Part Seven: The Aquila
The following day, Connor had resigned himself to the fact that he had much to learn of patience, and accompanied Achilles down the back of the hill, curving along the cliffside to the pile of stones that Connor had arrived at from Boston. There was a small shack set back from the shore with a small building. There was one chimney in the back and there were only windows were one on either side of the only door. The home wasn't of brick, but of wood, with wooden shingles and a wooden porch of tiny size. From inside was some sort of off-key singing, adding to the almost desolate nature of the small... shack.
"What are we looking for here?" Connor asked softly.
"An... asset." Achilles gestured and Connor knocked politely on the door.
"Go 'way!" a slurred voice bellowed.
A glance at the Old Man, and Achilles nodded. Softly, quietly, Connor opened the door, with great caution. The smallest crack gave a rank smell Connor could not identify beyond foul. Inside a man was slumped against the wall by the fireplace, bottles around him, and the stench intensifying.
The man was clearly older, gray hair and beard turning snowy white, and his cheeks were bright red as he gestured wildly with the bottle in hand that sloshed. "Said 'go 'way', boy," he slurred. "D'ya not speak the King's English?"
Connor opened the door wider, hoping to entice any sort of cold breeze to cut through the stench of the squalor. How could anyone live with the smell? Achilles shuffled in behind Connor.
"Oh, I didn't see you there, Old Man," the red-faced man slurred, more calm. He glanced around the room. "I'd've set my home in order if I'd known you'd be callin'. It's been what... seven years since you locked yourself in the manor? Two since I had her drug here?"
Connor wondered who the "her" dragged here had been.
"This," Achilles gestured to the red-faced man, "is Robert Faulkner. Instead of your morning run, you'll be working with him."
Tightening his jaw to avoid comment, Connor rubbed at his nose to try and remove the stench that was still infiltrating it.
"The boy's name is Connor," Achilles turned to Robert. "He's here to restore the property. Among other things."
"Restore?" Faulkner asked in shock. Then his face lit up into a smile. "Restore! Pardon my manners!" he slouched forward and staggered up, still clutching the bottle tightly. Three steps brought them all out into the cold March air and away from the foul smell, for which Connor was relieved. Faulkner squinted against the light, but gestured with his bottle. "She's still the fastest in the Atlantic – sure she needs some attention... minor things mostly, but with a little affection she'll fly again."
Connor looked around for a woman. Perhaps one with wings. A member of the Thunders who brought thunder and lightning perhaps? "Who is 'she'?"
"Who is she?" Faulkner slurred as he growled. "Why the Aquila, boy!" he pointed out to the harbor. "The Ghost of the North Seas!"
The only thing in the harbor was the wreck.
Connor looked at it and squinted, trying to see what Faulkner saw. "The boat?" he asked incredulously.
"B-b-a boat?!" Faulkner shouted, clearly insulted. He whirled, staggered, then loomed at Connor, his disgusting breath making Connor step back and cover his nose. "She's a ship, boy, and make no mistake about it!" He staggered to Achilles. "I thought you said you brought him to restore order? I reckon he's the greenest thing on the frontier!"
Achilles only gave a satisfied smile. "Connor, meet me back at the manor when you're finished here." He patted Faulkner's shoulder, and turned to hobble up the path.
Faulkner squinted to Connor, before throwing his hand up in defeat, still clutching his bottle possessively. "Naive, inexperienced, boy!"
Connor bristled. "You said it requires repairs..." he attempted to say confidently. He glanced up and down at the staggering, red-faced man. "You able?"
Faulkner rounded. "She does need work," he growled, the slur slowly receding. "A ship is a 'she', boy, and yes I can refit her but I'm lacking in the proper supplies. Some... Some quality timber would help me get started. I've got money saved to repair her, but not enough for the starting points."
Well, that was an easy task. "We have lumberjacks on the property."
Faulkner whirled, and for the first time, hope seemed to sparkle in his eyes. He gave a large grin. "Well what are we waiting for! Let's go see them!"
The conversation between Faulkner, Godfrey, and Terry was truly something to watch. They all argued about price and quality, Faulkner trying to get a cheaper and cheaper price, Godfrey and Terry going for a higher and higher price. There were some massive white pine trunks that the lumberjacks had cut the previous year that they were "seasoning" until they could make proper planks, and Faulkner wanted them reserved as masts and such for the ship. Finally they came to an agreement that included Faulkner carrying goods for them once he had his ship up and sailing.
From there, Faulkner dragged Connor on the three day trip back to Boston to get laborers for building a proper pier, which apparently already had stone foundations but had never been finished, and to get to work hefting the ship, the Aquila, out of the harbor for proper repairs. The rest of March and a good ways into April was spent with Connor learning more than he thought possible of construction. He had thought longhouses were complicated when weaving the wood together, but the way these colonists constructed things, taking such great care with the very foundations, was just so... strange. Most of the time was spent with Godfrey and Terry, getting a good foundation for the root cellar. The two lumberjacks had been living in their mill or camping by it, and with a proper lease of the land and the ability to call for their families, they wanted to get a good start on a proper home.
During the whirlwind of learning construction, Achilles spent their afternoons with culture and reading, and now a ledger as well, keeping track of what was purchased, what was sold, their dealings, and what to budget for. Soon Connor's mind was a whirl with numbers as well as everything else he was learning. He had tried to ask of the older accounts, but the Old Man did not say much. Only that it was from years prior, before the slow fever. Before the Templars. Before everything collapsed.
Near the end of April, after digging through Achilles's small garden and planting the Three Sisters, maize, beans, and squash, so that their harmony together would provide harmony in the body when harvested, Connor had entered the actual root cellar, past the training ring, and noted that they were almost out of salted meat. Achilles said he would merely order some from Boston, but Connor had simply shook his head in exasperation, saddled the nag of a horse, and rode out, saying he'd be back in a few days.
To be alone in the forests was surprisingly relaxing. There was no more hustle and bustle, and Connor felt like he had a moment to finally think. Already he was planning ahead. With the Three Sisters planted, rabbits would start to try and nibble, so he could set snares to have steady meat while training, but hunting trips like this, getting a deer or two for venison to be salted or smoked in order to keep, particularly when winter came, would be necessary every few weeks. He would not need much to sustain them for a while. And as he planned ahead, he realized that he was using the math Achilles had been teaching him, estimating how much meat was used in one day and extrapolating from that. Ratonhnhaké:ton scowled briefly that the Old Man was with him even when out hunting, but he already saw how the lessons could be applied more practically in every day life rather than the philosophy and study of culture that he'd been doing. Blinking Ratonhnhaké:ton paused as he reviewed that. He had only just turned fifteen and back with his people he had always been told how many of what animal to get by the Roiiá:ner, the clan chiefs. But how did they know how much of what to get? They must have used math as well. Ratonhnhaké:ton scowled. No doubt when the clan chiefs learned math it was easier than how the Old Man presented it.
He was up on the cliff road that lead down to the valley, Achilles's old nag of a horse walking under the weight of Ratonhnhaké:ton's catches on their way home, when Ratonhnhaké:ton smelled something he did not wish to smell. A warm breeze brought with it the sting and smell of smoke, and he could not help but remember eleven years prior, to the last time he'd caught such a strong whiff in the wind. Ratonhnhaké:ton quickly hurried down the road, pulling the old nag with him. When he came to a break in the trees that overlooked the valley, he instantly saw that the fire was not of the homestead, as he'd feared, or in the valley, but of a wagon that was burning. Three brutes were intimidating a man on his knees, who was pleading.
"No! No!" And then one of the brutes laughed cruelly and pushed the heavyset man over the cliff. "Ahhh!"
"Let's see if our man can fly."
Ratonhnhaké:ton narrowed his eyes and pulled out his tamahaac, the stone still as strong as when he'd first come here. While not Templars, these were still atenenyarhu, beings who fed off of others. And Ratonhnhaké:ton would not allow them into the valley.
"Please! Help! Anyone!" the man who had been pushed cried out.
Ratonhnhaké:ton raced forward, swinging his tamahaac and smashing in the skull of the man closest to him, before jumping to a second, the hidden blade of his other wrist slicing into the man's throat. The last atenenyarhu, had a musket, but hadn't brought it up to bear, staring in shock as Ratonhnhaké:ton had killed his two companions in less than ten seconds. Ratonhnhaké:ton stalked forward, aware that the musket was deadly and to be treated carefully. But the last Stone Coat was still staring, so Ratonhnhaké:ton leapt forward, knocking the man to the ground and slamming his tamahaac to the neck and head once, twice, three times. Standing, he looked around. Three atenenyarhu dead. And so fast. The Old Man's lessons were helping.
"What in God's name is going on up there?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton looked to the rope that was anchored to a bolder, hanging over the edge. "Hello?"
"Pull me up!" the man screamed.
"A moment!"
Ratonhnhaké:ton looked at the rope, and the rock the man was hanging against. There seemed to be no jagged edges that might cut the rope as it moved, and the man's hands were unbound. It would still be awkward, as the man was bound by his feet, but they would need to work together to ensure there was no further damage.
"You need to make sure you do not bounce against the rock," he called down. "I know you are..." what was the word... "disoriented, but focus on your feet, so that the rope does not fray."
"Fray? God, I'm going to die!"
Ratonhnhaké:ton stopped listening, and focused on wrapping his hands so that the rope would not burn him. Carefully wrapping the rope around his hands, he started to pull.
"Ouch!"
Slowly, pulling the rope around the rock so that it could take more weight and then returning to where he started and wrapping his hands again, Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled up the man who had dissolved into sobs and grunts with the slow process of ascending. With a final grunt, Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled the man over the rock enough that the man was grasping and scrambling to get as far from the edge as he could. The man was in hysterics, unable to hear anything or focus on anything. So Ratonhnhaké:ton moved slowly, pulling out his skinning knife and motioned to cut the rope. He was not certain if the man understood, but he did not panic further as Ratonhnhaké:ton cut the man's legs free.
Glancing around, Ratonhnhaké:ton sighed. He could not leave this man alone, not when he was so upset. So he back tracked to the nag and tied her to some bushes and started to pull out supplies. While the torched wagon was isolated on the road and with no wind to blow embers to the springing plants, it was easy for Ratonhnhaké:ton to use it to start a proper camp fire. Two of the hares that he had caught were soon being cooked over the fire, and his blanket roll was set. The Stone Coats he dragged to the bushes.
The hysterical man seemed to have calmed, or at least wasn't screaming and sobbing any more, and Ratonhnhaké:ton let him be, not wishing to set off any outbursts. He still remembered how long it had taken him to calm after watching his ista die, so he gave the man the space he needed.
The man was round. Brown hair and beard, his clothes a little too tight and worn thin. And though his frame held much weight, his hands were strong. There was muscle under the shirt, though not as thick and bulging as Godfrey and Terry, the lumberjacks. The beards of the white man made telling age difficult for Ratonhnhaké:ton, but he guessed that this man that he had saved was a decade older than Terry, with Godfrey splitting the difference.
Ratonhnhaké:ton stayed up late, ensuring that the panicked man got to sleep and provided the man with his blanket against the cold night. While he slept, Ratonhnhaké:ton gathered pine branches for himself and slowly went to sleep.
Ratonhnhaké:ton hadn't realized how much he appreciated the soft bed of the manor until the following morning when he awoke achy and tender. The sun was only just cresting the ocean in the distance, so he stoked the embers and set about warming the leftovers of the hares from the previous night.
The man groggily awoke as the smell encompassed their campsite. "Smells good..." Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, he just looked around for a moment. Ratonhnhaké:ton let him collect himself. "Oh, young man. Thank you," the man said, wiping at his eyes, though from sleep or tears, Ratonhnhaké:ton was uncertain. "Thank you."
"Are you alright?"
"I think so..." The man took the hare that Ratonhnhaké:ton offered. "Those blaggards didn't do much to me aside from a good scare."
"What did they want with you?"
"My purse, which is meager," the rotund man replied. "When that didn't work they decided they'd punish me for their trouble." He let out an odd laugh. "Silly really, my tools and equipment were worth a king's share to the right man." He looked forlornly to his wagon. "Now gone."
They fell to silence, and finished eating.
"In any case," the man said, "I best get on my way. It's a long walk to the nearest inn. I thank you again for your kindness."
Ratonhnhaké:ton stood. "Long indeed. The nearest town is a half day away by wagon. You will be on foot."
"Can't be helped." The man attempted to stand, then yelped and fell back down. "Of all the...!"
Ratonhnhaké:ton came over and helped the man pull of his shoes. Both ankles were swollen and angry. "Let me check the bone." But the bone was fine, though the man grunted and gasped as Ratonhnhaké:ton checked. "You can ride with me. I can bring you to the homestead where you might rest."
"You are too kind," the man said. "My name is Lance."
"I am Connor." Connor stood and started the pack up the camp. "Let us get you on my horse."
The nag whuffed discontentedly at the extra weight, but there was no helping it. They would likely reach the manor by nightfall, given the slower pace necessary for the horse. As they rode, Connor didn't need to say much to get conversation flowing.
"I was a proud resident of Boston," Lance said with a sad shake of his head. "Two years ago all those soldiers came and they were all billeted in our homes. I was a known Son of Liberty, so some Tory took great pleasure in pointing out that my home and shop were available to soldiers."
"What type of shop do you run?"
Lance puffed with pride. "A wood shop. Tables, chairs, slats for plaster, flooring, cabinetry, anything that requires a good piece of oak or hickory and I can make it." Lance then deflated. "Or I could. Those blaggards burned my wagon and all my tools." It was a source of great sorrow. Before leaving the wagon, Lance had insisted on going through the remains, no matter how warm the embers still were, to salvage what he could.
Which wasn't much.
By midday they were at the mill, and Godfrey came over to say hello. "G'day, Connor! See you got a new friend?"
"This is Lance, a woodworker," Connor went about introductions. "He was being robbed when I found him."
Godfrey glanced at the swollen ankles. "And roughed over, it looks like. Well, welcome!"
"My thanks," Lance smiled. "I see you have a good mill here."
"We'd better after the last year o' building it," Godfrey beamed, proud of their accomplishments.
"What sort of woods have you harvested?"
"Oak mostly, red and white. It's what's most plentiful here, but we spied a good nest of pines northwest of here, and a grove of hickories to the west."
Connor interrupted before things devolved into the details of wood that he would likely not understand. "Perhaps you can come visit while Lance is recovering? The two of you can discuss woods then?"
"Right ye are, laddie," Godfrey guffawed. "Best let you get back to the Old Man. He'll be looking forward to all that meat ye're bringing home."
Things returned to routine after that, with Connor helping to build a home for Godfrey and Terry, learning of ships with Robert, studying trade, culture, and politics with Achilles. As the weather continued to warm into May, Lance proved quite adept around the manor. He did not care for sitting still and, sometimes bouncing on one foot, set about using the lumber that the lumberjacks provided to start doing repairs as a way of paying back their kindness.
Soon as Lance healed, Achilles informed Connor that he had a new home to build. Lance's. Having a woodworker around, especially with the quality that Godfrey and Terry did with their cuts, would provide more income for various things. Connor burned at another delay before getting to his physical training, but said nothing. Lance actually proved to be a great help in building the homes once he was recovered enough to work. Though portly, he had no trouble getting in to the work and provided all sorts of calculations of "square" and "plum" to set the homes to ensure it lasted. He borrowed tools from Godfrey and Terry mostly, but Connor could see that the lack of his own tools was wearing at Lance.
"I had a spare set of tools at my shop when I left," Lance explained. "The shop is still in my name, even though the redcoats occupied it. My apprentice, Patrick, if he has any brains, will be using them to keep the shop going. He was a fare hand with wood, just lazy."
"How are you doing otherwise?"
"Oh, alright I suppose," Lance said sadly. "Things never really go as planned... but that's life."
"Really?" Connor's brow raised. "How do you mean?"
"You know," Lance waved, "you make a plan and it all goes awry and nothing gets better, only slightly different."
That was just... sad. "Sounds like you have had a string of misfortune. It will pass now that you are here." After all, Conner wouldn't allow any Stone Coats onto the land.
However Lance not having his tools bothered Connor and he discussed it with Achilles.
"If he is to make a good go at a business here, he will need proper tools. But he doesn't have the money to pay for them, nor do we," Achilles explained patiently.
Connor remained unconvinced.
"Fine," Achilles sighed. "You go to Boston and try to find tools." He held out a paper. "This is Lance's address, and how much we have to spend on proper tools. You won't find anything." The Old Man narrowed his eyes. "Don't forget your purpose. You are in Boston for tools, only. Don't get distracted with the usual rigamarole that infests cities."
So the next day Connor headed out with the wagon to make the two day trip to Boston.
Once in the city, he found Sam Adams.
"Hello, Connor," the man greeted warmly. "It's good to see you back in the city. It seems that London learned something from that massacre, and has repealed the Townshed Acts. All but the tax on tea," Sam shook his head. "Always have to have the last word."
"I am glad that the acts have been..." Connor hesitated with the new word, "repealed. But I am in town for supplies. Do you know this address?"
Sam smiled, energetically bouncing around his office, digging through piles of papers. "I have a map of the city somewhere... aha! Like I thought. The north end. That will be near the dry docks, where all the ships get built."
"Thank you."
"No problem. Here, have the map," Sam smiled warmly again. "Never knew when it will come in handy. I can get a new one if I need it."
Connor stayed and chatted a bit more, Sam still going on about the Townshed Acts and how keeping the tax on tea made the entire gesture pointless. He finally left and headed north.
The address was not of a woodworker. It was instead, an apothecary.
"Excuse me, but is this not a woodworker's shop?" Connor asked softly of the man behind the counter.
"Not since I bought the shop."
"From a Patrick?"
"Yes," the shop keeper grunted. "Drunk waste of a man. Lost all of his money for his precious booze, and since the owner had been shipped off, the only way to pay off his debts was to sell the shop."
"That is unfortunate," Connor frowned, thinking. "Do you know where I might find Patrick?"
The shop keeper grunted. "Drunk's at the pub around the corner. It's the only place you ever find him. Drinking away the money he got from me buying this shop."
"Thank you."
Connor found the pub and immediately identified the stale smell that Faulkner had clinging to him when they had first met. Alcohol. Even at midafternoon, there were numerous patrons, though the bar was far from full, so Connor headed to the bar where the only man who wasn't tipsy was.
"I don't serve kids, get out."
"I do not wish a drink," Connor replied, nervous. And he certainly never wanted a drink given what it seemed to do to people. "I seek a man. Patrick, who used to apprentice to a woodworker named Lance just around the corner."
"That drunk," the bartender nodded. "He's over there. Say what you need to, then leave."
Connor frowned at the unpleasant man, but turned to the man the barkeep had pointed to. The man was easily half of Lance's age, but his face was hard and red as he squinted into the mug in front of him. "Patrick? Apprentice of Lance?"
"Whaddya want?"
"You sold the shop that Lance owned."
The man turned beady eyes to Connor. "Was a useless business, never made any money," he slurred. "None o' your business."
"Where are the tools if you no longer have a shop?"
The drunk squinted at Connor, his mind clearly working at something. "Piss off!" he shouted, then staggered away. This did not seem right. There was a shift in Patrick's eyes that Connor did not trust. Lance said that tools were a woodworker's lifeblood, something to be kept preserved and taken care of as they were the means of livelihood. If Patrick wished to earn any money for his alcohol, he would still need the tools. Some craftsmanship of some sort to get what was needed for the next drink.
So Connor softly stood, slipping along the crowds, and followed.
In many ways hunting a man in the city was more difficult than hunting a bear in the forest. A bear would be deadly in any confrontation, being of greater size and power. But the bear was slow, lumbering in most circumstances, and could be tricked. A man might not have the keen senses of an animal, but he planned and prepared. Even as Patrick staggered away, he glanced around, checked corners, and looked for Connor's tall frame and hide skins that were so distinguishable in the city. But just as Patrick could plan, so could Connor. He stayed in crowds, hunched, played with dogs. It was strangely exhilarating and nerve-wracking.
Patrick stumbled along to what Connor believed to be his home, or some sort of room he rented, leaving the door wide open. Connor sat across the street, observing. Nothing happened for a time, and Connor was starting to wonder if he was somehow wrong. But, two hours later, Patrick, still staggering if just not as badly, came out with a box of tools. Connor followed still, until the drunk came to a stagecoach station.
Right. So this Patrick had stolen Lance's tools for his own drunken needs, and was now leaving when there was a possibility of being caught. Well, while Patrick was inside, likely booking passage, Connor simply took the tools from the wagon and walked away. He was soon on his way back to the homestead.
Lance was grateful for the tools, and Achilles was relieved it didn't cost them anything. Connor continued to spend his time helping Lance and Godfrey and Terry with their homes and with Faulkner and the laborers he'd brought up from Boston to refit the Aquila. Spring turned to summer, and still Achilles refused to train him in the fighting until the homes were finished. Godfrey and Terry's home, which was large given it had to hold two families, was approaching completion, but Lance insisted more time be spent on his workshop than his home, making the progress drag on.
With a heavy sigh one morning, Connor headed down to see how Faulkner was doing. The boat... ship was looking more and more complete, and the laborers were no longer the same that he'd seen for the past few months. Indeed, several of the new men were clambering about the ship, climbing the ropes and scrambling along the upper crossbeams.
"Come aboard and feast your eyes, boy!" Faulkner bellowed from atop the back side of the ship.
Connor smiled, glad that Faulkner was taking such pride in the ship. He stepped to the gangplank and Faulkner was yelling again, but not in pride. "No, no, no no! Not the left foot! Never the left foot! Horrible luck..." Connor hesitated, raised an eyebrow, then stepped with his right foot. "There's a good boy, step with your right foot first."
Shrugging at the superstitions, Connor looked around the ship. Faulkner had been trying to teach him the terminology, but there were almost too many new words to keep track of. So rather than stumble through wording, Connor tugged at a rail that didn't move. "She is..." he looked for a word that would be seen as a compliment, "... solid?"
Faulkner's eyes twinkled. "Aye. Weatherly and sleek." He smiled broadly. "She'll fetch twelve knots in a stiff gale, ne'er a ship from here to Singapore can outrun her on her best day." He then grabbed Connor by the shoulder and dragged him about the ship proudly listing all the accomplishments they'd achieved over the summer. "Told you I could refit her with the proper supplies!" Connor started to get a sense of some of the words, but it was still a sea of jargon. Faulkner proudly brought them above deck again and beamed. Connor couldn't help smiling as well. This was not the man who wallowed in liquor just a season ago. This was a man once more filled with hope. Faulkner looked to Connor with a gleam of mischief in his eye. "Wha'dya say we take her out and show you what she can do first hand?"
Connor blinked. "Where would we go?"
The mischief grew. "As it happens, she still needs guns and the officers to command them. It will be the last of my savings, but once this ship is on the water, I'll have no problem making money again. I did sail for a number of merchants for many years, after all, once I realized the Navy'd never have me."
"Would not have you?" Faulkner never spoke of his past much, no doubt because of whatever sorrow that had him looking to a bottle.
"I was enlisted for a while, but I never had the money to purchase commissions."
Connor nodded, remembering the lessons Achilles gave. To become an officer in the British army or navy, one needed money to buy the right. Skill had nothing to do with it, which Connor did not approve of. The best task needed to go to the best person, not the one who had the most money, it was unrelated.
"I see."
"So let's go! We'll launch straight away." Faulkner was once again smiling mischievously. "Don't worry, lad, I'll make sure you sprout good sea legs." He turned to the men and bellowed, "Haul in the mainsail! Get up the rigging! Hand over fist! Come on, men! Let's get her out where she needs to be!"
All at once the laborers, whom Connor realized were actually sailors, sprang to life, pulling at random ropes, releasing sails, and scrambling about with joy to be heading to sea. They were soon out of the small harbor and out onto the vast ocean. It was truly an amazing experience. Previously, when he'd sailed from Boston to the homestead in a morning, he'd been too concerned about why Achilles had abandoned him and the swirling thoughts of what had happened around the Boston Massacre that he'd failed to prevent. Now, however, on the deck and feeling the wind in his face and hair, it was magnificent!
Faulkner chuckled. "We'll make a jack tar out of you yet."
After a few hours on the sea, Connor stood by Faulkner's side. "The crew does not call you Faulkner," he commented.
The old seaman chuckled. "That's because I'm the captain. They need to trust me and listen to me. So I get a fancy title and the respect that I'll do right by them."
Connor nodded. "And this wheel you clutch..."
"It's my connection to here. I listen and feel. If the wind changes, I need to change with it." Faulkner smiled again, joy bubbling up into a laugh. "Ha ha! The Aquila flies again! D'ya feel it lad?"
Feeling the wind, remembering how the wind felt when he was an eagle in his vision, Connor smiled as well. "Yes."
"Set course for Martha's Vineyard!" Faulkner called out. "We'll find our guns and officers there."
The journey took two days as Faulkner faced the wind and a small spat of bad weather as they were circling the exterior of Cape Cod. It was perhaps the first time Connor started to understand all the words that Faulkner and the sailors threw around that described the ship. What was aft, what was port, etc. Faulkner was correct, the Aquila was indeed nimble and watching the captain guide her was like watching Achilles take down Connor in training. A master at work. He seemed to know where every sandbar and rock off the coast of Massachusetts was and skillfully maneuvered around them with apparent ease.
"Cottages," Faulkner said, pointing. Connor looked left... port, and saw them up on a hill. "That'll be Oak Bluffs. We're close to Haven Harbor. We'll drop anchor, go ashore, buy our guns and find our officers."
Connor was surprised as the sailors, once docked, started to unload lumber from the belly of the ship.
"From our lumberjacks," Faulkner grinned. "We're already be making money back. Come on, there's a particular tavern I've been wanting to visit. We'll get information there."
Faulkner gave orders to the crew and set off up the hill at a brisk speed that Connor easily kept pace with. The tavern was near the top of the hill, providing a beautiful view of the harbor below. As they approached, Faulkner became oddly nervous, running a hand through his hair, his beard, straightening out his clothes. After one last anxious glance down to the Aquila, he opened the door and entered.
Inside, Faulkner seemed to shrivel as he looked to a woman Faulkner's age pulling glasses from shelves. "Oh, hullo, Miss Mandy," Faulkner greeted almost sheepishly. "You're looking every bit as ravishing as I remember."
Connor turned to one side to hide the smile.
The woman, Miss Mandy, turned with a bright, happy smile before schooling her face to more serious and reprimanding. "After all these years you sail all the way to the Vineyard to pay me compliments?" she said archly.
"Ahhh," Faulkner stuttered, "We're looking for David and Richard Clutterbuck."
"Nice to see you, too," Mandy replied dryly. "They'll be in by this evening. I suppose I can serve you while you're here." Faulkner went bright red, then laughed. "Come on, Connor. Meet Miss Amanda Bailey, the best woman God ever produced."
"There's your silver tongue again," Amanda replied, "maybe I should cut it out and sell it for some extra pounds."
The banter that followed was so convoluted and based on double meanings that Connor didn't understand, he soon found himself lost.
They stayed at the tavern through the afternoon and Amanda served them dinner at no charge under the express condition that Faulkner not up and disappear on her again. The sun was sinking lower and lower, and it was almost sunset when the two that Faulkner was looking for arrived.
"Robert Faulkner!" the older of the two brothers said. "Where the hell have you been?"
Both brothers came over and sat down with Faulkner and Connor, ordering dinner from Amanda and eager to catch up. "Where the hell you been?"
Faulkner laughed. "Sorry for leavin' like I did, lads, but where I was going... no one could know..."
"Such secrecy," the younger, Richard smiled. "Free to talk now?"
"Nope!" Faulkner replied. "Recruiting!"
Faulkner remained very vague about the goals, but emphasized the fact that he'd be doing a fair bit of trade with some, interesting, side business once in a while. David and Richard were intrigued and happy to go about getting a proper gun crew and talk devolved into whom to get guns from and where to refit. The Vineyard would likely provide the crew, as many stopped by between jobs, but the proper firepower would require a proper city. Groton, Connecticut, which had been building ships almost since its inception, was the closest port for that. After a lingering goodbye with Amanda, Faulkner quickly set sail once the gunners were aboard and they settled into the community to start outfitting the ship.
It took a few days to outfit the ship, including testing the new cannon and making sure that the crews followed both Faulkner's and the Clutterbuck's orders.
It was their last night before heading out and Faulkner insisted on drinking as much as possible to celebrate a proper voyage with a completely full crew. Connor didn't care for all the alcohol, but he did enjoy the lively dinner. There was a life within these sailors, despite the alcohol, that Connor could admire.
Things were going well, until Connor looked around the room of the tavern. Immediately, his eyes focused and his inner eagle screeched in the same anger and anxiety rising in Connor, dread and anticipation. There, a few tables over by the window, framed by the setting sun, was one of the atenenyarhu. Benjamin Church. He looked older than the portrait in the root cellar at the manor, his hair now a pure white, not a wig, but the heavyset man who was the one who had pointed the firestick all those years ago, was there. Smiling. Like he didn't even remember the massacre of Ratonhnhaké:ton's village and mother.
Ratonhnhaké:ton yearned to stand up, march over, and kill him. The atenenyarhu needed to die for the sake of all. But Achilles hadn't taught him anything new, and he had no idea if Church was as skilled as Ratonhnhaké:ton's father likely was. But ultimately, Church was not the leader of the atenenyarhu, he was not the one who spat out pure hate. Charles Lee was the leader of the massacre. Charles Lee was the one who stole Ratonhnhaké:ton's mother away. Charles Lee was the one who needed to pay first. The others would be lost without the center of the Stone Coats.
Ratonhnhaké:ton stepped forward, predatory, focus and eagle all devoted completely to this one person of information.
"Looks like your friend's about to catch a beatin'."
Words behind him were worthless. The slack-faced man beside Church was worthless. All that mattered was Church, and using him to find the leader of the atenenyarhu.
"Where is Charles Lee?" Ratonhnhaké:ton demanded.
Church turned, arrogance dripping from him as, even sitting, he looked down his nose to Ratonhnhaké:ton. "I don't care much for your tone, boy."
And where Robert Faulkner called him boy with affection, Church spoke with contempt and superiority. Ratonhnhaké:ton narrowed his eyes, possibilities flashing across his eyes on what knowledge he did have and how to use it to make this atenenyarhu talk.
But the slack-faced man sitting with Church stood, pushing into Ratonhnhaké:ton's personal space, and towering over Ratonhnhaké:ton's own tall frame. Ratonhnhaké:ton did not care. Church had what he needed for his objective.
"Hey..." Faulkner stepped in, pulling Ratonhnhaké:ton back. "You don't want to be doin' that, Biddle."
The slack-faced man turned narrow, contemptuous eyes to Faulkner.
"Bobby Faulkner turned to wet-nursing?" Biddle laughed, pushing Ratonhnhaké:ton out of the way.
Anger flared, Church was right there! But Faulkner put a firm hand to Ratonhnhaké:ton's shoulder, and Connor suddenly realized just where he was and what he was about to do. He doubted interrogating Church in a full tavern would have been viewed well. Achilles's many lessons on stealth and not letting others know that the Assassins existed came forward, and he fully realized what a scene he was about to make. Better to take out the atenenyarhu when none watched, and let their evil disperse.
"Good you finally realized you're a shite sailor," Biddle guffawed, oozing power.
Connor bristled, frustrated, but he stepped back, disappeared into the crowds as Faulkner and Biddle faced off, drawing all attention to them. No one saw him any more, which was how Connor should have handled the situation in the first place. Achilles was right, he needed to learn patience. Not the patience of stalking a bear, or cougar, but the patience of finding the right time in the white man's world. To realize that people were around him who would not know the history, would not know the evil he faced, and would simply see him as a... savage.
Connor's jaw tightened at the injustice of this, of needing to fade and wait for a different opportunity. But he slid up to David Clutterbuck. "Should we help Mr. Faulkner?" he asked softly.
David nearly jumped three feet in the air, turning in surprise. "Where the hell did you come from?"
Connor ignored the question. "Should we assist Mr. Faulkner?" he repeated.
But both David and Richard were smiling. "Naw," the Dutch brothers smiled. "The Captain's the slickest thing either on a ship or in a tavern. Won't be nothing more than words and we'll all leave quiet and calm like."
The brother's prediction proved true and Connor realized that there was yet another aspect of being an Assassin that he needed to train for.
Once they were on the ship, Faulkner cornered Connor. "What the bloody hell was that about?"
"The older man is a Templar," Connor stated, still bursting with energy. "Who was he with?" he demanded.
"A Templar," Faulkner was surprised. "The young buck was Nicholas Biddle. Nobody. Sails before the mast, midshipman for the crown."
Connor frowned, reviewing the evening in his mind. Then shook his head, seeing the obvious. "He has been recruited for the Templars then."
Faulkner looked out to the ocean, his face flat and serious. "Then we'll face him again."
They sat together for a moment, the air heavy, then Faulkner sighed. "Now we should be getting back. The Old Man is likely to have my hide for keeping you out so long... First we need to sail up to Portland. Godfrey and Terry's families are waiting there to come join us at the homestead."
Connor nodded.
Once back at the homestead, both Faulkner and Connor escorted the two families to a very happy and grateful Godfrey and Terry. Faulkner was quickly imploring Connor to head up the hill before Achilles came out of retirement just for him, and Connor let out a soft smile and headed up the hill. Connor headed up, enjoying the color of the September leaves as they fell in bright golds. Already his mind was drifting to the days ahead. With winter approaching he'd need to do more hunting before the game started to hibernate, Lance would need firm convincing to focus on his home rather than his shop before the snows arrived, etc, etc.
When he entered, Achilles was standing hunched, yet firm, staring disapprovingly. "Three weeks," he accused, "and not even a goodbye before you left."
Connor blinked and realized, for the first time, that Achilles truly did care for him and was worried when he'd disappeared. Shocked, all Connor could utter was a soft, "Sorry..." that didn't even begin to cover just how sorry he really was.
"Well?" Achilles asked, turning. "What are you waiting for?"
The two headed down to the basement and Connor wondered what Achilles had in mind. Connor was not to train until the houses in the homestead were complete, so why come down here?
But, to Connor' surprise, they did start training. Intensely. Achilles took him through all the forms, all the exercise until Connor couldn't stand, late into the evening. It felt strangely like an assessment, but Connor did not yet have a full year of training, so he did not understand why.
When he finally collapsed, Achilles said nothing, then told him to go get some rest.
The following morning, Connor got ready to again head down the hill and help Lance and the two lumberjack families construct their homes. Achilles stopped him at the front door. Together they went down to the cellar again, and discussed what Nicholas Biddle meant for the Templars. This took well into the morning before Achilles finally stood. A dark hand gestured to the robes that hung in the training ring.
"Put them on."
Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked, surprised, and looked to the Old Man, who stood tall and proud as he usually couldn't with his bad leg. He nodded, and Connor couldn't help the eager smile as he did as asked.
"Once upon a time," Achilles said with his papery voice, "we had ceremonies on such occasions. But I don't think either of us are really the type for that." Connor rolled his shoulders, feeling the fabric, getting accustomed to how it moved, how it bunched, how it flowed. "You've your tools and training ahead of you. Your targets and goals. And now you have your title."
Connor felt the solemnity and weight of this. And he held his head high at the accomplishment.
"Welcome to the Brotherhood, Connor."
"Welcome back, Desmond! You'll be happy to hear there's actually good news for once."
Desmond blinked slowly before rubbing his eyes and pressing his palms to them. Part of his mind was still that of a fifteen year old native trying so desperately to learn the culture of the white man and be ready for when it was time to destroy the Stone Coats that threatened his village. Ratonhnhaké:ton's partition slowly closed, and finally he could murmur a soft, "Yeah?"
"I've managed to locate a power source," Shaun said brightly, getting up from his station at the Animus. Rebecca was nearby at another laptop. "And it's relatively close by. Up for a trip to Manhattan?"
The programmer stiffened, turning around from her station. "Is it safe to leave?" she asked, her contralto voice low, worried. The all-too real loss of Lucy had changed her, made the former extreme sports enthusiast cautious, nervous. "Abstergo's got to be looking for us."
Impatient, Shaun turned to traditional caustic sarcasm. "Obviously, it's not safe," he said irritably. "We can't just sit around here hoping to get lucky, though, can we? We need that power source. Besides, I'm sure you can cook up some way to hide our movements." His last words were emphasized by a touch of her shoulder and a slightly softer tone.
Rebecca thought for a long moment. "Maybe..." she replied. "The Templars have access to all kinds of satellites and camera systems. We'll need to find a way to mask our digital signature, encrypt transmissions to look like something else. I can probably camouflage the van, too. But there's not much I can do for us."
Desmond, finally catching up with the conversation, actually smirked. "That's an easy one," he said, pulling up the hood of his zip-up sweatshirt and tugging it over his face. The view with the cloth over the top of his vision was so familiar – even though he had never done it himself – that he felt like he had done this all of his life. He had, in some respects, just not his life. Altair and Ezio had almost never taken off their hoods, and even partitioned as they were, that sensation was burned into his mind.
"Excellent," Shaun said, "We'll brief our fearless leader when he wakes, and once Rebecca has set up her camouflages, we'll set out."
"Do we know how the city is doing?" Desmond asked. "You know, after Sandy?"
"It's November fourteenth, now," Rebecca said. "Voting has come and gone, priorities and all that – Obama won, by the way, by a landslide – but the city is still a mess. Governor Cuomo said damages are going to be thirty-three billion for the state, nineteen of which just for the city. Obama said Rockland and Westchester are disaster areas. A nor'easter blew in to screw us over some more, and everyone's kinda pissed about how long the clean-up is taking. Yesterday the head of Long Island Power resigned because of all the criticism. I think something like forty deaths have been reported so far, but the big thing is the transportation: They only just opened the Battery Tunnel a couple days ago-"
"Jesus."
"-and even then it's just for 'limited rush hour' service. The Queens, Holland, and Midtown tunnels are open, sort of, and the governor's waiving a lot of fares and gas prices – something about an AB system to avoid the gas stations from going nuts, but I wasn't paying too much attention to that part. There are still zillions of people without power, though, and with all the car fuel and oils and refuse in the water, it's one big health emergency, nobody's allowed to drink the water, only bottled. Breezy Point's destroyed. On the upside, though, the looting seems to have stopped."
"Jesus," Desmond repeated. "I mean, I lived there for years. To hear all of this..." How was Bad Weather? The people? His coworkers?
"Yes, yes, all very devastating," Shaun said in a breezy voice, "Humanity in crisis and all that. It might help if, oh, I don't know, we saved the world ourselves from the impending solar disaster so we have time to worry about all the incidental politics of natural disasters."
"Shaun," Rebecca hissed.
"Don't worry about it, Rebecca," Desmond said quickly, sensing a bigger blow up in the works. "It's fine, just Shaun being Shaun." He gave the Brit a particularly dirty look, however, and moved away from the pair, removing himself from the conflict. He stalked towards a quiet corner of the Grand Temple and then dropped down into a plank, working his abdominal muscles as he held himself perfectly horizontal above the ground, holding it for an astonishing two minutes longer compared to his old times, and pushed into a series of exercises. Just because he had been told there were micro-movements in his muscles or deeper cognitive activity didn't mean he wasn't going to be totally prepared.
His body, however, surprised him to see it was in better condition than it was before his coma. For two hours he worked up a healthy sweat, including hanging from crevices to test the limits of his grip and handstands and other drills to train his upper body. When he was done and stretching, he moved back to the main corridor and headed away from the locked door, back towards the camp. His father was up, making faces at instant coffee.
Their fight before swelled in Desmond's mind. His jaw didn't hurt anymore, but the angry words pressed into his mind. He didn't want to admit it, but he had started it; moving from the pain of Lucy to the pain of his father and doing exactly what he had done as a teen: pushed and pushed, until he at last got a reaction out of his father. Clay's memories drifted from their partition in his mind, and he reconciled the two different versions of his father, a little, and decided to try and right the wrong.
He approached slowly. William saw him, however, and gave him a suspicious look.
"Yes?" he demanded in a clipped tone.
Great start. Desmond kept his voice soft. "Just thought I'd... you know... say hi."
A withering gaze. "Shaun's told me about our upcoming trip to New York. You have more important things to do right now."
God. "Jesus, Dad," Desmond said, hurt that he was being rebuffed.
"What?" William demanded, tossing his coffee aside. "What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know. 'Hi, son. How are you? What have you been up to?' " Desmond offered, sarcasm bleeding into his voice, thoughts of reconciliation being trampled in his mind.
"I know what you've been up to: Nothing." William looked directly at his son, pulling no punches and – as always – getting right to the point. "You wasted away in some shitty apartment with a pointless job, while the rest of us were out there fighting to make a difference."
That was it. "You are such an asshole," he growled. This always happened, they would fight, Desmond would try to fix it, and his father would casually dismiss his efforts, building up resentment and more anger, leading to another fight. He watched as his father's eyes narrowed, a bad sign. William opened his mouth, some more biting vitriol, but Desmond cut him off. "I am such a fucking idiot for thinking I should apologize to you. I dared to think you might be receptive to it, but I guess I was wrong. You'll never be receptive, because even fighting is beneath you. You just sit on your moral high horse, use saving the fucking world as an excuse to judge everyone else because you're the goal-focused martyr that everyone should feel sorry for. Well I don't, Dad. I don't feel sorry for you. I feel resentment, and anger, and sometimes even fucking hatred because you-"
"Desmond..."
"Oh, you thinking about hitting me again?" he retorted, his voice low and dangerous as his stance changed. "Because this time, I will hit back. I have over a hundred years of experience between Altair and Ezio. How do you think you'll fare?"
And suddenly Rebecca was there, headphones at her neck and a cup of coffee in her hand as well, grabbing Desmond's and pulling at his sweatshirt. "Gotta talk to you, come with me, wanna show you something." Her abrupt appearance made both Desmond and William look at each other in confusion, but she continued to clutch Desmond's shoulder and tug. William, of course, lost patience and walked away, stalking towards Shaun.
"Good, crisis averted!" She pulled back and offered a weak smile. It disappeared, however, when she looked over Desmond's shoulder. "She's watching us again," she said softly.
Desmond blinked, looking over to the Animus where he saw her. He had thought... all the previous times... "We're being watched," he said, glaring at the apparition. "By Juno. Or some version of her."
Rebecca nodded, eying the apparition in no small amount of trepidation. "Do you think it's a recording? Or is she a ghost? Or... something else? Is she talking to us the way Minerva talked to Ezio?"
Desmond shrugged. "No clue. I'm in the Animus more than I'm out these days, remember. I mean, who knows what else they were working on down here. There are still so many rooms we don't have access to..." his voice trailed off, unsure where his thought was going. Did the power sources Shaun was researching do more? If power was restored to this place, it gave access passed the door, sure, but what else would be turned on here?
"But... do you think she's like literally down here? Waiting somewhere? Still alive?"
Shaun walked in on their conversation, backpack in hand, and offered an incredulous noise. "Still alive, that's mental! That would mean she'd be at least – seventy-five? Eighty thousand years old? They were powerful, yeah – but not that powerful."
Rebecca's thoughts were running away with her, though. "They came down here looking for a way to survive, right? Maybe they found one?" Her face paled, and she darted back to the safety of her computers muttering about security and hiding.
"She's taking all this pretty hard," Desmond muttered. A lengthy pause drew out after that, and Desmond realized belatedly that Shaun was looking after the former rocker and a heavy look on his face, something looking like... but it was gone and the Brit shook his head, running a hand through his spiked hair and adjusting his glasses.
"I wonder how many other places like this exist," he said, changing topic awkwardly.
"There are dozens of them," Desmond answered. "All over the world."
That brought another look of incredulity. "And somehow no one's ever found one before us?"
"... I don't think that's true."
"Oh?"
If I can get to the Observatory, then I'll be the richest man in the world. Caroline will be happy for that. Desmond shook his head, sensing another partition in his mind. He didn't want to explore it, not now; he'd rather not have that many in his head as it was. "When I was at Abstergo, Vidic talked about silencing discoveries made by non-Templars. And I'm sure Abstergo has dug up plenty."
"The things they must know," Shaun muttered, the bright look in his eyes usually associated with secrets and decryption. Desmond remembered belatedly that Shaun was a hacker, too, like Rebecca, and it had been his curiosity at other people's secrets that had obliquely brought him to the Assassins.
"Regretting throwing in with us?" he asked.
"Hah! No," Shaun said, but that curiosity was still there, still hungry. "Just looking forward to when we can finally trounce those bastards so I can dive into their archives."
An hour later Rebecca was finally finished with her coding, and they were piling into the truck and beginning the three and a half hour drive down to the city. Said city was still a mess, even two weeks after the storm had hit. They had stopped off for gas early, and it became obvious that even with whatever the governor had done to reduce strain on the gas stations the lines were still ridiculously long as people bought gas for their cars or their generators or chainsaws. People everywhere were complaining about living without the normal comforts: water, showers, clean clothes, home-cooked food. Desmond found it amusing in a dark corner of his mind, pulling up different memories of Altair who would live months on the road with travel rations in the desert and the scent of sweat everywhere, or Ezio after the attack on Monteriggioni, fresh in Rome with no money to speak of and trying to survive before he could build the Assassin's guild.
The roads were bad but no longer terrible. The linemen and tree men had cleared most of the roads, but dead branches, root-balls or trees, and tree trunks still littered the sides of the roads, just... left there until all the emergencies were taken care of.
The tunnels into the city were miserable. The smell of car oil and gasoline and other scents nobody wanted to guess at were everywhere. The subways were still closed, some of the storm surge and toxic fumes of water had damaged rails and electric boxes. A tiny Connecticut radio station was giving addresses to online interactive maps to see how the power restoration was working, Rebecca had it open but it looked like the Nutmeg state was in good condition – except for the coast of course. Jersey was a different beast all together, Governor Chris Christie finally breaking his shit-talking badass persona to be personable to his constituents and even – to the apparent shock of the political world – saying good things about the President when Obama came to the state, even hugging him.
They checked into a Motel 6 right at the edge of Queens, and soon the four had separated to do different tasks, and Desmond was alone in his room looking out the window, local news giving his ears white noise as he started to really realize he was about to do field work.
Would the Bleeding Effect be enough? He had handled himself well enough in the escape from the loft back in Italy, but he'd had Lucy with him to cover his back; Rebecca would be keeping him hidden from the internet and Shaun would be monitoring police and security feeds, and God knew his father considered himself too important to go out in the field. The building they needed to break into was near the Freedom Tower, and Desmond would be climbing it. In some ways it was like putting on old shoes, he knew the movements, he'd lived the movements, as Altair climbed the Umayyad Mosque, and the cathedral in Acre, any of the watchtowers in Salah ad-Din's kingdom, Ezio's ascent of the Castel Sant'Angelo, and Ayasofya. He knew the sensations, the mental preparations, the anticipation. Only instead of living it passively through an ancestor, he was about to do it actively, as himself. Had the crane from the Freedom Tower been fixed? He could still remember the footage of it swinging back and forth as all hell broke loose during Sandy. Then he remembered it was the fourteenth, over two weeks since the storm, it must have been fixed by now.
… Would it be fixed enough?
The thought chilled him. Would he die during this?
Except he couldn't afford to die, as his father had always said, the fate of the world depended on surviving. All sorts of memories started to flit back and forth in his mind, as he thought back on the hardass mentor that drilled and drilled and drilled back at the Farm. William was already in that mindset, giving tacit orders and expecting them to be done. Now that he thought about it, the parallel was amazing.
But this wasn't a training exercise, it was real. He could really die.
… Any last words?
Desmond looked around, suddenly acutely aware that he was alone. He turned off the TV, the noise bugging him now, and he looked around for pen and paper, something to write down. Nothing. Frowning, he considered asking Shaun, but the Brit was even more acerbic that usual and he didn't feel like getting his verbal ass handed to him. Then, all at once, he smacked his head for being an idiot and forgetting what century he lived in.
He pulled out his phone, fiddling with the menus and the options, until he found one that might look right.
"Okay, uh, hope this is on," he stared at the screen, frowning and hoping he was interpreting the icons right. "... don't think I've ever used this phone more than a few times to record anything, uh..."
Screw it. He needed to talk.
"Hey Dad," he said softly. God, where to begin? "So, ah, we're all here in New York at the Motel – it's Queens actually – in Astoria near the NQ. Rebecca's off getting batteries for something, and Shaun's in his room doing whatever Shaun does... and, ah, you're out getting some food. Me?"
He frowned, trying to figure out how to put his thought into words. "Well, I'm supposed to be getting ready to break into some offices in the Financial District. Feels just like prepping for one of your old training drills, actually..." He smiled at the memories. Life had been so simple then; but then, the more things change the more they stay the same. The world was darker now, more complicated, but it was still the same. "Ten years go by," he said, "and then you show up, and it's like... it's like I was never gone, and we're right back to the ball-busting, and the conspiracies, and the paranoia. Only this time I believe you. I believe every word... you know I don't even think you know the half of it."
He remembered the complex gamble Robert de Sable had played to turn everyone against the Assassins, the deep games Al Mualim had played with everyone. He remembered the years-deep conspiracy of Rodrigo Borgia, and the ambition of Cesare, and the complexity of Ahmet. He remembered the history Clay had taught in his broken way, the history of the Pieces of Eden, of how the Templars had morphed into Abstergo and overthrew entire countries that were too liberal for their liking. So much was inside his head, so many memories, so many partitions – lives – and so many emotions. "I don't think you know how much I have seen," he said softly. "How much I have learned in just a few weeks. Everything really.
"I feel like... like I've lived a thousand years. Or ten thousand maybe." He knew there was more inside him that just Ezio, Altair, and now Ratonhnhaké:ton. There was Sef and his daughter, Flavia, Sofia Sartor, Haytham and his father Edward. He knew they were all in his head, and he knew it wouldn't take much to open them up, dive into their memories. The Animus made it easier, but if he wanted to, really wanted to, he could reach into his mind and open up those memories himself. All their memories were locked away in his head, he knew how to access them, how to create the partitions in his mind to protect himself. But it was all there, and he had no idea how to articulate it.
"It's impossible to explain," he said finally, "but when you see that much of the world through the eyes of so many... you can't help but be sad to see all these incredible, intelligent people fight the same battles and make the same mistakes over and over again." Altair had to learn the Creed from scratch – twice – because his arrogance had cost him so much: Kadar and Abbas. Ezio learned the Creed over the course of a lifetime, and all the others had to learn the same way: the hard way. Through making mistakes and breaking rules and suffering terribly. However enlightening the Creed was, the path to learning it was fraught with despair. "Because culture and knowledge and history... these things, they aren't passed on through our genes... every kid on earth needs to relearn the basics. How to live, how..." he frowned again, looking for words. "How to survive, how to stand up for... for what's right... but so much is lost in the transfer... so much is added every generation. It's a shame... Over and over, everything must be learned again."
How many times had he been trained now? How many times had he learned the Creed? How many times had he taught the Creed? Rebecca and Shaun, they learned the Creed, lived it, but they didn't understand it like Desmond did, because they didn't have the pile of memories reflecting on the Creed. They didn't have the depth of understanding because they lacked the lives it took to understand it. Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't yet understand the Creed, but his very culture lived and breathed it in a way that even Altair had not. Who could understand what he was trying to say? Who but someone else who had been in the Animus. Who but...
"I met Clay, Dad," he said. "Clay Kazcmarek. In the Animus. I know him by his Abstergo handle, Subject 16. My, uh, predecessor." He winced at the word. Predecessor didn't cover half of it. "He showed me things. He passed them to me. Just before he died, or got deleted or whatever." As the island was slowly being deleted, as Clay himself disintegrated into light, as his ghost sent one last email to his father saying... nothing and everything. All of it passed into his psyche, into a new partition. "Everything he's learned, everything he'd seen... uh, God, how do I talk about this...?"
How could he explain what happened on the island? On the base testing ground of the Animus? All those conversations, the dithered mutterings, the disjointed soundbytes. The memories.
He moved on.
"So, uh, I guess you trained him, huh? After I left. He really looked up to you. And now that I've seen through his eyes, I think I understand why." All the things that Desmond resented about his father, Clay had admired: the single-minded focus, the determination, the capacity to sacrifice everything for the greater good. William was a fanatic about the Creed, and he was a fanatic about stopping the Templars. That goal, that had been exactly what Clay needed: a way to make something of his life instead of wasting away like his father did. William had been the father that Clay needed, even wanted, and his admiration had given Desmond a different perspective.
"I'm glad you had him around, even if I wasn't there," he said. A son more like William had wanted, instead of the one he had. He felt hurt and relieved at the same time.
"But the things he showed me," he said into his phone, "unbelievable things. And I nev-"
A phone rang. His phone? The Motel phone? Desmond cursed. "Shit. Back in a second." and he canceled out of the recording, trying to dig through his menus to figure out if the ringing was him or not. It stopped abruptly and Desmond heard Shaun talking. Less than ten seconds later he knocked on Desmond's door.
"They're both ten minutes out," he said, "care to meet them, or are you too busy psyching yourself up for doing field work? It'll be the first time in your life, I heard, it must be driving you batshit crazy."
"Prick," Desmond muttered as he opened the door.
Shaun breezed into his room and turned the TV back on.
"...local utility companies have assured the public that power is being restored as quickly as possible, and experts say they will be completely prepared for the upcoming solar maximum at the end of the year. Disruptions to service are expected to be minimal..."
Shaun turned it off. "If only they knew," he muttered.
Author's Notes: (looks left, looks right) I think... I think we're finally done with exposition. Huzzah! No more explaining extra things in author's notes instead of talking about the chapter itself! Wheee!
And we begin of course with Connor/Ratonhnhake:ton. It will take a while for him to get used to his settler name, and it won't be uncommon for him to "go back" to Ratonhnhake:ton in moments of high emotion. We also see the first display of how warped his childhood has made him. It's sort of hinted at in Connor's fight animations and some of the Noah Watts (Connor's VA) interviews that Connor is a little bit of a beserker. We saw that briefly when he fought the brigands meeting Achilles, but this is a better example of it. In order for his 6 yr old mind to comprehend what happened to him, he labeled Charles Lee and the Templars as demons - not metaphorically but literally, he doesn't see them as humans and therefore has no qualms about killing them. Many people will point this out to him over the course of the fic and it's one of the major branches of his character arc.
Also, Faulkner is captain of the Aquila. There was no feasible way of making it make sense that 14 yr old Connor becomes the captain of the ship, and with all the land missions Connor does why would the crew want a guy who is so rarely at sea? Faulkner was the obvious choice, though Connor will certainly earn his place later on in the fic.
And, more importantly, Desmond. His sequences in AC3 are big enough that they actually take two chapters to cover, and what is obvious to all now is that the cell phone recordings from Black Flag make an appearance here. How could we not... just... Desmond...! Everything here is just the wind up, because:
Next Chapter: Desmond is a badass. It's about freaking time.