A/N: This chapter brought to you by procrastination during the last full week of classes! I hope you all enjoy!

Chapter Twelve;

Healing

"Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgment. For even the very wise cannot see all ends."

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

A voice drew her out of the darkness. It called her by the name her mother had given her, and she heeded it eagerly, searching for its source. Familiar as though the voice was, she could not seem to place it... To her, it sounded neither male nor female, young nor old, weary nor strong. It was as if her senses were stunted, unable to process what they were taking in. The voice called her again, and she stumbled, her hand bracing against the wall as she tried to figure out where it was coming from.

"Hello?" she called out, anxious to find the source of the voice. She searched and searched, but only found herself more and more lost, wherever she was.

When a hand touched her shoulder from behind, she yelped and jumped backwards, turning quickly to face whatever was there. As soon as her eyes focused on the face of the person standing before her, she felt her knees begin to grow weak.

"Dia dhuit, a iníon dhílis," he said, a gentle smile spreading across his face. Cora wanted to run to him, to jump into his arms and embrace him, but her limbs betrayed her, holding her frozen in her place. The man stood still, waiting patiently for her to process what she was seeing. Tentatively, she took a step forward, reaching a hand toward his face, stopping only inches from his cheek.

"Is this real?" she asked, her voice small and childlike, riddled with fear and reverence. He said nothing, only smiling sadly down at her, and raising a gentle hand to her cheek. At his touch, she fell into him, throwing her arms around him and clutching at his clothes as if he would dissolve under her embrace.

"Father," she said into his shirt, her voice weak and muffled. He shushed her, kissing the top of her head and softly rubbing her back. Pulling back, she looked at him. He was young and handsome, without the lines in his face that she remembered, or the scar across his brow. Still, though, his bearded face and lively brown eyes were just as she always remembered them. Was this a dream? A hallucination, even death? It had to be, she knew, but it felt so real and she refused to entertain the idea that it wasn't. "I'm so sorry," she said, the words pouring out so quickly she wasn't even sure he would understand her. He did, though, and took her face in his steady hands, shaking his head.

"There is not one thing you must apologize for, Radha," he said, and she felt the tears welling up in her eyes. Oh, how she missed him, and his strong, steadying presence, his words of comfort, his laugh... Her sweet, loving father. "You must return," he said then, releasing her.

"No," she yelled, grabbing pathetically for him like some toddler clutched for its mother the moment it heard the rumblings of thunder. But he was gone, and she was alone. She had so many things she had meant to ask, to tell him... Falling to her knees, she held back a quiet sob, letting her hands fall to the ground as she collapsed under the weight of her sorrow.

Suddenly, there was grass underhand, soft and cool against her palms. Her head snapped up, and she realized she was before a large tree. So old and magnificent the huge oak was, some limbs grew downwards, nearly touching the ground, and others winded into the sky, covered with moss and leaves. Never before had she seen a trunk of such great circumference, or a more beautiful sight as the sunlight filtered through the leaves and casted intricate shadow patterns on the grass.

Soon, a woman came running up to the tree, the long waves of her brown hair flying behind her as she approached. There was something familiar about her, but Cora could not quite place it.

"Please," the woman asked, seeming to be talking to herself, as no one else was around. "Help me. I need strength," she said breathlessly. "My enemies are soon to overwhelm my spirit. I need wisdom. Courage!"

Suddenly, a voice called back. "Very well, my daughter," it answered, the voice warm and rich and so indisputably motherly. "Go, and keep strong, wise, and courageous."

It was the tree who had spoken, Cora realized as the woman ran off. Then, she suddenly remembered why this had all seemed to familiar – her father had told her this story long ago when she had been a child. The woman returned year after year, always asking something of the tree to help her in her struggle with those trying to harm her. One day, the tree stopped the woman, and told her to look for the gifts within herself, for she did not need another's help to bring it out of her, and explaining that the gifts would be so much stronger if she herself were the one to bear them forth.

"I can't," the woman said fearfully. And so the tree went on giving her gifts, but the woman grew sad and afraid, and was so focused on her enemies that she forgot how to find any joy or happiness. Concerned for how anxious and sorrowful the woman grew each day they met, the tree again stopped her gently, yet more sternly.

"My daughter," the tree said. "You will never truly live if you stay under my shade."

"But I will fall without your protection," the woman protested.

"No," the tree insisted. "I never gave you any gift you did not have. Even now, you hold within you every gift you have ever asked of me. You must figure out how to use them without my help."

"I can't," she said again. The woman was trapped in her security, the feeling of protection and safety, and so she stubbornly refused to change. The tree was relentless though, not wanting the woman to suffer forever and knowing that to progress any more she would need to leave. The tree gave the woman a vision of her future, and asked her what she saw.

"Happiness," the woman replied, seeming quite astounded.

"This is what awaits for you, but you must step into the sun and leave behind the need for safety that binds you here."

The woman was quiet for a long time, considering the words. Taking one more look back to the tree, she smiled and thanked her before turning towards the sun, and ventured out from the shade of the great oak.

Never before had he pushed his mare so hard as he had on that ride to the homestead. She had held up well, but the last hour had been the most trying. Cora's pulse had become frighteningly fast, and she had grown so pale that it would have been hard to distinguish her between a corpse and a living woman. A half hour outside the homestead, a storm had hit, the raindrops fat and warm on his face, each one stinging his skin as it fell. As he rode up to the manor, he saw Victoire pacing upon the porch and running to meet him once she caught sight of them.

Lyle and Diana had been waiting inside, and for lack of a better place Connor had taken her to his own bed. If he had ever thought of taking her to his bed, this was not at all the situation in which he thought it would happen. Victoire had already explained to Diana and Dr. White what had happened, so the two were well prepared to receive her, and began to work immediately, gently cutting her blouse and shift away as he was pushed into the background. Gentle hands had led him from the room, but he did not protest until they were in the hall.

"You will only distract them," Victoire had said, though he had not paid her any attention, craning his neck to try and see into the room.

"I can help," he had insisted, but Victoire had only shook her head, reminding him that he had just ridden a full day without a moment's pause, and that he had wounds of his own that needed to be tended to.

"You will be more help once you have rested," she said, leading him downstairs where Achilles had been waiting. Dazed from what had happened and completely exhausted, he had let Victoire worry over him like a mother hen as he stared wordlessly across the room. She had dressed the few small wounds he had sustained, and now he sat on the floor outside the door of his room, which remained closed. Victoire and Achilles had urged him to sleep, promising to wake him up as soon as there was any news, but even if Connor thought he would be able to sleep, he did not want to – not while he did not know if she would live.

Not long later, Victoire came to join him. She said nothing, but regarded him carefully, wondering what in the world was going on in that head of his. If her suspicions were right, he was more concerned than he was going to let on. Oh, those two stubborn things... Connor sat quietly, still in his Assassin robes stained with his blood and that of his enemies, but mostly from Cora. When the woman had fallen and Connor had screamed her name, there was no doubt in Victoire's mind that there was more between them than either wanted to admit. She let out a short laugh at the thought of it, and Connor glanced up at her, his eyes narrowing for a moment before going back to whatever he had been doing. He was twisting something in his hands, his fingers methodical as if he was sewing or weaving, but Victoire could not see and did not ask. Instead, she glanced anxiously at the door. That stubborn woman had better live, she thought, if only to make her admit that she was right.

When the door opened, Connor stood quickly, looking anxiously at Lyle's weary face.

"How is she?" he asked. Dr. White looked at him grimly, glancing to the floor.

"She was very lucky. No bones were shattered and no bloodways broken. We were able to remove the bullets with little problem."

"But will she live?" Victoire asked urgently, her voice distraught at the sight of the doctor's face.

"I do not know," he admitted solemnly. "We have done all we can for her, but she lost a lot of blood," he said, continuing as Victoire covered her mouth with one hand. "She is feverish, but there are no signs of infection. Her chances will improve with each night she survives, though I suspect this night will be the worst. If she still breathes when the sun rises, I think she will make it," he said. Connor looked dazed, as if he had not expected such an answer, but Victoire pushed past them both, flying to the side of the bed where Diana was gathering bloodstained towels as she prepared to leave. Connor watched as she grabbed Cora's limp hand, running a gentle hand through her hair. As he entered the room, he wasn't sure what to think. His mind seemed clouded and unfocused, the scene before him surreal, like a dream.

Achilles lingered in the doorway, speaking softly with Dr. White, and Victoire quietly murmured in French, her hands placed softly upon Cora's body.

A gentle hand patted his arm, and Diana gave him a solemn smile as she made to leave. "We will be back in the morning," she said, her voice kind and hopeful. "She's a strong young thing, I believe she can pull through."

With that, Diana left the room, giving her regards to Achilles and Dr. White before heading home to her children.

"You had better wake up, you stubborn woman," Victoire commanded her softly, placing a soft kiss on Cora's forehead before standing up and taking a deep breath to steady herself. "And you had better get some rest," she said to Connor. "It would not do for you to end up in bed as well," Victoire warned. Though she spoke directly to him, she could see that Connor's thoughts were far from her words. "We should eat something. I will prepare a broth," she said, searching for an excuse to let him have a moment with her. She, too, placed a comforting hand upon Connor's arm, though Victoire did not feign a smile as the others had. "She is in God's hands now," she said before taking her leave. She shut the door softly behind her, and Connor sighed, glancing hesitantly to where Cora lay on the bed, the covers pulled around her as she lay still and pale, the faintest rising and falling of her chest the only sign that she was indeed alive. Her complexion was quite sallow, the pink of her lips replaced by a languid white, her hair tangled as it tumbled across the pillow, blood still caught in it where the rain had not been able to reach. Her clothes had been folded and set on the foot of the bed, and Connor could see how the white of her shirt had been almost completely saturated with blood. Now she wore a nightgown that Diana had brought along, and he could see the bandages emerging from the neckline.

Kneeling by the bed, he watched her shallow breaths, wondering how long it would take before he knew if she would live or die. Gently, he brushed loose hair from her face, wishing she would wake up and laugh again, smile, even yell at him if that's what it took to hear her voice again. Though deep within Connor knew it was not his fault, the guilt was overwhelming. He should never have allowed this to happen...

Once, Connor would perhaps have only halfheartedly wished her well in such a situation. He would not ever have outright wished death or harm on her, no, but there had been a time when both of them would have found some sort of joy in the injury of the other. She had thought him her enemy, a killer, merciless and arrogant, and he had thought her coldhearted and prideful, one who had contributed to Lee's deeds. Now, though... Now the sight of her so close to death tore at his heart, made him anxious and nervous and afraid. He didn't want to lose her.

The change in his feelings for her had not been at once, and it was difficult for him to pinpoint exactly when it had happened. The way their feelings had changed had been like that of a growing child. Bit by bit, time went on and little things evolved and changed while people around them went on with their lives, oblivious, until one day they finally looked at the child and saw something before them that they never would have recognized before.

Achilles made no attempt to conceal his entrance as he opened the door, but Connor did not turn to acknowledge him. He was hunched over in the chair, leaning on his elbows as he held the girl's hand, watching her sleep. Sighing, Achilles made his way towards him, and Victoire followed him. She was a nice woman, spirited but with the knowledge of the proper time for restraint, unlike her fellow Assassin counterparts.

Resting a hand on the boy's shoulder, he took his own look at the woman before him. What he saw did little in the way of growing any seed of hope that she might survive. With shallow breaths and a pallid complexion, she looked weak and near death, but Achilles said nothing of it to the younger Assassin.

"You should rest," he said, more a command than a question. Finally, Connor turned to him,and Achilles saw he did not hide the fear in his eyes. He looked so young, then, so young and afraid like he had when he first came to him many years ago. Sometimes it was easy to forget that he was still a young man. "You can do nothing for her now, and will do her no favor if she wakes and you are too exhausted to do anything."

"Achilles..." Connor said, his voice thick with emotion and fatigue. It had been a long time since he had seen the young man so distressed. "I should have-"

"Silence, boy," Achilles said, cutting him off. "Dwelling on what you think you should have done will only bring you pain, and it will not bring her back to consciousness." Sighing, he considered his words more gently. "You need to sleep."

"I will watch after her while you rest," Victoire said, stepping forward. "I promise I will alert you if her condition changes in even the slightest way."

Connor did not want to leave, but his eyes were heavy and his limbs felt clumsy, and he knew they would not let him stay anyway. Instead, he nodded in agreement and left of his own accord, moving silently into Cora's makeshift room. He dropped onto her cot, not bothering to undress or even remove his boots. It smelled of her, of leather and mint. Her dog, which grew larger each time Connor saw it, barked frantically from outside the doors of the porch, as if he knew his master was in danger. Despite the loud noises and troubling thoughts, Connor fell quietly into sleep.

He woke suddenly, breathing heavily as he shot up in the makeshift bed. Swinging his legs around to rest on the floor, he put his head in his hands, trying to banish the sick, frantic feeling that still hung over him from his dream. He had been in his village, trying to save his mother as he had so many times before. This time, though, Cora had been in the flames, too. Her screams still echoed in his ears. It seemed that even in sleep he could not escape from his worry for her.

Standing, he stumbled to the door, placing a hand on the doorframe as he tried to collect himself before entering his room. Connor knew he would not be able to fall back asleep after such a dream, and perhaps a part of him needed to look upon Cora's face, to see that she was still breathing in order to feel any calm and peace. The door was slightly ajar, and when he pushed it open, Cora's dog raised his head from where he sat at the foot of his bed. Connor had no idea who had let him inside, but it mattered little to him in this moment. Perhaps the dog's presence would help Cora, in some small way.

Victoire sat in the chair beside the bed, her head tipped forward as she drifted in and out of sleep. Gently, Connor rested a hand on her shoulder, and she jumped under his touch, straightening as she turned to see who was there.

"You should rest," Connor said quietly.

"You need sleep more than I do," she said, crossing her arms. Oh, sometimes that woman was more stubborn than Cora herself... When Victoire saw the way he glanced at Cora, though, she realized he would not be sleeping any more that night, and perhaps waiting with Cora would bring him some sense of being useful. Sighing, she stood.

"How is she?" he asked, his eyes not leaving her still form.

"No better," Victoire said, wrapping her arms around herself as she glanced at Cora. She had known her for so short a time, but it felt as if they had been friends for years, and Victoire was sick with worry over her. "Her fever grows no better, and she has grown restless in the night. As if she is fighting some great battle to return to us..." Trailing off, she noticed the look that her words brought to Connor's face, and decided it would do him no favor to tell him how badly she was faring. "She will wake, Connor," Victoire said in a small yet confident voice. "I know she will." Connor only sighed, dropping into the chair and reaching toward the bed, resting it on the blankets inches from Cora's hand. He wanted to believe Victoire's words, but one look at Cora could tell anyone that she was on the verge of being lost to them. The thought made him feel sick.

He took her hand tenderly, running his thumb over her knuckles, and Victoire hid a smile. "You must promise me something, mon ami," she said. He looked up at her, his brows furrowed with confusion and perhaps a bit of annoyance at her ill timed words, but she continued anyway. "Do not deny your heart, or let your pride leave your feelings in shadow. Do not let the uncertainty of the future keep you from another person. Amour, passion, désir... War and troubled times are no excuse to keep your heart all walled in. Trust me," she said, chuckling at some secret joke.

Connor stared at her blankly, uncertain how to take her words. Was she insinuating that he loved Cora? That he was on the path to loving her? He cared for her well being, sure, even had come to value her companionship, but...

"You assume too much," he said, dropping Cora's hand, uncomfortable that Victoire was inserting herself into such matters.

She scoffed at him, chuckling quietly and waving her hand dismissively. "I know, I know. I am so very mistaken," she said, teasing as she patted his shoulder. "Think about it, no?" Before Connor could protest her assumptions, she was gone. Sighing in misplaced frustration, he sat back in the chair, crossing his arms.

When Cora turned her head in her feverish sleep, her face contorted in some strange mix of pain and struggle, he felt his irritation melt away. Scooting the chair closer to the bed, he pushed the hair from her face, resting a hand on her forehead. Her skin was hot to the touch, the fever burning her from the inside, and she was drenched in sweat. Connor rose from the chair and made for the basin of water that Diana had left, wetting a towel and returning to the side of the bed. Gently he wiped her face, hoping the cool water would give her body some relief. When he was done, he took her hand again, feeling completely helpless as he watched her.

He would have given anything, then, to see her laugh so freely as she had that day by the water, to watch her plait her hair and fidget with it as she always did when was bored or uncomfortable, to look her in the eye, or even to hear her voice chastising him for some wrong he had done her. He would be lying if he said he did not care for her in a way he cared for no one else. Yet all the same, Victoire had been wrong. War and conflict were no time for love and longing. He had nothing to give to her, not what she deserved. Cora deserved security and complete devotion, for someone to completely invest in her and give her his whole heart, none of which he could do for her, as much as he may have wanted to. Maybe when Lee and Oliver were dead, when the Templar threat was ended... Then, perhaps he could try.

Cora drifted in and out of consciousness. Every now and then, she would see a face... A black haired man who held her hand, a woman with a long blonde braid who pressed a cool towel against her brow. There was another man with glasses whose hands moved at her shoulder, and then... A dog? No, she was dreaming. Yes, she was dreaming. She was sure, as those faces morphed into those of her parents, of her aunt and brother and sisters who were long since dead. And oh, she was so hot, as if her skin was on fire, but her limbs would not obey her commands to move and her eyelids refused to open completely. It was as though she was disconnected from her body, and sometimes it made her panic within her fever dreams.

The first time she had woken, the black haired man had been with her, and though his identity seemed just beyond the reach of her mind, she knew there was something about him that made her feel safe. He had leaned close, and then she had fallen away again. The second time, it was the blonde woman again, and she had spoken to her, but her words sounded incoherent to Cora's ears.

It was the sound of a morning dove that she woke to the third time. The blonde woman had been with her again. She had been sitting in a chair by the bed reading a book, and when she glanced up and saw Cora's eyes open, she got up quickly as if to run out of the room. Cora reached for her and the woman returned, a deep concern in her eyes. Weakly, Cora tried to lift herself up, but a stinging pain in her shoulder stopped her, and she cried out, lifting a hand to it.

"Slowly, now," the woman said softly as she helped Cora to a sitting position, fluffing the pillows and pushing her back against her when she was more upright.

"What happened?" Cora asked, smiling faintly as Fionn wriggled his way into her lap and plopped down, happily licking her hand.

The woman looked at her uneasily, then covered Cora's hand with her own. "There was a battle. You were injured..."

Then, it all came flooding back. There was someone she cared for in danger, and she had to protect them... And then another she had failed to save. She remembered fire and blood and a warm, comforting voice pleading with her to stay awake. But she had been so tired...

"Do you know me?" the woman asked. Cora looked at her, brows furrowed. Yes, she knew this woman...

"Victoire." At the sound of her name, the other woman smiled and made a happy noise in the back of her throat.

"You scared me, mon ami."

Cora managed a weak smile, and she sighed, suddenly overpowered by drowsiness. Determined not to fall back into the terrible dreams she'd had, she pried her eyes open and tried to focus.

"I should call for Dr. White," Victoire said, standing. "Will you be alright?"

Cora nodded, running a thumb over the crest of Fionn's head, which he had laid across her lap. The weight of him was comforting, and she figured she would be able to manage until Victoire returned.

When the blonde woman entered the room again, though, Cora was fast asleep, leaning against the bed frame, her dog napping in her lap, blissfully unaware of how close his master had come to death.

"Did she seem well when she woke?" Dr. White asked, moving to Cora's side and placing a hand on her forehead.

"She was a little confused at first. I do not think she recognized me, and she did not know what had happened."

"That is quite normal, no need to worry," he said, pushing her shift away and beginning to unwrap the bandages at her shoulder. As he began to cut them away, Cora woke again, staring confused up at him. "Welcome back, Cora," he said with a smile. He checked her wound, looking satisfied as he examined it.

"There looks to be no sign of infection, and it is beginning to heal."

"It hurts," she mumbled, trying to look down at it.

"It will for a while," he said as he dressed the wound again. "It will be a long while before you fully recover. You were very lucky, Cora," he said, his voice very serious. "The bullets only just missed an important artery. You would have bled out in minutes."

Victoire gave him a harsh look and shooed him away, taking his position by the bed as she pulled her friend's clothes back into place. "Alright, I think we can handle it from here," she said sternly. The last thing Cora needed was to think about death. No, she needed to focus on healing and hope and the good things to look forward to. After all, Victoire was a master matchmaker, and her work was far from done.

The next day, Victoire brought up a broth and some bread, and though Cora had claimed she was not hungry, the smell of food made her stomach growl. She ate quickly, despite Victoire's cautions not to over do it.

"I can't believe how hungry I am," she said as she tried to pace herself on the bread. It was a beautiful loaf of bread, with a sweet, fluffy middle and a crust with a little crunch to it.

Victoire laughed, taking a huge bite herself. She sat back in the chair, her legs propped on the bed as she ate. "Well, you were asleep for four days, not counting yesterday," she said.

Cora nearly dropped her bread as she gaped at the other woman. "Four days?" Victoire nodded solemnly, setting her plate on the side table. "Was it that bad?"

"For a while, we did not know if..." she trailed off, taking her feet from the bed, and Cora sat wide eyed, a shiver running through her. It all seemed such a blur to her, even as the memories had come back about the battle, how Henry had fallen and she had let anger consume her... She remembered seeing that gun pointed at Connor and those children, and the fear that had taken hold of her.

"Where is Connor?" she asked, suddenly realizing that she had not seen him.

"He has gone," she said, looking away. "He left not long before you woke. He wanted to stay, but there were urgent things to attend to." Cora tried not to be angry, but she couldn't put off the sense of abandonment, and Victoire could see it on her face. "He sat with you day and night, Cora," she said, scooting her chair closer. "I could not pry him from your side."

Cora was not sure if it was disappointment or anger at the fact that he was gone, but whatever it was, she wanted to be alone and sulk in private. However, Victoire grew nervous by her silence, afraid that she was upset, and kept speaking.

"Do not be angry with him. If you saw the way he stayed with you, cared for you-"

"Victoire," Cora said, her voice low as the turned her face away, hoping the woman would stop. Instead, she continued on just as urgently.

"If you saw how tenderly he watched over you and worried for you-"

"Victoire, enough!" she said sharply, raising her voice as she turned her head back. "I can't... I just..." Sighing, she turned her face away again, but Victoire said nothing more. "I do not want to hear this."

"I am sorry," Victoire said quietly. Cora did not look at her as she left, and when she was alone she lay back in the bed, wishing more than anything to get out of this room. It was bad enough that she would unable to do anything, in Connor's bed nonetheless... If she had ever imagined what it would be like to lay in his bed, this was not the way she had thought it would happen.

Pushing such thoughts aside, she closed her eyes. As much as she wanted to get up and be useful, to train, ride Ealga, and even do chores, she was tired and weak, and she was often in pain as her body began to heal itself. If she wanted to feel better, she would have to pace herself, to respect the time it would take for her muscles to bind together and her skin to form again where the bullets had torn it open. As she felt sleep taking her, she could not help but think of Connor.

Three weeks later, mid May, 1781.

"I am hopeless," Cora said, laughing as she failed yet again to hang the laundry to dry. Dr. White had finally given her permission to resume daily tasks, although she still often had to take breaks to rest. As soon as Dr. White had declared her fit to be up and about, she had moved all of her things back into her makeshift bedroom, and though Achilles and Victoire tried to convince her to stay in Connor's room where the bed was more comfortable, she refused. She had cleaned vigorously, trying to remove any trace that she had ever been there, and now stood outside with Victoire trying to hang his sheets to dry.

Victoire laughed in response, holding the sheet so Cora could fasten it on the line. Her left arm was incapacitated, held close to her body in a sling, and she had found that trying to do things with one arm was much harder than she would have thought. Thankfully, Victoire and Achilles were patient with her, although she found she had little patience for herself. She often worried that she would never regain full use of her shoulder and left arm. Dr. White had assured her with time she should be able to build more strength and live with little impairment, but confirmed that it was unlikely she would come to a point where she was as strong as she had been. The thought had angered her at first, but she had since come to terms with it. Her right arm was her good sword arm, and though to Connor's chagrin she may perhaps never be able to truly master the bow, all she needed was one arm to kill Oliver.

Cora spent the days busying herself, trying not to think of Henry's death, Connor's absence or the pain in her arm, but she often found herself unable to keep the thoughts away. Luckily, Victoire had not brought up her relationship with Connor again. It was hard enough to sort through her own feelings without someone else constantly berating her about it. The two women had formed a close bond over their daily chores and companionship, and Cora found herself laughing often, much more so than she had in a long time. Still, though, she could not shake the sadness that kept her heart cold.

"Cora," Victoire said as they sat in the kitchen. Cora had been kneading dough, one of the few tasks she had mastered one handed, as Victoire prepared dinner. Achilles had been more than happy to welcome her into the big manor, welcoming the extra help and someone to watch over Cora so he did not have to.

"What is it," she responded, pausing to wipe her brow with her forearm, as her hand was covered in flour and dough.

"There is something I have been keeping from you..." she trailed off, looking nervous.

"If this is about Connor again," Cora warned, her eyes narrowing.

"No, no," Victoire said, waving her hands. "Just... wait here." As she disappeared, Cora went about cleaning the flour from her skin, which was admittedly one of the most difficult things to do without another hand. She focused on removing the sticky dough, trying to bury the anxiety that had been planted at Victoire's words.

When she returned, she held something in her hands. A letter, perhaps? For a moment, Cora's stomach twisted. What if it was from Connor? What if he had realized she would be of no help to him now, what if he wished her to leave?

"Promise me that you will not be angry," she said in a small voice. Cora nodded hesitantly, afraid of what she was about to say. "I kept it only because I wanted you to focus on getting back on your feet." Tentatively, she held the paper out, and Cora took it slowly, drawing her shaking hand to her abdomen, where she unfolded it.

Yet instead of Connor's neat writing, it was Henry's scrawled cursive that she found upon the page. A gasp escaped her lips, and Victoire pressed her lips together, afraid for whatever anger her friend might unleash. "Duncan brought it when he came to ask Connor to go back to Boston. He found it on his body," she explained, her words halting as she wondered if perhaps she had been too blunt.

Cora had stopped listening to Victore's words as soon as she began to read, however. It was like hearing from a ghost, a message from the deceased... Had he known it would break her heart like this? She wanted to flee, to be alone as she took in his words, but her feet did not obey, and so she read on.

My beloved Cora,

Perhaps you will find these words too bold, but as I sit to write you I find my hand moves of its own accord. I know my apologies may mean nothing to you, and rightfully so, but I must again tell you how deeply I regret having wronged you, disappointed you, disobeyed your trust... I have sinned against you, and against God, and I pray that you have mercy on me as well as He. I would understand if you do not wish to see me or speak with me, as is your right, but Cora... Know that I love you. More than the wind that cools my brow or the food that nourishes my body, more than even mine own life do I love you.

Cora felt a whimper escape her throat she she read those words, and a knot grew tight in her throat. Oh, Henry...

It is because of this love and respect for you that I must share something with you that I have kept silent for far too long. I believe your brother to be alive.

Staggering, she felt for the table, trying to hold herself up. Alive? Oh, could God be so merciful?

I was a coward, and still am, for never speaking the truth to you, but I hope now that I can make amends in whatever small way I can. I am planning to look into the matter further, and I will leave whatever information I find under the mattress in the safe house outside of Boston. Please believe me when I tell you that I wish nothing more than to right the wrongs I have done in this world, and if you would allow me to help you find him, I would be forever greatful.

I do not know why I have so suddenly felt the need to confess such things to you. In all honesty, I believe it is because I feel death growing near for me. Oliver's suspicion of my intentions is reaching a height, and I do not believe he will sit silently much longer. The prospect of death keeps me in thought much of the time. Is it that we are born for this, to suffer and fight, to die amongst one another in a never ending struggle to prove our superiority? I wonder often now, why we so painfully try to breathe a breath that is more righteous than our brothers and sisters. Assassin, Templar, Englishman, American, male, female, slaveman and free... Why struggle so? Why make our purpose one of hate and loathing and pride? I'd like to feel a heartfelt purpose, to have a hope for something greater than my own life.

I believe I could find that with you, Cora. If you ever changed your mind or found it within you to forgive me, know that I would be honored to take you as my wife, and to give myself to you as your husband. I would be good and kind to you, and give you many daughters and sons if that is what you wish. We could live happily on a little farm on the frontier, away from the Assassins and Templars and our pasts. I could never deserve such a life, but if you ever found yourself wishing for it, know that I would give away all I have to ensure it for you, and that my last breath will be spent trying to atone, and my last thought will be of your face.

Always your loving and faithful servant,

Henry

When her knees buckled under her, Victoire was there to catch her, and Cora clutched at her with her good arm, burying her face in the woman's shoulder. She wanted to cry, to scream and let free all of the terrible things in her heart, but though her throat was tight with emotion, her eyes were dry and her tongue quiet. Instead, she trembled, the emotion of that last day she had seen Henry finally catching up to her.

A/N: Thank you to all my readers for the support! Your reviews have meant a lot to me, as you can tell by another quick update!

themadgears - I'm so glad you like Victoire! She's fun to write, and quite interesting as I had never planned for her character. She just sort of popped up, and I'm very glad she did! I'm glad you liked the chapter!

Cute - Thank you, I do try! :) Thank you for your review, it means a lot!

Guests - Thanks for all y'alls reviews! Hopefully this one doesn't disappoint!

SarahXXluvingsantsrow - No worries, I have zero plans to stop writing this story until it's finished! Even then, I may have a few ideas up my sleeve to continue Cora and Connor's story... I'm afraid they won't be leaving me alone even after this one is done.

Dia dhuit, a iníon dhílis - Hello, my sweet daughter.

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