A/N: Hello, all! My streak of unpredictable updates continues. I am hoping to have the last chapter out within the next two weeks, but as I have finals, projects, and research papers due within that time period, we'll have to see how much time I have to write. Don't forget to leave a review!

Chapter Thirty-One;

Compromise

"Thus with my lips I have denounced you, while my heart, bleeding within me, called you tender names.

It was love lashed by its own self that spoke. It was pride half slain that fluttered in the dust. It was my hunger for your love that raged from the housetop, while my own love, kneeling in silence, prayed your forgiveness."

Khalil Gibran, The Forerunner

Six Months Later

April, 1783

Connor had been putting this day off for a long time. Instead of facing it head on, he had avoided the basement altogether, unable to bring himself to look upon anything that had to do with the Assassins. During his recovery, he had ignored every letter, every update on the state of the Templars since Lee's death. He wasn't sure why he had distanced himself from the Order. Then again, he had distanced himself from almost everyone else he knew. In that, the Assassins had received no special treatment.

For so long, all of his efforts had been focused on killing Charles Lee. Now that the man was dead, he was not sure where to turn his attention. In the past months, he had come to feel as though his actions had brought such little impact. Sure, Lee was dead, but another would soon rise to take his place. Such was the way of the world… The end of one threat only made way for another. Once, he had believed he could end the cycle of violence and power. Over his months of recovery, however, he had come to realize how futile such a struggle was.

It was this loss of faith that had kept him from facing anything that reminded him of his actions. This was the first time he had set foot in the basement, and as he slowly descended the stairs he felt the weight of all the emotions he had avoided as they came crashing down upon him all at once. As he collected the paintings from the wall, he was consumed in memories from what seemed a lifetime ago. His hotheaded youthful arrogance, the relentless training that Achilles had put him through before he earned his robes... And as much as he tried to push the memories of Cora from his mind, he could not. Love me, she had implored him once, in this very spot. Yet though she had promised him it would be enough, it seemed she had not foreseen what the future would bring. Or perhaps she did, and it had been a lie all along. No matter how much he attempted to sort it out in his mind, he always came away more confused than before.

When he was finished, he started up the stairs, the box propped on one hip as he gripped the rail with his other hand. Though his wound had closed and healed, he still had a limp and suffered from occasional bouts of pain. Lyle seemed to believe that in due time he would regain his strength, but Connor found himself doubting this, too.

When he got to his room he set the box on the bed and went to the drawer in which Cora had once kept her things. She had taken most of her belongings when she left, but a few things still remained, like the winter nightdress Ellen had made for her. He rubbed the fabric between two fingers, considering what to do with it. The bitter part of him had a mind to burn it, but he did not want to waste Ellen's work on his own anger. Instead, he began piling the clothing on the bed with the intent to return it to her. Perhaps she could sell it or make use of it in some other way.

Connor picked up the box that held the paintings and notes he had kept of the Templar leaders. One by one, he dropped them into the fire, erasing any finite proof that they had existed. He felt numb as he watched the flames eat away at each one, disintegrating it into ashes. When he picked up the portrait of his father, though, he found he could not bear to toss it away. Sighing, he leaned against the bed, unsure what to do with it. On one hand, he felt no affection toward the man in the way most sons felt for their fathers. Haytham had never shown him love, had never played any fatherly role unless it suited him to do so. Even if he had harbored different feelings, he had been stubborn to the end, too proud to indicate otherwise. It was with his mother and her people that any familial bond truly lied. Still, Haytham was his father. Like any child, Connor had always sustained a hope to reconcile with his parent, and the feeling had not left him despite Haytham's death. Now, all that was left was to reconcile with his memory. Perhaps that was what kept him from casting the portrait into the fire.

Sighing, he threw it on the bed, resolving to find some other place for it. When the rest of it was little more than ashes, he began loading Cora's things into the box. As he packed them for delivery to Ellen's shop, a piece of paper that had been tucked into one of the folded shifts fell onto the floor. He knew before he turned it over that it was a page from her sketchbook. To his surprise, he recognized the drawing – it depicted the doe and fawn from that day by the river. He ran a finger over the lines she had made, and could almost see her biting her lip in concentration as she so often did. He hated how much he still missed her after all this time, but he hated himself even more for refusing her that night at the tavern.

Regardless of what had happened between them, he could not bear to destroy the drawing either, for it reminded him of a better time, when hope and love had reigned his life in place of this dreadful despair.

Philadelphia

The preparations were well underway for their eldest sister's wedding. In only a day's time, Aoife would be a wife. Though it was an exciting time for the entire family, Cora had often seemed withdrawn from the process. Though she spent much time in laughter and joy, Maebh often found her sister staring off into the distance, a faraway look in her eye. For a while, she thought it was because of her injury. Maebh herself knew how disheartening such a recovery could be, especially since Cora's seemed so much longer and more painful than hers had been. Still, she could not help but feel as though there was something else behind her vacant stares and halfhearted smiles.

As she had expected, she found her sister seated at the window, staring at whatever scene lay below. Cora wrapped her arms about herself, but Maebh could not quite decipher what emotion was on her sister's face.

"She has been sitting like that for an hour," Aoife whispered behind her. Maebh turned, motioning toward the other room so Cora would not hear them. To her surprise, their brother was also present, which only spelled trouble. He and Cora had rarely spoken with each other, especially not without someone else present. Though neither were faultless, Riordan had been far too stubborn. For a while, she had thought he had begun to understand Cora's feelings and how misguided he was about the situation, but after Cora's injury he had fallen into his old ways once again.

"And she never draws anymore," Aoife mused, crossing her arms as she leaned back against the wall. "I even gave her a fresh book at Christmastide, but I have not seen her touch it."

"We have bigger problems than her hobbies," Riordan sighed. "It is obvious that she still pines for him."

Aoife narrowed her brows, determined to nip her brother's comments in the bud. "If we are to talk to her, you will not speak of him," she said sternly. Riordan rolled his eyes, but her determination was not to be dampened. "You know that will only lead to conflict," she said, trying to keep her voice down. "Especially because you seem so determined to be a coldhearted arse about it."

"That's not what I-"

"Please," Aoife scoffed. "All you have ever done is demean her for her feelings. You have treated her like a child since she returned to us, especially while she has been recovering. We are going to speak to her kindly and gently, and be understanding," she told him. "Is that clear?"

Riordan sat down, sighing. "You are just like mother."

Aoife ignored his comment, placing her hands on her hips as she prodded him to give the answer she desired. "Promise me you will not bring it up."

"Fine," he answered, slumping in the chair. Aoife rolled her eyes at his childish response, but waved him forward anyway.

When they entered the other room, Cora's face lit up. It was only when she realized that all three of her siblings were present that she raised an eyebrow, a playful smile on her face. "All three of my siblings in one place? This cannot be good," she teased. When Aoife only managed a slight smile in return, Cora's faded. "What is going on?"

"We are concerned for you, Cora," Aoife said gently.

Cora seemed genuinely surprised. "Why?"

"Everyone has noticed that you have not been yourself," Maebh said. "We just want to understand so that we can support you."

Cora crossed her arms, narrowing her gaze toward her brother, as if she was certain he had put them up to this. "Is that so?"

"Why such skepticism? Is it that hard to believe that your own sisters and brother care for your wellbeing?"

"You do not have to coddle me," she shot back. "If something was bothering me, I would tell you."

"Would you?" The concern in Aoife's voice softened the edges of Cora's defensiveness. In this, her sister was right. "Is it your wound?" She asked, trying to keep Cora from finding a way out of the conversation. "I know you still struggle with it, but-"

"I know," she said harshly.

"Cora, please." Aoife took a step toward her, as if proximity would help to get through to her. "Please talk to us. We only want to help... It is clear to all that something is amiss, and it pains us to see you unhappy."

"I am not unhappy," Cora insisted. This was not a lie – she did not think of herself as completely unhappy. Still, she could not deny Aoife's words. She knew she had often been more reserved than normal.

"It's that man, isn't it," Riordan cut in. Aoife whirled around to face him, giving him a threatening stare. Ignoring her, he continued. "Why can't you admit it to yourself?"

As Aoife had feared, Cora shut down at the mention of Connor, sitting back in her chair and crossing her arms, not willing to engage her brother. "Cora, stop this," he urged, kneeling before her and grabbing her hands. Cora turned her face away, her jaw tense with anger, but she did not pull her hands away. Riordan took this as a sign of encouragement. "Stop pining after someone you will never see again," he said gently, as if he thought he was somehow all wise when it came to Cora's mind and heart.

"Riordan, that is enough," Aoife said harshly, pulling at his shoulder. Though Aoife was stubborn in her insistence, Riordan was not about to bend. Ignoring her pull, he tried to look Cora in the eye.

"You were dying and he didn't even come for you! We wrote to him and he couldn't even spare you the time!"

At this, Cora turned toward him. For a moment, Riordan looked as though he thought he had finally gotten through to her. When she spoke, though, her voice was low and rough with anger.

"Get out," she said through her teeth.

Aoife sighed. This had not been what was supposed to happen... Even worse, her fool of a brother looked genuinely surprised at Cora's reaction. He said her name, but she only pushed him away.

"I said get out!" Riordan let go of her hands but did not move from before her. When it became clear that he would not back down, Cora stood and ran from the room.

"Damn it all," Aoife said under her breath. Riordan watched her leave, his expression wounded as though he had been the one who was hurt. Aoife smacked her brother's head. "Well done," she said, ignoring Riordan's words of defense as she pursued her sister.

She found Cora sitting against the barn, resting an elbow on one knee, her hand shielding her eyes. Aoife sat next to her sister, placing a hand on her arm.

"I am sorry," she said softly. "That was not supposed to happen..."

Cora sighed in response, dropping her hand from her face and sitting back against the barn wall. "I do not blame you," she said. Though the words were unspoken, she could feel Cora's anger toward their brother.

"He is a blind fool, that brother of ours," Aoife grumbled. "But I suppose that is what happens when we are all so stubborn." She bumped her shoulder against her sister's, garnering a slight smile.

"Will you not tell me what is wrong?"

Cora sighed, looking down at her hands. "I cannot tell you what I do not know."

"Are you sure it isn't that you miss him? I know that your feelings for him were true..."

"I don't know," Cora said quietly. "Perhaps I am fooling myself into thinking that I don't miss him anymore. I don't think that is all it is, though," she admitted thoughtfully.

"What is it?" Cora struggled to put into words what she herself did not understand. She knew her siblings were right – despite moments of happiness and mirth, she always seemed to fall back into some numb state of being. It was as though she was trapped within herself and her situation, but she did not know how to fix it.

"I don't know how to explain it, even to myself," Cora told her sister.

"Just try," Aoife urged gently.

Cora huffed, fiddling with her skirt so her hands would have something to do. "I just... feel out of place. I cannot explain it."

"Are you unhappy here?"

"No... I mean, not expressly. I just feel trapped in the routine of life, like I am missing something, or not fulfilling my true purpose... As if I even know what that purpose is," she added, ripping a dandelion from the ground and twirling it in her hands. Aoife nodded, giving her sister room to speak her mind before she interjected. "And as much as I hate to admit it," Cora continued, "I think you are right about Connor. Part of me cannot stop wishing to see him again."

"I think you need closure," Aoife suggested. "Perhaps you could go to him, speak of what happened between you."

"Aoife, you do not understand." Cora looked away. When she spoke, her voice seemed pained. "You did not see his face..."

"You cannot keep yourself locked in a cage waiting for something to happen. There has to be a way for you to move on, either with him or without him." Aoife got to her knees so that she could look her sister in the eye. "And you are not obliged to stay here just because we are your family. You will always have us. We only want you to be happy. If your purpose is elsewhere, you should go to it."

Cora tossed the dandelion to the ground in frustration. "I don't even know what that purpose is!"

"We are young, Cora. You have all the time in the world to find out."

"I just… I hate that I am so often unhappy, but I cannot figure out what will change that…"

Aoife lay a hand on Cora's, giving her a reassuring smile. "You will figure it out," she said gently. "Be patient with yourself, and follow your instincts. We both know that above all else, if Mother and Father were here they would advise you to follow your heart." Cora smiled at the truth of her sister's statement. Though it was so cliché, it was a line oft repeated by both of her parents. They had lived it themselves, following their hearts no matter what consequences it would bring. Cora wondered if she could ever bring herself to be so courageous. She had already faced Connor's rejection once, and she was not sure if she could do it once again. Still, the thought that he would hear her out brought her hope. At least for now, that was enough to cling to.

Despite his long hesitation to answer the correspondence from Stephane and the other Assassins, he eventually found himself on his way to Boston. It was a letter from Victoire in which she threatened to come check on him herself that finally drew him from the Homestead, which had become his refuge in the past months. Though amidst the hardest part of his recovery he had not wished to go on, he had soon come to understand that he indeed had a place among his neighbors and friends in Davenport. The kindness and companionship they had shown him was one thing, but through them he had begun to remember what he had fought for. Though he still struggled to find purpose, he felt as though he had a place in the world. For that, he could never repay them.

For his own sake, Victoire had promised to keep his arrival rather quiet. For now, only she, Duncan, and Stephane knew of his arrival. To keep things understated, he stayed with the newlywed Littles instead of taking his place in the newly finished Assassin hideout. The couple welcomed him warmly but did not press him, especially since Victoire knew he was apprehensive about his meeting with Stephane in the morning.

"You do not have to speak of anything serious," she said as she offered him tea, which he gladly accepted. Tugging her shawl tightly about her shoulders, she sat down across from him. It was rather late, and Victoire's husband had already gone to bed. Though sleep was probably what he truly needed, Connor had found himself quite restless since he had sustained his wound. Victoire could not pass up the opportunity to talk with him, but Connor did not mind. Victoire had always possessed a keen sense of other people's emotions, and he did not worry that she would press him farther than he wished to go. Besides, he had always appreciated her company and conversation. "I am sorry if our letters felt intrusive," she said as she poured herself a cup of tea. "We were worried, especially since we had not heard word in so long."

Connor took a long drink, unsure how open he wished to be with her. As he began speaking, though, he felt himself being quite honest. "I am sorry for worrying you," he offered. "I did not know if I wished to return to the Assassins," he answered slowly. Victoire showed no visible reaction to his words, only listening intently as he spoke. "I still do not."

"I understand," she said after a long while. "You have been through much… I can only imagine it is natural for you to be unsure of where your path leads next. I can say that you would be sorely missed if you decided to leave, but none of us can force you to stay if your heart is not in it."

"In truth… I do not know where my heart lies."

Victoire nodded, setting down her tea as a cautious look passed over her face. Connor instantly regretted mentioning his heart. He knew exactly what she would bring up next, and it was precisely the thing he did not wish to speak of. Though he considered Victoire wise with emotional matters, he knew there was one matter she always meddled in.

"Have you heard word from Cora?"

"No," he said curtly, narrowing his brows. He could see that Victoire knew she was crossing the line, but she pressed forward anyway, even if she was cautious about it.

"Well enough. I do not think she knows about what happened," she said softly, her eyes glancing down at his abdomen in a moment of absentmindedness. "Regretfully, I have not spoken to her in quite some time, either. I believe she is well, though."

"Victoire, please."

"Alright," she ceded, falling quiet for a moment before letting her curiosity overcome her. "I know now why you did not come when we sent for you, but… I thought you would at least ask after her."

Connor furrowed his brow in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"The letter we sent… It was right around the time you were injured. That is why you did not come, right?"

"Come where?"

At this, Victoire leaned forward, genuinely perplexed. "Did you not receive our letter? Duncan said it was delivered safely…"

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Connor…" Victoire spoke slowly, unsure what had happened. "Cora was gravely injured during our attack on Oliver's hideout. She was dying… Mina and I sent for you."

Connor sat back, bewildered at what he was hearing. He had not even known there had been such an attack… And to think that Cora had been so seriously wounded… His mind immediately went back to the sight of her laying pale in his bed, close to death. The thought brought back waves of emotion he thought he had long buried. Stunned, he looked back up at Victoire. "Is she alright?"

Victoire failed to hide her smile. "Yes," she said softly. "The last letter I received was from quite a while ago, but she said she would recover in time." Connor nodded, looking past her as he tried to decipher the feeling that gripped his heart.

"I know you love her still," she said gently, laying a hand on his arm. He did not pull away from her, but his face showed obvious displeasure at the boldness of her words. Still, he did not interrupt her. "And I can tell you that she loves you, too."

At this, Connor slid away, pulling his arms against his chest. "Then why did she leave?"

"I do not know, but-"

"Victoire, it is over. I have accepted that. Perhaps it is time that you do, as well."

Sighing, Victoire stood. "I will say this… It is obvious that you both suffer in the not knowing. If you truly believe it is over, perhaps you should tell her."

"She has already made her choice quite clear."

Victoire scoffed, muttering in softly in French as she gathered the teapot from the table. "Very well. I can only tell you what I have seen, and that is two people who have happiness in their grasp but are too stubborn to reach out and take it. What's done is done. Decisions have been made and regretted. But do not forget that you spurned her, as well." Connor opened his mouth to protest, but Victoire continued on. "That night when she came to the tavern, you rejected her, too. I do not pretend that I agree with what she did to you, but can you not understand that she probably believes the same thing you do?"

Connor looked away. This was why he did not wish to speak of this with Victoire – she always managed to remind him of things he had tried for so long to forget. "What is the point," he muttered. It had been over six months since he had last seen her, and a year and a half since he had last spoken to her. In that time, things had changed – for the both of them. Wounds had festered, hearts had closed and hardened… Some things were impossible to mend.

"The point," she said desperately, setting the tea pot down as she leaned one hand on the table, "is that you love her. Love is the most important thing we have in this life. To see you abandon it…"

Connor could not deny it. Somehow, after all this time he still held onto her. He wasn't sure if it was the memory of her or the dreams of what they could have had, but though he was angry and hurt there was also some part of his heart that loved her still. Even so, he had learned to be practical, and the realistic part of him knew that she was never coming back. All he could do was hope that in time, both of them would find their peace.

Aoife was a married woman.

The ceremony had been strange to her – Nate's family was Quaker, and so her sister had converted in order to join him in marriage. Luckily, Aoife's conversion seemed to be true. Even Cora was intrigued by their ways of peace and simplicity. It was so different from the life she had known after being taken from her family, and it brought her hope for what she might become. Though she was only twenty-one years old, she often felt as though time was beginning to slip away from her, tumbling forward at an ever quickening pace.

Aoife and Nate's vows were simple and required no minister. Instead, they joined hands and made their promises unto each other and unto God. There was something about it that stirred Cora's heart – the thought that two people must only declare they were married before God… It seemed so simple, yet so deeply profound.

Afterward, there was much celebration. Though joy abounded, toward the conclusion of the night Cora began to feel her smile fade away as it so often did. She was not even sure what it was, only that she all of the sudden felt so dreadfully out of place.

When the time came to bid her sister and new brother-in-law goodbye, Aoife had hugged her tightly. Taking her face in her hands, she had kissed her forehead and asked her to trust in her heart. All Cora could do was nod and smile in response, for she could not recall the last time her heart had spoken to her at all.

Riordan and Felicity had come to the decision to return to their home after Aoife's wedding. With Oliver dead, there was no longer a reason for them to hide away. Both of them were eager to return to normal life, though Cora was oddly apprehensive to return to that house and the memories it still contained. Nate's family had arranged for them to stay with several family members and friends who lived along their route.

As they rode, Cora had been in a rather contemplative mood. The others chatted away, but she hung back in silence, save for the occasional talk with Maebh. Her younger sister had begun to come out of her shell once again, and for that Cora was indescribably thankful. Now sixteen, she was truly beginning to blossom into an intelligent young woman. At first, she was ashamed of her scar, but she had begun to accept it as part of who she was.

"You have hardly said a word all day," Maebh said, leading her horse back to where Cora lagged behind.

"Haven't I?" Though Cora played clueless, she knew well why she had kept to herself particularly well on this day. She knew this road well – familiar landmarks were everywhere. As they approached a crossroad she had taken several times, she knew that a simple change of direction meant an hours ride to the Homestead.

"Don't play coy," Maebh teased, smiling at her sister. "I know you better than that."

Smiling, Cora opened her mouth to deliver a witty response. Her words were cut short by the sight of a familiar horse. Straining her neck, she turned to get a better look at the rider himself. Though he wore a hat and his face was turned in the other direction, she caught sight of a familiar braid and her heart froze within her chest. If she had been standing, her knees would have gone weak. Even in the saddle, her hands shook, her face going unnaturally pale. She did not hear Maebh's questioning and concern as her eyes followed Connor.

Nuala fell back at the commotion, but she did not need to question Maebh to figure out what was going on. Cora's eyes were locked onto a man who was taking another path, and she looked as though she was looking at the ghost of someone long dead. Putting two and two together was a simple task. Riordan and Felicity stopped their cart, Felicity grabbing young Benjamin's hand to stop him from following his father as he jumped to the ground.

Cora's distress was obvious, and it pained Nuala to see her so affected. Afraid Riordan would mishandle the situation, Nuala led her horse to Cora's side and called her name, reaching out toward her. When Cora finally turned, shock and sorrow in her eyes, Nuala took her hand. "It is alright," she told her, squeezing her hand in comfort. Cora's chest heaved as she drew her hand back. Before any of them could stop her, she spurred her horse into a trot, leaving them behind as she continued down the path.

Riordan yelled after her, but Nuala tried to calm her nephew's worries. "Let her be," she told him as he climbed back into the cart, taking the reins.

"What on earth has gotten into her?"

"Connor," Nuala said coolly, ignoring the Riordan's mutterings as they continued on. Felicity swatted her husband's knee, clutching their daughter tighter as she whispered to him in a low voice. Nuala sighed, answering her own daughter's calls as she watched Cora slow down in the distance, dropping her head. All she could do was pray that her niece's heart would mend in time.

They arrived at the home of their hosts not long after that. After exchanging welcomes and pleasantries Cora excused herself, retreating to a room that had been set aside for them. Nuala paid no mind to it, knowing she likely needed to sort out her thoughts. When her niece did not come down for supper, Nuala knew her suspicions about that man they had encountered on the trail must be true. When she found Cora, she was sitting upon the bed, flipping through the book that contained her drawings.

"I have not seen you with that book in quite some time," she commented, taking a seat on the foot of the bed. Cora sighed, not looking up as she paused on a drawing of the form of a woman with child.

"It sustained me for so long," she said softly, her fingers tracing the lines of the woman's swollen belly. "Now it is hard to remember that it is mine."

Nuala sighed, placing a finger under her niece's chin and tipping her face up to look at her. "My dear girl," she whispered, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear and smoothing it down with the comfort of a mother's touch. "You should go to him." At this, Cora looked up, obviously stunned at her aunt's bluntness. For a moment, Nuala thought Cora would deny her as she always had, but instead she closed the book and sat up.

"Do you truly think so?"

"Yes. You must bring yourself closure if you ever wish to move on."

"Aoife told me the same thing."

Nuala nodded, watching the emotions pass over Cora's face as she tried to decide what to do. Standing, she went to the window and sighed, as if hoping to see a sign that would lead her to the path she should take.

"It has been so long… What if he won't see me," she wondered aloud, biting her lip once she had spoken her worry.

Nuala could hear the genuine fear in her niece's voice. Though they had often talked about this Connor, sometimes it was easy to forget how much Cora had truly cared for him. Rising from the bed, she went to Cora's side and lay a hand on her shoulder. "From what you have told me of him, I do not think he would. And if he does, then you will know that your path forward does not include him."

Cora knew her aunt was right, but she found it so difficult to summon the courage to face the possibility of rejection. In truth, she did not expect him to take her back. Perhaps in the year and a half they had been apart, they had grown too far apart for it to be possible. Yet still, she could not live the rest of her days without at least speaking to him.

Cora turned to face her aunt and wrapped her in a tight embrace before grabbing her hat and fleeing the room. Nuala followed, stopping at the foot of the stair when Riordan stood from his seat and called after her. When he began to go after her, Nuala pressed a hand against his shoulder.

"Let her go, Riordan," she said softly. Riordan strained against her for a moment, looking off into the distance as Cora rode away. For a moment, Nuala thought he would try to feign ignorance. Instead, he sighed and took a step back.

"I hope she knows what she is doing."

Though it was only two hours from where they were staying to the Homestead, Cora rode hard, her nerves unable to abide a leisurely pace. She finally slowed as she began to notice familiar landmarks, and as she began to pass the homes and businesses of the people of Davenport she almost wished she had taken more time to think of what she would say.

As the manor came into view, she stopped for a moment to collect her thoughts. She took a deep breath, shivering as she tried to steady her racing mind, though she could not tell if the shiver that went down her spine was from nerves or the unseasonably cold air. Just as she urged her horse forward, someone called her name, startling her from her burst of courage.

"Cora? Is that you?"

When Cora turned, she saw none other than Myriam before her. Stunned into silence, she looked the woman over, only to realize that she was with child.

"Connor is here, if that is why you have returned," she said, looking up at her with an unreadable expression. The last time Myriam had spoken to her, her words had been full of sharp anger. "We hardly see him these days," she mused, as if to herself. "He is quite distant, living alone in that big house and almost never coming out." Cora was unsure what to say in response, finding herself nodding in the stead of actual words.

"Congratulations," she said softly. Myriam's hands cradled her belly, and she gave a slight smile. As Cora looked toward the manor, Myriam spoke once again.

"Look," she said, obviously uncomfortable with whatever she was about to say. "I am sorry for the way I acted before." Though her words were tense, Cora did not doubt that they were genuine.

"I am sure I deserved some of it," she returned, smiling in hopes of easing the tension between them. "But it is in the past," she continued. "And I am sorry, too. I said my fair share of unkind things."

Finally, Myriam smiled with relief. "Shall we part ways as friends?" Myriam extended a hand toward her, and Cora took it, sealing their pact with a handshake.

"I would like that." After the exchange of nods and smiles, Myriam wished Cora good luck and she continued on.

Her heart raced as she dismounted. There were a thousand things he could react to her presence, and most of them were not altogether pleasant. Even worse, she had no idea what to say to him. Be that as it may, she found herself walking toward the front door. As she picked up her skirts to climb the steps, she noticed that the hatchet once embedded in the front post was no longer there. Without thinking, she reached out and ran her fingers over the crevice in the wood. Once, she had asked him about its purpose there. Though she had thought it comical at first, he proceeded to explain its significance of the commencement of battle. She wondered then if Connor's war was over, or if like her, he still battled invisible foes.

To her surprise, she heard a familiar bark. Turning, she saw Fionn coming toward her with a wild romp. Smiling, she called out to him, bending down as he thrust himself into her arms, whimpering as he tried to decide between licking her face and nestling his head into her bosom. Grateful for the momentary respite from her nerves, she scratched behind the mutt's ears, happy to see a welcoming face.

Once he had gotten his fill of affection, Cora stood and faced the manor once again. With shaking hands, she knocked on the door. As she waited for it to open, she gathered the fabric of her cloak in her hands, if only for something to hold onto. Knocking once more, she prepared herself for whatever was to happen, but when no answer came she found herself trying the door herself. To her surprise, it opened without effort. The house was warm, and as its familiar smell enveloped her she called out Connor's name.

Again, there was no answer. She even called for Achilles, but it seemed the house was empty. Absentmindedly, she removed her cloak and draped it across the back of a chair, putting her hands on her hips. Myriam had told her that Connor was here, so perhaps he was just out and would return soon. Either way, she was not likely to make it back before dark. Resigned to wait for him, she took a seat.

It did not take long for her to grow restless, and she found herself wandering about the house. Not much had changed. Her herbs still sat on the windowsill, and it seemed that someone had continued to care for them. The furniture had not been moved, and the curtains that Achilles so abhorred still hung on the windows. Still, the house was too well ordered, as though no one was truly living there. Interested to see if the second floor still held the same familiarity, Cora gathered her skirts and climbed the stairs. Indeed, the rooms were just as she had previously seen them. The cot she had spent so many nights on was still set out in her old room. Cora turned toward Connor's room. The door was open, but she hesitated to enter. It felt like she was invading his space, despite the fact that they had shared the room for so long.

Connor's room showed the most change. His walls were adorned with things she had never seen before – strange weapons, paintings, and what looked to be handmade crafts. A pole with a net on the end lay propped against the wall in the corner, and an exquisite necklace made of shell and glass beads lay upon his dresser. She carefully ran a finger over it, wondering at the workmanship. Somehow, it almost reminded her of the bracelet Connor had gifted her so long ago. Cora dug a finger into her sleeve and drew it out, running a thumb over it. So often she had imagined him making it, especially as she was recovering from her confrontation with Oliver. It was proof that he had loved her once. Yet now… Now, she could so keenly feel the distance between them. Despite her courage to come here, she suddenly felt as though it had been a fool's errand.

In the past few weeks, Connor had made an effort to begin training once again. Norris had expressed an interest in the Assassins. After all he had witnessed and helped with, it was no wonder that he wished to understand more. In doing so, he also developed the desire to learn how to fight. Connor had initially been surprised, as Norris seemed to have an aversion to conflict and violence. Even so, Connor had agreed to help train him. After all, learning a few skills was no harm to anyone. It also provided an opportunity for Connor to begin regaining his strength. So far, Norris had been learning slowly and steadily. Connor, on the other hand, struggled more than he thought he would. Sometimes, the pain was not easily dealt with. It often came on suddenly, even while doing things he did not think would aggravate his wound. Lyle had been trying several exercises with him to gauge his progress and ensure that Connor was not overexerting himself.

Some days were better than others. This day had been particularly difficult, and by the end of the drills and exercises he was physically and emotionally exhausted. The cold certainly didn't help his mood. He heard that towns north of Davenport had already begun to see snow. He could not remember the last time he had seen snow so late in the season. He thought he could recall a late snowstorm around his twentieth birthday, but that had been seven years ago.

When he shut the door behind him, he sighed, thankful for the warmth. As he began to remove his coat, however, he noticed a strange cloak draped across the back of a dining room chair. Depositing his coat onto the table, he took the fabric into his hands, looking around to see if anything else had been disturbed. Carefully, he drew the knife he kept in his belt. Though he had refrained from carrying any weapons since he had retired to Davenport to recover, old habits were hard to break.

He moved about the house silently, checking each room before moving upstairs. When he approached his room, he could hear the rustle of fabric, as though someone was moving around. As he rounded the corner, he was confused to see a woman before him. Her back was turned to him as she examined his mother's necklace. Confused, he slid his knife back into his belt, keeping his hand on it just in case.

When she turned slightly, he was able to see her profile. Upon doing so, he froze. It took all his strength to keep silent at the sight of Cora. His heart tumbled within his chest, and he was not sure if it was relief or anger that made it do so. It was strange to see her, and even stranger that it had taken so long for him to recognize her. Besides the one night they infiltrated a Templar dance, he had never seen her in such an outfit. Though it was not a formal outfit, she certainly looked the part of a lady. The dress was a creamy white, a simple floral pattern printed on the linen. Her hair, dark as ever, was pulled back into an intricate bun with one large curl draped across her shoulder. Several smaller curls stuck out here and there, as though her hair had been tousled in the wind. She even wore a small, flat hat adorned with ribbon. He recalled Ellen naming it when he had brought some things to her shop, but he could not remember the name now.

Besides her outfit, other changes were evident. Her form seemed softer than before – healthier, almost. He could still remember how angular and thin she had been when they first met. Now, the curve of her hip was fuller, though he was sure the plethora of skirts only added to that. As he watched her dig in her sleeve, he wondered how to alert her to his presence.

As if reading his thoughts, she turned suddenly, her eyes wide as she looked upon him. Her lips and cheeks were rosy from the cold wind, her dark eyes almost as wild as the first time he had seen her. She gripped the dresser tightly as they stared at each other, neither sure what to say.

Seeing him was everything she thought it would be, and everything she hoped it would not. Between the fear of his anger and the embarrassment that she had been caught in his room, she was rendered speechless. Instead, she searched his face for any sign of what he was feeling. All she could see was surprise reflecting back at her in his eyes. It was strange to see him again. Besides the fact that his hair was several inches longer, he looked much the same. At a closer look, though, she could almost feel that his heart had much changed.

The tension in the air was hard to bear, and she turned to face him fully, clasping her hands as she searched for the words. "I…" was all she could manage, but even that seemed to offend him. All of the sudden he turned and left the room, leaving her to follow after him.

Despite the shock of seeing her there, at first Connor was quite level headed. When she looked at him, though, all he could do was remember what she had done. Where initially he had wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms, now it was all he could do to keep from demanding that she get out of his home. Yet though he wanted to yell and tell her how much she had hurt him, he found that he could not bear to even look at her.

As he fled from the second floor, she called after him. "Please, hear me out," she begged. "I only wish to talk." He stopped as he reached the dining table, leaning both hands on it as he struggled to decide what to do. The rustling of her skirts gave away her every move, and he heard when she stopped several feet behind him. "Please," she said again, her voice barely a whisper.

"You want to talk?" he muttered before turning to face her, his eyes blazing with anger and hurt that had been trapped within for much too long. "Why did you do it?" Cora seemed surprised at his question, though he knew not why. Had she not asked him to speak?

"I…"

"Well?" He knew he was being overly harsh, but he could not stop himself now.

Cora sighed, looking up at him. "Oliver gave me an ultimatum," she said softly. "I was to lead you to him, and if I did not… He said he would kill all the people on the Homestead. I could not bear the thought of being responsible for so much destruction, and so I left."

Connor stood back, trying to understand what she was saying. On one hand, everything seemed to fall into place – why she had been so unnerved when she returned that day, and why she had tried to hide her tears the night before she left. Still, there was only so much he could comprehend. They could have figured it out together! For her to just leave, even for that… He was not sure he could understand.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" Connor's tone was still harsh, full of the anger he had wished to express for so long.

At this, Cora finally got defensive. "Because I was afraid," she yelled, sighing with frustration as she paced for a moment. "I was afraid he was telling the truth." Softening, she looked up at him with regret. "I thought… I thought I could handle it," she admitted. Connor sighed, his heart still feeling as though it was being torn in two different directions. "I was afraid you would be hurt," she continued, her voice breaking as she tried to get through to him.

"I was hurt," he said, his own voice wavering. "I was hurt the moment you left this house without even the dignity of a goodbye. I was hurt when you let me believe that it had been nothing to you."

At this, Cora felt her throat closing with sorrow and frustration. As tears stung her eyes, she took a step toward him. "I didn't mean for this to happen," she said raggedly. Connor looked at her, his lips pressed together in anger.

For the slightest moment, she thought he finally understood. Just as she let herself dare to hope, he turned and walked away, heading straight out the door. Desperation faded into her own anger, and she followed him. "The least you could do is hear me out," she yelled after him. When he continued on, she stopped.

"Don't pretend that you have done nothing! You did not seem to care when I came to you that night at the tavern, so I do not know why you pretend to now."

Connor scoffed, turning to face her. "Really?"

"It seemed evident enough to me," she said, fire burning in her eyes.

"You made it clear that you didn't care the moment you rode away," he said, his voice weary. "And if you did, you had every opportunity to come back and tell me."

"Do you truly believe that I didn't care? That I didn't love you? Is that the point? That you let yourself think I didn't care and now you're holding that against me?"

"No," he snarled, taking several steps toward her. "The point is that you made your decision. You left without a word when we could have figured it out together, and now you are back here begging for forgiveness when I have already gotten over it."

Cora's chest heaved at his words, but she continued on. "Gotten over me, you mean."

"What did you expect, Cora? You left! What the hell was I supposed to do?"

At this, the first in Cora's eyes dimmed and she seemed to shrink back as her eyes darted from one place to the other. She did not make eye contact as she spoke. "Perhaps my brother was right," she muttered to herself. "I never should have come here." Despite his wrath, Connor felt his heart soften at her obvious hurt. As she turned away, he ran a hand over his face. Watching her walk away did nothing to help his confusion. He did not regret the words he spoke to her, but at the same time he did not want her to go. With his words, he had made her believe he no longer loved her. Even so, words were not enough to convince himself of the same thing. If he was honest and looked beyond the stubbornness that came with anger, he could understand her motives, even if they had hurt him. As she grabbed her saddle from where she had laid it upon her arrival, he knew he could not watch her ride away for a second time.

"Cora," he called, walking over to her. She looked quite the fool as she attempted to saddle her horse while wearing such a large dress, and he wondered why she had even bothered to remove the saddle in the first place. "What are you doing?"

She paused, saddle still in hand as she turned to face him. "There is no reason for me to stay here," she said quietly, turning back to Ealga as she prepared to continue her task. "If I can make it back tonight, I am sure I can-"

Connor grabbed the saddle, his hands covering hers in order to stop her from continuing. "Who knows if they are still there," he said, ignoring the correction that formed on Cora's lips. "Night will fall long before you reach them, not to mention the storm that is supposed to hit."

"It is nothing I have not done before," she protested. Connor sighed as she spoke. Could she not see that he was trying?

"Cora, please. Just because we argued doesn't mean I am going to agree to you riding several hours at night in a snow storm." Cora looked away, but he could not discern what she was feeling. "You are welcome to stay until morning," he offered.

With a huff, Cora nodded and let him take the saddle from her arms. She was not sure what to feel as she watched him go to place the saddle back on the stand. When he lifted it, though, he groaned and shut his eyes, leaning against the barn wall as he braced himself with his other arm, dropping the saddle at his feet. Concern overcoming confusion, Cora jumped to his side, placing a hand on his shoulder as he clutched at his side.

"Are you alright?" she asked desperately, feeling rather helpless. "Should I fetch Lyle?"

"No," he grunted, looking away as though he was embarrassed that she should see him like this.

"Come on," she said, easing his arm around her shoulder. Wrapping one arm around his waist in support, she gathered her skirts in her free hand in order to keep them out of the way. As they made their way toward the manor, Connor breathed heavily. She had noticed a slight limp when he initially walked out of the room, but now it was much more pronounced.

Once they were inside, she helped him into a chair and asked again if she should call for the doctor. Connor refused her once again, but she was not sure if it was pure stubbornness or if he knew it was nothing to bother Lyle with. The sight of him in so much pain sent her into action.

Connor took several deep breaths, trying to focus on anything but the pain. Lyle had told him not to push himself too hard, but evidently the day's training had done more harm than good. Somehow, Cora quickly produced a warm cloth. Kneeling before him, she balanced it on her knee for a moment before reaching for his shirt. Just before her fingers reached the buttons of his waistcoat, she looked up at him for permission. Connor nodded, shutting his eyes as another wave of pain passed through his body. He looked down at her as she pulled his shirt up, revealing the scar that had formed there. Her eyes widened at the sight of it, fingers hovering over the ragged skin. If she was horrified, she did not show it. As soon as the shock had passed over her face, she pushed it away and folded the cloth. "This might help the muscles relax," she said before pressing it to his skin. Hissing, he tipped his head back, his hands gripping the arms of the chair.

"Are you absolutely sure I should not call for Lyle?"

"Yes," he rasped, his eyes still locked on the ceiling. "This happens sometimes." Cora nodded, biting her lip as she pressed the cloth against his skin. It was strange, to be engaged in such an intimate act after such an argument.

After a few moments, Connor began to relax, his grip loosening on the arms of the chair. Cora said nothing as she heated another wet cloth over the fire. When she turned to replace it, she could feel Connor's eyes upon her but dared not meet his gaze, for she was afraid she would lose control of her tears if she did.

Once she set the cooled cloth aside, Connor replaced her hands. "I have it," he said, nodding his thanks as Cora settled in the chair across from him. After receiving his fill of attention, Fionn collapsed in front of the fire, perhaps sensing the seriousness of the situation. Several long minutes of awkward silence passed between them before Connor finally spoke.

"What made you come?"

"I saw you on the road this morning," she explained briefly, as though that was all he needed to know. Noticing the absence of the old man once more, she changed the subject. "Where is Achilles?"

A somber look passed over Connor's face, and he looked down. "He passed almost a year ago."

"I am so sorry, Connor," she breathed, unsure how else to express her sorrow at such news. Connor only nodded in response, ushering in more silence.

Leaning his head back against the back of the chair, he turned his face toward her. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Yes." Cora hesitated before continuing. At face value, her words were true – Oliver was dead, and she had been reunited with her family. Still, such a simple answer did not explain the discontentment she felt. "And you?"

Connor nodded, swallowing as he set the towel aside. "Yes." Cora began to rise to fetch another one, but he motioned for her to sit as he pulled his shirt back into place. "Yet it brought me little closure," he admitted. Cora cocked her head, a familiar look of concern passing over her face. Suddenly, Connor's heart felt the sting of all they had lost. It was only now that he realized how much he had missed her quirks, her voice, even just the security of her presence.

"Now that I do understand," she said softly, looking into the fire. "Despite it all, I still feel so much hate, though I know not toward whom." Connor watched her as she spoke. He could not tell if her thoughts were for him or for herself, but when she turned to look at him he knew her words were not absentminded mutterings. "My mother once told me that hating is easy, but I am not so sure anymore. It takes so much effort to remind yourself why you must carry so much malice and anger in the very being of your soul. Yet loving is not easy, either," she mused, looking away. In the darkening light, he thought he could almost see a blush against her cheek. "To care for someone no matter how harshly they have treated you, no matter the wrongs they have done against you. Selfless love is one of the hardest things. Maybe the easy thing is just to feel nothing… To retreat so far within yourself that you feel nothing at all."

Connor was not sure what to say. The truth of her words stung, though he was sure she did not mean them to. Suddenly she seemed so vulnerable, so open, and he had to resist the urge to reach out and touch her. "And what do you feel?"

"I do not know," she answered, glancing at him again.

"Perhaps it is easy to hate," he mused. "I certainly seem to have no problem lately."

Cora looked at him uneasily, no doubt afraid he was talking about her. In truth, part of him was, but he had no desire to upset the calm they had settled into and so he did his best not to confirm her worry. "Sometimes I feel as though I was used," he said bitterly. "By the Assassins, by my father, by Washington… Used as the means to their end, to accomplish their tasks by doing what benefitted them and not me or my people. Often, I wonder what it was all for."

Taken aback by the bitterness in his voice, Cora struggled to come up with words of comfort. Deep within her, she felt as though he had left something unsaid. The words hung in the air, keenly felt even if not spoken aloud. She knew he felt used by her, too. Though her first thought was to be upset with him, she knew he had every right to feel that way. Sighing, she glanced over at him, only to find that he was studying her face as well. They stared at each other for a few moments, but Cora could only take the silence for so long. She had come here to talk to him, and talk to him she would.

"You think I used you," she said, forming it more as a statement of fact than as a question, "don't you." Connor only looked at her, his lips taut in an unspoken confirmation. It was true enough. For a long time, he had felt as if she had taken what she needed and left when it no longer suited her. Though he knew now that such notions had been misguided, he could still not shake the sting of betrayal. Cora looked away, wiping a hand over her face in a not so subtle attempt to hide the tears that began to sting her eyes.

"I should retire," she said, turning her back to him as she collected herself. Darkness had scarcely fallen, but all of the sudden she felt overwhelmed with exhaustion. "I saw that my old room is still made up," she said softly, not meeting his eyes. "If it is alright with you, I can sleep there."

"Take Achilles' room," he told her. "There is no use sleeping on that cot when there is a free bed."

Nodding, Cora took her leave without another word. Fionn followed her eagerly, seeming to be the only one who felt any joy or contentment. Connor sunk back into the chair, running his hands over his face. This was the last thing he had expected… Eventually, he thought he would come to move on and let go of what had happened. Now, he felt all jumbled up inside, torn between empathy and reawakened anger. He rested there for a while longer, trying to sort out his thoughts. He could not deny that he still found it hard to accept all she had said. Did she love him still? Or was this all just some ploy to receive vindication that she had been right?

An hour or so later, he eased himself up, figuring that he should get some rest as well. As he passed Achilles' old room, however, he noticed light streaming into the dark hall from the crack between the door and the wall. He did not know why, but he found himself peering into the room to see if she was still awake. When he saw that she was asleep, he carefully nudged the door open and entered the room. Fionn, who had followed at Cora's heels since her return, lay sleeping at the foot of the bed. He lifted his head as Connor entered, but upon recognizing him he lay down once more. Evidently, Cora had been reading from one of the many books Achilles had kept on the shelves of his room. It lay sprawled out on the floor, her hand hanging off of the bed. Connor picked it up and set it neatly on the side table, reaching for the candle to blow it out. Before he did so, his eyes fell on Cora's sleeping face. Her hair was sprawled out in every direction, part of it threatening to fall in her face. Fighting the urge to smooth it back into place, he took a step back.

Despite everything, he still loved her. For so long, he had tried aimlessly to convince himself otherwise, but as he watched her sleep, he knew his attempts had been fruitless. The only thing left to decide was what that love would mean for them, and what, if anything, it could overcome.