continue.

"It started on that very night, all those years ago. It's why I remember you so clearly. My garrison was given information that two infamous, though retired, Assassins were hiding in the southwest of France. It was just orders, a simple extermination. We couldn't let them exist as a possible breach in security. I didn't know there was a child." He shifted uncomfortably. "I questioned my direct superior, a man named Pascal Morel. He told me that there was no child accounted for. We killed them, and I am sorry for the suffering this has caused you, I truly am. I managed to convince the others to leave you alive."

Jacqueline remembered. When she ran from her burning house, some of the men pursuing her stopped, conversed, and let her run.

"Of course, that was the beginning of the end for me. Morel passed along my betrayal to the higher-ranking Templars. They instigated my exile from the Order and assured I could never keep a job. My wife left me, taking with her our child. I've spent the last dozen years homelessly wandering. I caught a horrid illness recently, and I don't have long anyway. So, yes, I would like you to kill me. It's only fair."

There was a long pause. Jacqueline took a sip of the dark ale, licked her lips, and sighed. "It will not bring me happiness to take your life."

"I shouldn't think it would." Norman smiled mildly. "But if you find Pascal Morel, I believe he will be a more satisfying kill. Follow the chain of command until you find Christophe Rousseau, the leader of our company. I would tell you more, but I've since lost track of him."

"Thank you." Jacqueline offered her hand, and they walked out of the inn together.

Their path led them far behind the inn, to the edge of town. They waded through dewy tall grass in the dim evening until the lights of Bayonne were flickering stars at the shoreline. The line of the forest behind them was dark, the stars above them forming into twinkling constellations and galaxies.

Norman stopped suddenly. "Here," He said quietly, and handed the bouquet to her. "Please, take these to the Sauvageot graves for me. Now do it, quickly, before I lose my nerve."

Jacqueline unsheathed her hidden blade and stabbed him in the side of the neck, too fast for a reaction. Blood rushed up her forearm in a hot wave. Norman went limp, instant dead weight. With a final twitch, he wheezed, "Thank you."

"Resposer en paix." She eased him back into the grass with an effort and folded the bouquet under his hands, on his chest. Breathing deeply out, she turned and walked away.

-o-

-I've been asked a few times if Aveline will make an appearance, and the answer is likely no. I've never played Liberation and I don't exactly want to write for something I haven't played or for a character I don't know. Sorry!

-To any native French speakers, feel free to rip me a new one because of my crude education in the language. I know that "reposer" is probably the wrong usage of the verb, but research just got me pretty confused and feeling like an idiot.

-Yeah, it's pretty much gonna be Kill Bill: AC version.

-Review for a new adventure!