Chapter 3:2

1773, December 16th

I never forgot that night. The many corpses; the smell of blood mixed with dirt and snow, the dead eyes of a little boy, grabbing his mother's dress even in death. The sound of screaming people and the firing of rifles haunts me still.

But I guess it was a necessary action, even though it harmed many lives. The years continued in peace and it even made Alex's parents feel safe again, living in the streets of Boston. My aunt earned a work as a cashier in a little general store, helping a poor man by the name Benjamin Franklin. He seemed almost too worried about his almanac's pages and asked of me to keep an eye out for them. I assured him that I would, even though I knew the chances of finding his precious notes would be very slim.

For myself; well I grew a bit on the height and ran small errands for my neighbors, earning some money. I had no clue about what I would do when I was an adult but attended to the local school and tried my best with the few subjects that were offered. Alex and I were friends again and nothing clouded my mind, not even Mr. Kenway's abrupt departure from Boston. He had left me the instruction to stay close to a certain William Johnson. I still hadn't told Alex about the Templars and why I continued to meet Haytham Kenway now and then, and that kept the ice between us solid… even though there were times when we were only children again. Alex had become very interested with politics and since the times now were so grave with the raising taxes and angry citizens, he was one of the last persons I wanted to share precious information about the Templars joining the British. But I obeyed Mr. Kenway, checking William Johnson's routines and what he did, and life continued as usual – or so I thought.

The year was 1773 when I met him again. The Native boy. Or well, he wasn't a boy any longer, but I'll come to that. I was strolling down one of the larger streets in Boston, a day of December. Alex wasn't with me; he was at home, sick, and I was trying to find a bakery that sold his favorite bread.

"It's not up for discussion! Now open the door or these men will break it down!"

I suddenly heard the crack of wood breaking and turned my head to watch the spectacle. The brutal sound of knuckles hitting bones and flesh echoed into the store and I quickly ran out to see what it was about. That was when I saw him. I didn't recognize him as the boy I had met so long time ago; frankly, he looked completely different.

He had grown and stood at least six feet three, maybe four, inches above the ground while walking normally. A white hood – with what seemed like an eagle painted on it – concealed his face and hair. The long white dress uniform jacket continued down his arms and curved backwards at his shins, the fabric delicately decorated with small prints and with blue lining. He wore brown ragged leggings and boots that extended past his knees. The Native was armed with a bow and arrows, as well as a flintlock pistol in his left holster and a dagger in his right, together with a tomahawk. He was still rather slender in his body shape but I could clearly regard strong muscles under his odd clothes.

He was watching an angry man that was fighting with some soldiers and didn't seem to notice me at all. I saw him dive towards the affray, raising his weapons and killing the regulars.

"What the hell are you doing?"

I didn't realize that I had been screaming those words out loud – it had been an inner thought, I promise – but it was too late for me to pretend that someone else had been yelling at them; their eyes aimed at me and they stiffened.

Suddenly flushing with color I bit my lower lip, wishing for the thousandth time that my mouth wasn't so big.

"You can't just kill the soldiers!" I searched for a familiar face around me but found none. The people were walking straight pass the scene, ignoring the deaths of the soldiers, and some even seemed like they wanted to join the fight. "Help someone go get help!"

Nobody answered and I clenched my fists.

"You can't just let them kill good men like that!" I tried to find some support from somebody – anybody, if just a little child – but they continued on like nothing. "Good soldiers, fighting to keep you all safe. You are such cowards! They are only two!"

"Girl, they are content with this. We are angry on these tax collectors; they can all go back to Britain!"

An immediate response was followed up by the onlookers as the man starting the brawl approached me, his face and torso covered with blood. He was holding a kitchen knife in his right hand and when he saw my expression, he lowered it and put it in his pocket.

"I won't hurt you, but you must keep out of trouble like this." He had a heavy French accent and spoke so fast that it took me a second extra to process his words. Was he threatening me?

"I'll go get an officer," I warned and took a step back, my hand reaching into my backpack where I had the only weapon I had come to keep of Mr. Kenway. "You stay here and see your judgment, you murderers."

I tried not to look at him. I didn't want him to recognize me.

"Hah, do you hear this little child? So naïve."

"I'm not a kid!"

I felt the dagger slither into my hand and gripped it hard, readying myself for a fight. No way that I would let injustice like this slip past when I saw.

"Take it easy now."

His voice was soft, much softer than I had thought it would be with his appearance. I didn't look at him but kept my eyes steady on the French man.

"They were trying to take his home. He has all the right to defend it."

They were two and I was alone. I would probably not even win against one of them in a fair duel. Maybe it's better to back off… for now.

I swallowed but didn't respond. Instead, I just nodded slightly and walked away from the two, taking off into the nearest alley where I had seen a ladder the day before. I quickly climbed up – after have making sure of that nobody saw me – and hugged the tiled roof while crawling towards where I had left the two men. My plan was that I would stalk them to see where they went off, but by the time I had found a good spot, the French had already disappeared and the boy – well, man – with the unpronounceable name hurried away into another street.

After much profanity and reckless climbing, I found my way to him and his goal; a large tavern with darkened windows and an empty stable outside. I slid down the house and hid behind some crates while I followed him with my gaze. That was when I saw it – the insignia of the Assassins. It was fastening the red sash around his waist. How didn't I see it earlier?

My breath caught in my throat. The Assassins. He's an assassin, one of them; a member of the brotherhood, a servant to their cause. He really is a true, cold-blooded murderer. I bit my lower lip and forced myself to stay calm.

He knocked on the door and while he waited for someone to answer, he took the moment to look around. I didn't have the time to dodge away and our eyes locked for what felt like an eternity. I almost lost my self-control but didn't move. Murderer.

"Connor? Welcome."

He continued staring at me for a moment but then turned around, greeting a man with brown hair and potato-nose. They exchanged some quick words before vanishing into the dark of the building.

Connor… so that's your name…