Part Twenty-Three: Death of an Admiral

Even though Faulkner was the captain of the Aquila, everyone still turned to Connor for orders. After sailing out of the cove where they'd left Haytham, Connor turned to Robert. "Mr. Faulkner," he said softly, his feelings still a tangled web knotted around a twisted net, "I will not be like my father in this. I must ensure that someone arrives in a few days."

"Nearest ports are Dominica and St. Lucia, almost the same time to sail," Robert replied softly. "But he'll be expecting that. I'd go for Barbados, though it's out of our way. Makes him wait a few more days, and we can stop off for repairs if we fly a British flag."

"Will that not take us further south?"

Robert gave a grim smile. "Might confuse Kenway a bit."

Connor couldn't decide how he felt about it, but it was a plan which was more than he could think of with all the confusion surging through him after such a short time.

He wanted to talk to Achilles. Desperately. The Old Man always helped put things in perspective with his experience. And Ratonhnhaké:ton needed that help now more than ever. Faulkner was a great support, but Achilles wouldn't coddle him with sympathy. He'd lay out the truth, no matter how harsh it was, and then let Ratonhnhaké:ton come to his own conclusions. Then whack him with his cane if he came to a stupid conclusion and spell it out all over again. But Achilles was weeks away, and even if they set sail straight away, that didn't change the fact that Connor had promised to return these supplies to Commander Washington. Responsibilities first. His confused, muddled, mess of emotions simply needed to wait. So he buried it as best he could, and spent a lot of time up in the crow's nest just looking at the vast expanse of blue that surrounded them.

Barbados was one hundred and forty miles south east of Martinique, where they'd left Haytham. An island first found by the Spanish, but never settled, then the Portuguese, who simply left hogs to go wild for a meat source when people returned, and finally by the British who brought in settlers and started to establish a colony. Unlike other islands in the Caribbean, it did not usually face hurricanes, being too far south, and it made for relatively safe port.

Repairs took only two days, with the crew working more slowly than they normally would, leaving Connor suspecting that they were deliberately giving him time to reorient himself. Barbados was rich with the slave trade, so Connor mostly stayed in his small cabin, avoiding anything and just thinking. After they were repaired and restocked, Connor braved the docks to let a few of the crews know that there was a stranded man on Martinique.

March seventeenth, a few of the crew were celebrating St. Patrick's Day with a barrel of whiskey that was being passed out in almost rations by the cook. Connor was once more up in the crow's nest, simply listening to the wind and watching the wide expanse of sea and sky that surrounded him. The peace and tranquility was like a balm, and though the ship was ever rocking and moving, he could find stillness, for a short time, high above the crew and staring at clouds and reading the wind.

But as the Irish members of the crew sipped their whiskey to savor every drop of the small portions that had been handed out, Connor noticed something. Off the coast of Barbados was smoke, not clouds. That might mean trouble with it so close. He immediately descended, his swift arrival surprising many of the crew who were a bit tipsy. "Mr. Faulkner, smoke off the coast. There's a fight and with these winds, it might bring it to our wake."

"Damn," Faulkner cursed. "Look lively! Trouble astern! We're turning to investigate! Check those lines, inspect those cannons! We won't be blindsided!"

The crew immediately set to work, whiskey put away, as they came about and headed to the smoke on the horizon. Once more in the crow's nest, Connor was watching through the spyglass, senses alert, as he saw a small frigate flying an American flag firing a broadside against a massive British man-o-war that easily had twice the guns.

"American firing on British," he called down. But he spotted something else. "The Randolph!"

"Raise a British flag!" Faulkner called out. "We're joining that fight! That damned Biddle's going down!"

They were still an hour away from the battle at least, so Connor stayed in the crow's nest, calling down events as they happened.

The British man-o-war was the Yarmouth, and Connor could not figure out how Biddle could possibly think he could win. A small frigate with, at most, twelve-pound shot that would have no hope of penetrating the Yarmouth's scantlings, versus a man of war with twelve, twenty-four, and thirty-two pound shot? Biddle was firing volley after volley, easily getting three or four in to every one that the Yarmouth shot, but even with that speed, there just wasn't enough power.

Faulkner's voice was getting horse as he bellowed out orders left and right, struggling to get the Aquila close enough and into position to join the fray. All of the Aquila's guns were primed and ready, they just needed proximity.

The Randolph slipped along the bow of the Yarmouth and attempted to rake the ship, but winds were to the Yarmouth's favor as it narrowly turned, letting it's armored hull take the shot and preventing much damage from guns that were easily a quarter of the Yarmouth's strength. But the bowsprit snapped, showing that the Randolph could do damage to rigging and masts instead of hulls.

"They'll be aiming for masts after that!" Faulkner shouted. "Get moving! We need to draw the fire!"

But they just weren't close enough. The next volley from Biddle did indeed aim for the masts, and Connor watched sails and rigging come loose, but it seemed Biddle needed a new gunner since the aim had yet again not hit the desired mark, despite the man-o-war being slower and less maneuverable compared to the frigate.

But aiming for the masts had been a mistake. Biddle was left wide open, the Randolph not able to reload fast enough, and in perfect position for the Yarmouth to open a massive broadside that decimated the Randolph.

"Weak spot!" one of the crew shouted. And there was, on the side the Yarmouth couldn't see, and the Aquila was finally within firing range.

"Swivels!" Faulkner bellowed. "Fire!"

The explosion was massive, the weak spot having exposed the powder magazine, and the fireball that blew engulfed the ship in under a second before ballooning up into the sky as black smoke. Many of the crew started cursing, as debris from the explosion flew far away from the epicenter. From Connor's perch in the crow's nest, he saw a body land on the deck of the Yarmouth, and Connor had little doubt that if any of the crew of the Randolph survived, it would be pure luck.

"Look sharp lads! We're looking for survivors!"

"Who woulda survived that?"

"We're making sure!" Faulkner snapped back. "Now get on those lines! Pack up the guns, we don't want to offend the Yarmouth after all that!"

Both the Yarmouth and the Aquila searched the debris and started fishing out bodies for a proper burial at sea and polite words were exchanged back and forth via flags until they were close enough to call. Faulkner was spokesman and Connor kept out of sight, uncertain how viewing a native on a British ship might be taken. He knew that his people were neutral, at his urging of Oiá:ner and Kanentó:kon, but there were many debating if they should play a role or not in the war and which side would benefit their people more. He was many weeks travel from where all the information was, and without knowing the current state of things, he believed it better to simply be hidden.

Of the crew of three-hundred and five, five survivors were found. Four were found by the Yarmouth, but there was one that the Aquila found that nobody told the Yarmouth about.

Biddle lay on their deck, gasping under the moon, his face almost unrecognizable with burns and charring. He glared around him, somehow holding on through sheer stubborn will. "Tenacious," he wheezed. "Smart... Mr. Kenway would have rewarded me greatly... for ridding him of you..."

"That Jonas albatross is marooned at the moment," Faulkner replied coldly, kneeling down to the Admiral. "And you're dying. Your reign over the coast has come to an end."

"Ha!" Biddle spat between gasps. "Is that why you hunted me?" he broke down into coughing. "You Assassins are every bit... the fools I was told."

Faulkner scowled. "You brought pain and suffering upon innocent people for nothing but personal gain, as I see it. And I've been trailing after you long enough to see it."

"Pain... Suffering... I set them free," Biddle replied between wheezes. "Weeded out dissenters... empowered the Patriots... So what if I... was named Admiral... Revolution needs one... I'm the best man... for the job... Only man... If not for me... Continental Navy would... remain a handful of rafts... You Assassins are blind..."

"And you Templars are frozen to any and all growth," Faulkner replied. With a flick of his wrist, the old sea-salt's hidden blade appeared, only rarely ever used, and in a swift precise strike, pierced Biddle's neck. "Rest in peace, you bastard."

Biddle was then dumped in the sea, and even in the dead of night, Faulkner took the helm and started shouting orders to get them far enough away from the debris and Biddle's body. Everyone was silently working, tired after a long day and slightly disgruntled to still be working so late into the night. Connor stood by Faulkner's shoulder, a towering shadow.

"Mr. Faulkner?" he asked quietly. Connor had been through enough emotional turmoil in the span of the last few weeks to know that Faulkner was having difficulty putting the end of this long pursuit away.

Faulkner was silent for a moment, before he took a deep breath. "Victory for the Aquila!" he bellowed. "For her glory! Hip hip!"

"Hurrah!" the crew responded, exhaustion disappearing in a moment, as it seemed to sink in to everyone at once that they had finished off the man they'd been pursuing for years.

"Hip hip!"

"Hurrah!"

The cheering continued in the dark, and Faulkner started to sing. "I've been wild a rover for many a year... And I spent all me money on whiskey and beer... And now I'm returning..."

It was late April, Connor now twenty-two, when they arrived at the massive opening of the Delaware River between Delaware and New Jersey and started to sail up to Philadelphia. Once at the city, Connor disembarked, once more in his hood and moccasins, and prepared a convoy to start riding up the Schuylkill River. It was just over thirty miles and took two days, with the wagons having difficulty with some of the rougher terrain, particularly as they finally approached the encampment. The pickets, while clearly looking at the long train of supplies greedily, were better trained than when Connor had been at the camp mere months earlier. Instead they barked instructions, sending a runner back into camp to send word that a half-breed named Connor had "offerings from Church". Several questioned what religion in the colonies had enough to provide such a long train of supplies, but Connor said nothing, just waited patiently.

Within forty minutes, a man on horse was galloping forward. He had lost the powdered wig, and the finery was still exquisite if showing more signs of wear than the last time he'd seen them, but Connor recognized him nonetheless.

"Marquis," he greeted with a nod. "I was not expecting someone of your rank to come and meet us."

The pickets all blinked, surprised that the half-breed knew the upper ranks at all.

"Monsieur Connor," Lafayette greeted with a large smile. "When zhe messenger mentioned your name I wondered. Zhen he said you had offerings from Church. I just had to make sure zhat I was right."

Connor gave a wan smile. "His ship mysteriously sank off the coast of Martinique. But I was able to... salvage a few things."

"Zhis is true," Lafayette said, his smile growing even larger. "You work zhe miracles, non?"

"No, I stop evil where I see it."

Lafayette laughed. "Come! We'll let zhe teamsters handle our supplies. You, I wish to ride with."

Connor's chuckle was soft, but genuine, as he nudged his speckled mare forward.

"I believe I see improvement among the men," Connor said after a few minutes as they rode through the snowy trail back to camp.

"Oui, zhey have come a long way," Lafayette nodded. "A Prussian named Von Steuben arrived in Février, and he has been drilling zhe men constantly day after day. No breaks, no rests, and Von Steuben will get into zhe snow and mud himself to show zhem how it is done. Zhe one's he teaches are all from different units, and he intends to send zhem back to zheir units in order to train zhem. But his biggest task has been sanitation."

Given how pitiful the camp had been when Connor had first been there, that was quite understandable. "Indeed."

"It was quite zhe task for him, getting men to understand that zhere is a latrine and zhat zhat is the only place to go, and it is now on zhe opposite size zhe camp from zhe kitchens. Disease has been cut down dramatically, and zhe men know who has done zhis, so now zhey listen."

"It is fortunate for this army that he has arrived then."

"Vrai." They rode in silence, and Connor reflected on how proud Lafayette seemed of the men, of the revolution, from the few times he'd spoken to him. And since it was something different to think of, something unrelated to his father and the tangled mess therein, Connor started to wonder.

"I wish to ask you something," he said softly. "Why is this revolution so important you?"

Lafayette hmmed, looking thoughtful. "Since I decided to embark upon zhis adventure, zhrough all the lords and merchants and soldiers I've spoken to," he said softly, "you are zhe first to ask me zhis. Connor, have you ever been to France?"

Connor chuckled. "I'm not sure if Martinique counts."

Lafayette laughed as well. "I suppose it does, but I meant France, not one of zhe colonies."

"I have not."

The Frenchman who was also an American general, gave a wistful sigh. "One day," he said softly, "when all of zhis is over, I will invite you to Paris to stay with me and my family. She is zhe most beautiful city in zhe world, Connor, full of art and culture, women and wine. But she is sick on zhe inside, black and rotting."

Connor frowned, trying to picture it, but without a proper context, it was difficult. Paris was a city that was hundreds and hundreds of years old. Only the largest cities in America reached over a century, and the homes that were thousands of years old, like his valley at Kanatahséton did not have structures that endured as settler construction did. He shook his head, unable to see what Lafayette was staring at.

"But here..." Lafayette said with wonder, "here is somezhing quite different. On zhe outside, the colonies are dirty and dangerous, unforgiving and uncivilized."

Connor disagreed with that on many levels.

"But on zhe inside, they glow. Looking at Boston, or Trenton, or Philadelphia, zhey are rough, edgy, fighting to survive in a harsh world, where survival is not simply guaranteed. But zhe cities zhey glow, with perseverance, hard work, determination, vitality, fraternité, liberté, égalité. And zhat is why I am here. To learn." Lafayette looked to Connor, with fierce determination and stubbornness. "I want to return home able to touch France's black heart and make it glow once more."

"I wish you luck," Connor replied. "Take the lessons you learn, and make certain you teach them well."

They had finally reached the Potts home and the command center of the army. Connor noticed that there were many women about, and it seemed that several wives had come to join their husbands while wintering.

"Connor," came a call, and Connor turned in his saddle to see Washington approaching, a small woman on his arm.

"Commander," he greeted, swinging down from his horse. Immediately an aide sprang forward to take the reins and Connor blinked, surprised at the gesture. "I see things have improved for you."

"They have indeed," Washington replied. "I wish for you to meet my wife, Martha."

"Ma'am," Connor greeted softly, nodding his head. "Your people call me Connor."

The small woman gave a gentle, gracious smile. "Do your people have family names? Or are they like the natives in Virginia and only give you one name?"

Asking about his family name was a stab at a wound that was far too fresh from his sail down to Martinique, and Connor glanced down. "My people do not have family names, but we belong to clans. However my father..." Connor hesitated. Then he sighed. "My father is not a man I wish to acknowledge as my father for his brutality and cruelty. I choose not to bear his name."

Martha was clearly embarrassed, and Connor wondered if he should have been so honest. The white man masked everything in politeness and manners, sometimes not even saying what was truly meant, and Connor had to admit that as confused as he was about things, he tended to forget the white man's customs.

"I am sorry," he said. "I did not mean to bring up unpleasantness. I... had to work with my father recently and it... did not go well."

Washington started to redirect the conversation. "He helped with the Church affair?"

Connor grimaced. "Yes."

"If he helps the army and leaves you be, I would be very happy," the large Virginian said gently. "You deserve better, especially after... New York," he finished awkwardly.

"I do not blame you, Commander."

"Oh listen to us, chatting in the cold," Martha clucked. "We have a good fire in the Potts house, let's go warm up."

"I will only be staying the night," Connor said as they walked up to the house. "I must be on my way tomorrow. I have been away for some time and must see to other things."

Martha tsked again. "Always on the run. What does your wife say?"

"I am not married."

"Ah, that explains a few things."

Connor did not understand this woman at all.

He was invited to dine with all the officers that evening, and though he initially refused, wishing to again reach for stillness after the chaos of his feelings had been so unknowingly poked, Martha was soon cajoling him into joining. He still remained apart, sticking to the shadows, and not socializing. He was not a part of the army, for all that he supported it. And the fewer who knew of his existence the better.

But as tea and coffee was passed around, everyone was asked to sing, one by one. It was Lafayette who poked at Connor, asking him to sing, and Connor realized that many eyes were on him. Feeling caught, he worried his hands together. "Singing for my people... is different," he said softly. "To sing is to call for healing, or the spirits, or for prayer. To sing to entertain is..." Connor hunted for the right word... "Sacrilegious."

There was an awkward moment, and Connor could not believe how many awkward moments he'd been through since arriving. But Martha came to his rescue, her voice starting a folk song, and with attention successfully diverted, Connor left.

Washington found him out on the porch, and the large Virginian simply stood beside him.

"I apologize," he said softly. "Song... is something that perhaps we take for granted."

Connor let out a heavy sigh. "The only way for peace to exist is for people to understand each other. To understand requires listening and sharing knowledge. To those like the British who stop their ears and scream so no one else can be heard, there can be no understanding. But explaining things to the white man, who hides in manners and society, can sometimes be very hard."

"And explaining those manners and society must be hard for natives like you who don't share the same need of subterfuge," Washington replied. "I know you wish to leave in the morning, but would you stay for a day? We got word an hour ago and I intend to share it with the men. I think you might enjoy it."

"Very well. But I must push on at night."

Washington gave a small smile. "And avoid awkward conversations again?"

Connor chuckled softly. "Something like that." He looked out to the camp again, and remained amazed at the work that had been done in the short time he'd been gone. "How are your assistants faring?"

Washington's smile was proud as he looked out to the army. "Without them we would be lost. It's as simple as that. Whether it's Von Steuben demanding his aide swear at the soldiers a certain way, or Lafayette's clear visibility in his belief in what he's fighting for, or Casimir Pulaski showing us things on horseback we hadn't thought possible, we are benefitted by our time here, despite the horror at the start."

Washington turned and gave a bright smile. "The British are in for a surprise this summer."

"I look forward to that day, Commander."

"As do I, Connor. As do I."

The following day, after morning drills where Connor witnessed firsthand just how firm and strict a taskmaster Von Steuben was, Washington called all the men together, reading out a proclamation from France. A proclamation of alliance, between the far off country and that of America.

The army roared, cheered, screamed. Lafayette was in tears and in shock, having not expected anything, and as the shock gave way, a single cry rose from the thousands within the valley.

"Long live France! Long live the friendly powers! Long live the United States of America!"

Connor smiled, letting the happiness soak into him and fill him. He ended up staying the night to join in the celebration, though he stuck even further in the shadows, before mounting and riding off into the night.

It had been a long five months. But he was ready to return to Achilles.

The sail was long, it seemed, Connor still self-exiled to the crow's nest, trying to put his thoughts together before meeting the Old Man. Thoughts of his father were a tangled mess, he could not sort them out on his own, and as he came closer and closer to the homestead, his thoughts turned more and more to his last words with Achilles.

"Let me tell you something, Connor: Life is not a fairy tale and there are no happy endings."

"No. Not when men like you are left in charge."

Not when men like you are left in charge.

The words haunted him, now. Haytham Kenway's offhand comments about the blood on Achilles' hands, the tightlipped refusal to talk about the death of the Order in any but the broadest terms, the name Shay – and most importantly, that look of raw pain in the normally intractable face. More and more he squirmed at his actions, coming to understand that he was still ignorant of many things, and that he had no right to speak of that which he did not know. He could not imagine what could have possibly happened to hurt Achilles so much, but he respected the man enough to know that he should never have made assumptions. He watched the stars and listened to Tekawerahkwa's wind for many nights, restless and unable to relax with his heart in such turmoil.

Because of that, he was asleep when the Aquila docked at Rockport, awoken only when Faulkner came in to rouse him.

"I've just let the Old Man know we're here," the old salt said. "Didn't say much, figured you wanted to lay it out for him yourself. Your hunter Myriam was busy over the winter, got a damned fortune in furs. Ellen's got things bound for New York, and in a week that funny carpenter will have a new set of furniture to be delivered. I'm off nearly as quick. Now go see the Old Man before he decides to sic all those recruits of yours on me."

Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, disembarking and looking up the long path to the homestead and hoping... He shook his head. He needed to apologize first.

He walked up the hill slowly, his feet dragging as he made his way up. How would the Old Man receive him? With hatred? Contempt? Would he spurn Ratonhnhaké:ton's regret, as he should, or cast him out of the Order? Always Achilles gave the impression that Connor was little more than a bother, wishing only to be left alone with his pain. Did he at last have the excuse to be rid of the young native? The thought caused irrational fear in Connor, he did not want to be alone again, as he had been in Kanatahséton. The others in the village did not understand him – not even his beloved friend Kanen'tó:kon, or Oiá:ner – both of whom did their best to help him. They cared, certainly, they loved him as they loved any of their home, but there was a vast chasm that they could not ford, for they did not understand the anxiety that he lived with every day. Oiá:ner came the closest, she knew the pain he held in his heart, and she knew the dangers of letting it fester, but she could not fix the damage that had been done to him. Kanen'tó:kon accepted him as he was, content to see Ratonhnhaké:ton as he was and not try to fix or change him. His best friend took his pain in stride and allowed him the right to feel it, but he never even tried to understand it, simply shrugging it off as just how Ratonhnhaké:ton was.

It had been Achilles who understood. Who saw the anxiety and knew immediately what it was, why it was, and how to cope with it – not fix it, but cope with it. Achilles had taken his overwhelming fear of being attacked again, vulnerable again, and channeled it into something positive: protecting his people. Single-handedly he gave Ratonhnhaké:ton the skills to survive in a world that was hostile to him, the boundaries to push against to improve himself, the confidence to take on the task Iottsitíson had given him. Achilles and the Hirokoa were as Skennenrahawi, the Great Peacemaker.

Skennenrahawi established the Great Law of Peace, making the Haudenosaunee and banishing all the old ways. They forbade violence and cannibalism, black magic and human sacrifice, understanding that life was a sacred thing to be cherished. His friend and orator Hiawatha had created the first wampum belt, using the sacred beads to tell the story of the Haudenosaunee. Hirokoa promoted patience, tolerance, waiting for others to understand the truth of the world the value of life.

But... at the same time, they killed people. Those that did not agree with them, such as the Templars, were put under the blade. At first he thought it normal, justified, because the Templars were Atenenyarhu, cannibals who would eat the world, but now... after having met his father...

He shook his head again. Apology first.

For the second time in his memory, Achilles was not at the door to greet him, and guilt filled his already tight chest as he silently padded into the manor, toes curled in his moccasins. No one was in the foyer, and Ratonhnhaké:ton closed his eyes and listened, calling on his eagle. The others were not in the house, Duncan or Stephane, Dobby or Jamie. Only in the back bedroom did he hear signs of life, the faint scratching sound of a quill on paper. Achilles was here.

Connor took a long, deliberate moment, holding his breath, reaching for stillness, and walked down the hall.

Achilles, of course, already knew he was there.

"Welcome back," he said in a wry, welcoming voice. "And how was Martinique?"

"How is it you came to captain a ship, given the way you sail? Perhaps someone with more experience should take the wheel?"

"Speed, Connor! We need more speed! It's almost as though you want him to escape!"

"Stop him, Connor! You should have listened to me! He's nearly away!"

"We had a DREAM, Benjamin! A dream you sought to destroy! And for that, my fallen friend, you will be made to pay!"

And...

"You did well. His passing was a boon for us both."

But also,

"Let me tell you something, Connor: Life is not a fairy tale and there are no happy endings."

"No. Not when men like you are left in charge."

His raké:ni would have to wait. This was more important.

"Achilles, I," he said softly, tentatively. He frowned, surprised to hear himself struggle when it was the right thing to do. He tried again. "I owe you an apology."

The Old Man waved his hand, quill and all, dismissing the words without even looking up from his paper. Several pieces lay crumpled around the desk, signs of false starts and scattered thoughts. What was he writing about? Connor pushed the thought aside, as well as Achilles' dismissal. This needed to be said. "It was wrong of me to say the things I did. You were right about the value of silence in our work, and you were right about the commander, and you-"

The Old Man looked up, the brim of his hat lifting and Connor saw his eyes. His eyes... they were sunken in, baggy, tired. For the first time Achilles looked... old. Disquiet burned in Connor's mind, and he almost didn't hear the words that followed. "Your words were harsh, Connor, but there was also truth there. I failed the Order. Allowed the Templars to take control." There was long, deep, bone-weary sigh. "It's time you knew the truth about Shay Cormac."

That name...

Connor took a seat, Achilles leaning back at his desk and turning to look at the stuffed eagle.

"That was a gift from Kesegowasee," he said in a thin voice. "Liam and I met him in '46. He was an Abenaki, specifically Wolastoqiyik. A gifted hunter and fighter, he worked as a mercenary for the French when the British tensions inevitably rose. We had been exchanging letters for almost two years by that point, and when I explained the goals of the Order he was happy to join, and he gave the Order that as a gift. He was the first to realize Shay was still alive. No," he added, "I must start farther back. You know of the Pieces of Eden?"

"Hén," Connor said. "They are gifts left by the Spirits, we and the Templars seek to collect them to protect or use them respectively. You said the globe at Kanataséhton was likely such a piece, and that the place my people guard might be a Temple of the Spirits."

"There are many kinds, Connor. Apples, crystals, swords, staffs; your grandfather found a Piece of Eden shaped as a human skull, used to watch people from great distances. Assassins look for such items because we feel them too dangerous to use. Those Who Came Before see us as little more than infants, they hold us in contempt and are just as frustrated with us as we often are with them. A hammer in the hands of an architect will build a house, but in the hands of a child will kill a person. Whatever the Pieces of Eden do, however they were meant to be used, it is beyond our comprehension to fathom and should be left alone. That is a lesson I, we, the Assassins learned the hard way."

Connor frowned, uncertain where this was heading.

"There are Pieces of Eden, Connor, that hold the world together," Achilles said. "I learned too late just what that meant. Adéwalé, the man who taught me everything I knew after Ah Tabai recruited me... there was an earthquake in Port-au-Prince, in '52. Adéwalé said the destruction was incalculable. We were looking for Temples at the time, and we had no idea whether one had been found or not. That should have been the first warning." Something in Achilles' eyes drifted away, lost in something, his face shutting down. A long, long pause drew out, Connor quietly waiting for him to continue, afraid that he wouldn't, afraid to prompt him, afraid of what he would hear.

Achilles shook himself out of the gaze, glancing at Connor's struggle for patience and sighed. "The Templars took several pieces of Eden because of that, and the West Indies lost many good Assassins. Adéwalé chased them as far as New York and passed the torch on to us. It took some time..." A look of raw pain crossed Achilles' face, old and unhealed, touching on something Connor had only ever seen once before, when the Old Man saw the covered painting. He glanced at the archway, knowing it still lay in the dining room by the fireplace, unopened. "... but eventually we got the artifacts back, and we used them to find other locations. Shay Cormac, he was a young buck under our tutelage. Young, brash, yet to understand the Creed, but he recognized one of the sites, a convent in Lisbon. With Liam out on assignment, and Shay desperate to prove himself, I sent him to locate the Temple and retrieve any Pieces of Eden that existed. If I knew then what I know now..."

Telling the story was painful for Achilles, Ratonhnhaké:ton had never seen the Old Man's face be so expressive, so contorted in bitterness. He stooped in the chair, and Connor realized how thin his shoulders were, how small he looked. Achilles was an old man, fallible and frail and putting himself through torture to make Ratonhnhaké:ton understand something. Blood rushed in his ears as he realized what was happening, and for the first time in his life stillness came naturally to him. He stayed still because he knew; he knew that if he dared move the Old Man, no, the old man would break into a hundred pieces, and there would be no hope of putting him back together again. He gulped, Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he watched, utterly silent.

"... When Shay came back," Achilles said after another agonizing pause, licking his lips and struggling to form the words, "He was inconsolable. He tried to explain, tried to get us to understand, but he was nearly mad with grief. Lisbon had suffered an earthquake, just as Port-au-Prince. The Piece of Eden, once removed, tore the earth asunder. Shay was devastated that he had caused all that destruction, and in his grief he blamed me." Deep brown eyes glowed against the dark skin, the stark contrast of the whites of his eyes uncanny. "He should have.

"He was incoherent. No," he corrected, aging years as he spoke, "that's not true, he made perfect sense, but none of us could believe it. Even in a world where Apples control the thoughts of others and Those Who Came Before visit us from the past, where beams of light can murder men en masse, still we could not comprehend the idea of one man simply causing an earthquake. It was inconceivable. I thought perhaps there was a mistake, some error made by a young impetuous boy who hadn't yet learned the Creed. I was not ready to accept..." Another sigh. A wince. A hand went up to his aged face, rubbing at his eyes, Connor slowly became convinced Achilles was hiding his tears, but they were dry when he finally pulled himself together.

"... I had just lost them..."

The whisper was so soft Ratonhnhaké:ton almost didn't hear it.

"I can make the excuses, say I wasn't in my right mind, say my intentions were just, say anything to make it sound better, but the truth is an ugly thing, Connor: I did not believe Shay. I did not believe an Assassin when he told me there was incalculable danger in those artifacts. I was too consumed by my own losses that I could not bear the thought of being even more wrong than I already was. That arrogance cost me everything I had left."

"Stop." The words fell out of his mouth before he could fully realize he was saying it. "Please. This hurts you too much. I am sorry that-"

"No, boy, it's past time you knew," Achilles said, a flicker of fierceness crossing his face. "If you're going to go after the Templars, if you're determined to embroil yourself in this war and follow it through to the end, you need to understand just what the stakes are, just what you will be held responsible for. Shay didn't, and in his mourning he stole that damned Precursor box and tried to flee the homestead, shouting that he wouldn't allow us to slaughter any more innocents, reviling me for the damage I had done, and ultimately committing suicide by jumping off the cliff by the falls.

"At least... we thought he was dead..."

Another pause drew out, Achilles leaning back in his chair, closing his ancient eyes and taking slow, shuddering breathes, exhausted by what he had said so far. A hand went to his face again, rubbing his eyes and forehead, leaning forward and putting his weight on an elbow, supported by his good knee. Connor watched in perfect stillness, chest tight.

"A year later Kesegowaase saw him, helping a Templar named Colonel George Monro, a member of the British regulars at Fort William Henry. That was when we learned that he was still alive. He disrupted Kesegowaase's plans to kill him, and then appeared again when Kesegowaase was trying to persuade an Oneida tribe to ally with us. Shay was shouting that he was freeing the tribe from us."

"You would never-"

"We would," Achilles said, eyes dark and haunted and bitter. "We have."

Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn't even grasp what the Old Man had just said.

"You... you..."

"Twice, while I was Mentor," Achilles said. "Both times with small, isolated tribes that were determined to make war for no reason other than to shed blood, tribes so battered and abused by the settlers they thought their only recourse was to pursue bloody revenge. We took hold of the village, and then Kesegowaase or myself would come and we would talk and talk and talk until the hot heads were settled. Once we had to assassinate three braves. We are not the servants of the Sky Goddess, Connor, we are killers. We choose our targets, we justify what we do as bettering the world, but we are killers, Iroquois. There is no divine purpose in what we do, just self-determination. Shay may have been wrong in that instance, Kesegowaase had not captured anyone, but he was not wrong. Three months later Monro was dead, and so was Kesegowaase. That was how it started.

"Shay personally led a bloody campaign to exterminate us. He stopped us at Louisbourg, he killed Adéwalé, he undid our hold of the New York crime networks in the span of two weeks, assassinated Hope, and chased us all the way to the far north as we were looking for another Temple in the span of two years. Chevalier Vérendyre tried to buy us time at the cost of his own life. From '57 to '60, he had almost single-handedly undone twenty years' worth of careful work. Hope was found dead of her own poison, Kesegowaase slaughtered by fort rifles, the Chevalier was never heard from again. My single mistake had created a whirlwind of destruction, all because I would not listen to a distraught boy crippled with grief. I saw him for the first time at Signal Hill, in Canada. Liam and I had completed our expedition up north, and I had finally understood the damage that I had done."

Achilles' eyes were low, almost closed, his frame so sagged in the seat he looked like he might tip over. His voice was nearly a whisper now, barely audible as he struggled through his words. Nothing was left in him, but still he continued.

"Haytham would have killed me."

Ratonhnhaké:ton froze.

"Your father is a bloodthirsty man," Achilles said, eyes locked in memory. "Death means nothing to him, and he would have gladly killed me simply for being an Assassin. It was Shay who saved my life, said the New World they envision means nothing without mercy. It was Shay who exiled me to the homestead, never to leave. It was Shay who said I should pass word to the other Mentors to stop their search for Temples. And then, Haytham, in his version of mercy, shattered my leg."

And then, at last, silence.

…

"... the Assassins are not nearly so perfect as you make them out to be. And Achilles? He has earned every derogative pejorative in the world for the damage he has caused. He is no victim, but a perpetrator, the blood on his hands is awesome, and you would say different if you know what I do. What Shay does."

"And who is Shay that you use him as a crutch to defend your argument?"

"Ask your precious spade."

So many things burned in Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind he wasn't sure where to start. He was startled to learn that Haytham's biting comments to Achilles were routed in more than faint truth, even more surprised to hear the story from Achilles' very mouth after so many years of resolute silence. He hurt to see the pain in the Old Man's face as Achilles used up every ounce of energy he had to recount the story. All of his flaws were laid bare, nothing was held back, Achilles spared nothing in explaining how the Brotherhood had been so decimated. Now Ratonhnhaké:ton understood the pain, the unbearable hesitation of training him.

Achilles was afraid. Afraid to create another Shay. Afraid to start another catastrophe.

That was why he knew Ratonhnhaké:ton's anxiety so well. He, too, lived with it.

They were alike.

Where seeing the similarities of Connor and Haytham brought him trepidation, seeing the similarities of Connor and Achilles brought a curious sense of relief, of calm. They were connected.

"There is a saying among my people," he said softly, exhausted as Achilles and still perfectly still. "If a child falls in the rapids, the person who saves her shares in her life forever."

Achilles looked up. He looked decades older than sixty-eight.

"Achilles..." he licked his lips, a little uncertain of his thoughts, a little uncertain of his words. "I was drowning when I came here."

"And you are still doomed to drown, Connor," the Mentor said. "It will just be in a different river."

"But-"

"I thank you for the sentiment, child, but your gratitude is misplaced." Achilles struggled to stand, the effort taking twice as long as it usually did, reaching for his cane and swaying severely before he could steady himself. Limp more pronounced than ever, he hobbled out of his room and into the kitchen. Only then did Connor notice the late hour. "I still stand by what I said that day. Life is not a fairy tale and there are no happy endings. The Creed may give us purpose, but it does not give us solace. The great trap of nothing being true and everything being permitted is that so many believe it is license to do whatever they want with impunity. The wisdom behind Altair's words are lost to the young – like you, like Shay, like so many others – and it takes tragedy for them to learn the true meaning of the phrase. Some are lucky that they only lose their family. Others will lose entire nations, and still others never learn, and they are the ones who have to die. There is no divine presence in our work, Connor, and the sooner you realize that the sooner you can begin to really grow."

"You still do not think Iottsitíson guided me to you?"

"Child, I never doubted her," Achilles said, stoking the hearth and grabbing a frying pan to begin cooking. "I doubt her intentions. You think she only concerns herself with the safety of your people, but time and again we have learned that Those Who Came Before are just as flawed as we are, just as selfish, just as barbaric, just as cruel. But humanity is doomed to repeat their mistakes over and over, and that's what I'm trying to tell you. Your ideals, Connor, no matter how noble, how selfless, will destroy you as they destroyed me. It will either kill or drive away everyone close to you, and you will end your days alone. If I truly saved you from the rapids, then I pity you for the life I have given you, because I know that life intimately well, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

"But..." Ratonhnhaké:ton started to say, reaching out and touching Achilles shoulder. The old man looked up, hand on the kettle, now almost hot enough to pour tea. "But... the Templars... now their hold is weakened. They cannot cause pain as they once did, which makes me believe there's a chance for peace. Ending the war would end the suffering, would it not? Imagine what might be accomplished if we were to unite."

Achilles's mouth pressed into a dark frown, dull eyes slowly sharpening, back straightening even with no energy to do so.

"Why the change of heart?" he asked. "You've always been so adamant that the Stone Coats be swept off the earth. Where is this coming from?"

Connor said nothing, turning away, wondering how he could explain everything. Anything.

Achilles was always skilled at reading him however, and his face slacked with slow-dawning surprise. "You've met your father, haven't you?" It was not totally a question.

Irrationally, Connor felt the need to defend himself. "I do not claim to trust the man - or even like him. Much has happened between he and I, much I do not understand. His cruelty I have seen for myself, his dedication to the Templars complete and unshakable. He said... He said..." his words ran out, uncertain where to start, how to articulate everything that happened to him in the last four months.

"Fanora," Achilles said, pouring his tea and leaving a cup out for Connor. The young native poured himself a cup, stepping around the Old Man in the narrow hall and pulling out the game board and setting up the pieces. The afternoon sun was nearly gone, evening was approaching, so long they had talked, and Ratonhnhaké:ton still had so much to say.

In twenty minutes they were deep in the game, pondering moves and distracting Ratonhnhaké:ton's muddle thoughts enough that he could begin to describe what happened since meeting his father: their tense introduction, the callous treatment of life at Haytham's hands, the long debates on philosophy, the pieces he learned of Edward Kenway, someone named Jenny, Order and Purpose, the chase to the Caribbean, and the ugly brutality of Church's death. Other things bled through, too, the unnerving similarity of their personalities, the fear that Ratonhnhaké:ton would turn into him and kill people so senselessly, the confusion of how his ista could love a man, the long list of complicated emotions that he felt whenever thinking about him.

Two hours later Achilles once more beat him, and he gave a long, thoughtful hum in his throat.

"You are right," he said. "The two of you are remarkably similar."

Ratonhnhaké:ton shrank at the very thought.

Achilles stared at one of Fanora chips, dancing it around his fingers slightly, eyes looking at nothing. "If what he said is true, he lost his father around the same age you lost your mother. That kind of damage is irrevocable, it warps a body in different ways. You, for example, have spent your days afraid for your people and desperate to protect them from more harm. You cling to those close to you for fear of losing more. Haytham, it would seem, has done the opposite. He holds everyone at arm's length to prevent being hurt again. You were blessed to look outward, he cursed to look inward. But do not think similarity is as sameness. It is not." His eyes hardened. "Seeing similarity in him will make you still your blade, make you doubt killing him. Push it away, understand that even if you are similar he could and eventually will kill you without so much as a second thought."

"But he has lost so many of his lieutenants," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, leaning over the board slightly. "He is in no position to take such a chance, and that grants us the opening of ending the war. Our goals are aligned, at least so far as the independence of the Colonies is concerned. He makes a point about Washington and those who back him. I have heard much talk of freedom and equality, but it seems one must be a landed white man to benefit. What of someone like me? Or you? What role for us in this new world? Is my father right, then?"

"It is seductive," Achilles granted. "You have to ask yourself, however, if what Haytham plans for these Colonies is the independence you and the settlers have been seeking. Freedom from England and freedom are two different things, Haytham would supplant one regent for another, and is that any better? He may sincerely care for the wellbeing of this fledgling nation, but will his successor? Or the successor after him? Of the one after him? The trap of monarchy is the requirement of admiration for the people you govern, an understanding of them, and history has shown repeatedly that such an affection is very hard when the life of a regent is so drastically different from that of his or her people."

"And he continues to defend Charles Lee - the man who murdered my mother and burned my village," Ratonhnhaké:ton added. "There is so much I must consider and so little time in which to do it. But I would be remiss to ignore this opportunity."

The Old Man shrugged. "Haytham may listen," he conceded. "But will he understand? And even if he does, will he agree?"

"Even he must admit that we achieve more together than we do alone."

What little energy Achilles had accumulated immediately left him with those words. His next words were lethargic, defeated.

"It's late, Connor; high time for an old man to go to bed. I'll see you tomorrow."

The next two days were filled with heavy silence. The long discussions of Haytham and Shay had left both of them emotionally drained and exhausted, and conversations were limited to basic housework just because neither could handle anything more profound. Most of Connor's recruits were out gathering intelligence and would likely be back by the end of the month. Only Dobby was still around, because she had broken an arm while Connor was away, and was spending her time resting and training in what several considered the impossible tasks of mastering reading and writing. Connor spent some time with her, glad to be in the numbing task of helping her with reading, since he didn't have to think about the revelations, his emotional knots, or anything beyond the simple words on the page.

"Are ye sure ye're alright, Connor?" Dobby asked one evening. "Ye're a fair bit quieter than usual."

"I..." Connor shook his head. "My journey was more difficult than I anticipated and I am still trying to understand everything that has transpired."

Dobby gave a soft, sad smile, and a nod. "Now that I can understand," she said softly. "Near on twenty-five years ago, when all the other urchins were startin' to notice..." she gestured to her ample bust. "Well, some who didn't know me thought that a street girl was meant for one thing and one thing only."

Connor wrinkled his brow, uncertain what she meant.

Dobby gave a small laugh. "Oh Connor," she said, "I forget ye have a higher value on just about everything compared to a normal man. Those boys thought I was a prostitute."

"How does the white man find so little value in half their population," Connor muttered.

Dobby's smile was bright and proud. "'s part o' why I joined ye. To find people like ye, the other recruits, to know that they see me as more than me breasts, well that's worth joinin'." She winked slyly. "Ye're not bad on the eyes either," she said coyly.

Connor blushed, despite himself.

"Anyway, back to me tale of woe," Dobby sipped her cup of tea and leaned back in her chair. "I understood back then that men looked at girls for just the part between the legs. But I didn't understand that men thought they had a right to it if ye were just a prostitute. Since I wasn't a prostitute, I didn't think I'd face any trouble."

Seeing where this story was going, Connor reached out and held Dobby's hand, the only support he could give.

"There I was, walkin' around, not realizin' that just bein' a girl was a walkin' advertisement," Dobby stared into her tea. "Well, ye get the idea. I was fast back then, just like now, but he was strong. I never expected him, because he was my friend. We'd done some jobs together. But he said he'd worked with me long enough and it was time to put up, that I owed him after all he'd done for me. Once he had a hold, I couldn't break free. But that wasn't the worst part."

Connor squeezed her hand. "The rape I could deal with," she said softly. "Lesson learned, I was more observant, more distrustful, and got good at talkin' down idiots that thought I was a free fare by puttin' a knife to their throats. But the part that needed the most understandin' o' what happened by far was the baby."

"He impregnated you," Connor said softly, sadness and anger welling in him at what sort of demon could believe that simply helping a woman was enough to demand sex? One helped someone because one wanted to help, not to get something in return.

Dobby nodded. "I didn't understand the cycle. Oh I knew I bled once a month, but I didn't understand. When I stopped bleedin', I didn't know why, and I couldn't exactly afford to go to a doctor. Ended up visitin' a brothel just to be able to ask questions. Learned more than I ever cared to."

"No doubt," Connor replied. "I wish I could have been there for you. Or that you at least had someone you trusted to go to."

Dobby shrugged. "Life on the streets doesn't lead to trust, as I learned the hard way."

"The child?"

Dobby continued to stare at her tea, eyes shining brightly. "One of the things they explained in the brothel was a way to... abort the baby. But it risked ye're own life. I wanted to live but I didn't want that baby. Even if he'd been my friend, I wanted nothin' to do with him after that. I never wanted his child, I never wanted his attention in that way."

"Did you... stop the pregnancy?" Connor asked softly.

"Never had the chance. All the stress made me miscarry. Don't know how I woulda chosen." Dobby said, still staring at her tea. Then she closed her eyes and let a pair of tears fall. Then she wiped here eyes and heaved a sigh. "Took me quite a few years to get the understandin' part down," she said at last. "Whatever ye faced, Connor, it'll take ye years to understand it all. Don't go tryin' to understand it all at once. It'll just hurt more. A little bit at a time? Ye'll make peace with it."

"Thank you for your wisdom, Dobby."

She gave a warm chuckle, standing to start picking up her teacup. "How is it a man like you has no wife?"

Connor sighed.

Several of the homesteaders came up to the manor after seeing Connor once more doing his morning runs. Catherine came up and insisted on taking almost all of Connor's clothes to launder since, "Who knows when you last washed them with how long you've been gone!" and Warren pulled up with a wagon of extra food, since there was now "an extra mouth to feed" and even Ellen came up, to see if her clothes for Connor still fit, and offering to take in or pull out whatever didn't fit to her precise eye.

When Big Dave came limping up, however, winded from how the hill had made his leg ache, he wasn't checking in but instead he brought a box.

They sat in the study, Dave grateful to sit down after the trek up the hill. "Thanks for letting me sit," Dave said, his box resting gently on his lap.

"The walk up the hill was clearly difficult," Connor replied. "Of course you may rest." Connor settled himself in a chair. "Do you need a cane?"

Dave gave one of his large laughs. "Too stubborn for one. Still think I can walk around without one. Basically can, especially in my smithy. But longer treks and hills seem to be my downfall. Walking Miss Ellen to church leaves me panting in the pew, but going downhill is always easier than going uphill. I do fine."

"Knowing that such a distance would be so difficult, what has brought you here?"

Big Dave smiled brightly. "Connor, I was wondering... You still use that stone hatchet of yours?"

"My tamahaac?"

Dave nodded.

"I have had it since I left my village," Connor replied. "I made it myself when I left, and it has seen me through many battles, including freeing you." Both had their hands ghost up to their necks, remembering the shared bruises they had. For Connor, he would always think of Dave being dragged by the neck, and remember his time in the prison. His neck was now protected by the necklace that Oiá:ner gave him, but he still remembered.

Dave nodded. "Maybe it has too much sentimental value, but..." Dave trailed off, looking to the box, "I wanted to thank you. You and the town... you all rallied to keep me here, even though I was a coward. A Stone Coat, as you called it. I've been able to give back to everyone but you. I didn't know how till I realized your little hatchet was still stone."

Carefully, he opened the lid of the box, and Connor felt his jaw drop. Inside was a tamahaac, but instead of stone bound in wood, it was cold iron, shaped in the stylized arrow of the Assassins.

"I spoke to Achilles a lot, and he helped a little with the design. Lance had received some black ironwood from Florida, which he assures me is very difficult to work with because it's so hard. I've never done hatchets before, so I had to be careful to get the balance right..."

Connor reached into the box, fingers brushing against the soft cotton that Ellen must have sewn, and pulled the tamahaac out of its shaped enclosure, feeling the weight and balance. It was lighter than his, but he could feel the strength in it. Dave was talking about care and maintenance, making sure it was oiled and avoided rain, but Connor was already standing, stepping to the open space in front of the desk and testing certain forms and stances with it, adjusting for the lighter weight, the centered balance, feeling the time and effort that Lance and Dave both had put into a tamahaac without understanding how much it meant to Connor.

"Niawen'kó:wa," Connor said with gravitas. "I cannot thank you enough." He tossed the tamahaac in the air and caught it with ease, repeating the process as he started to memorize the feel. "My village is very isolated, even among the Hadounasaunee, and trade with settlers is rare. I never even thought that a different kind of tamahaac could exist." And he should have, seeing the axes that Godfrey and Terry weilded.

"This is my thanks, Connor," Big Dave said, standing. Connor stopped tossing his new tamahaac as Dave limped over and put a massive hand on his shoulder. "In a way, it's thanks from a lot of people. You found us, offered help with no thought of yourself, and just keep helping. You're an inspiration, Connor. And you deserve a lot more than just a little hatchet."

For the first time in several heavy days, Connor felt light, a grateful smile blossoming on his face, and his chest empty of anxiety and worry.

Lyle visited later that day, with a determined look on his face and when Connor answered the door, Lyle reached out and grabbed him and pulled him down the hill to talk.

"Connor, forgive my brusqueness."

"It is fine," Connor replied, puzzled. "How may I help?"

Lyle stood, arms crossed, staring down at the grass and undergrowth, before he shook his head. "Achilles had a bad winter, Connor," he said, looking Connor straight in the eye. "A bad winter. I just about lived here for the entirety of February."

And suddenly, the ground dropped out from Connor's feet and he was in freefall.

He had known that Achilles didn't look well, that he had looked very old and frail the last few days, but Connor had attributed that to the heavy conversation they'd had and old memories of failure being brought up. But this had been the second time that Connor had arrived and Achilles had not been at the door to greet him as he always was.

Jaw down, color draining, Connor turned to stalk back up to the manor and start taking better care of Achilles when Lyle reached out and grabbed Connor again.

"He doesn't want you to know."

"What?"

Lyle sighed, pulled off his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "He's sixty-eight, Connor. God knows he's one of the healthiest men I've ever seen at that age, but I think something from his past is eating at him. Either he stressed himself too much when he was younger, or something is stressing him now," and Lyle looked firmly at Connor, "either way, his body is starting to weaken."

"How long..." Connor said, staring up to the manor, "Is there nothing I can..."

Lyle let out a heavy sympathetic sigh. "All men die, Connor. There's no avoiding it." He rubbed his eyes again. "There is much about the body that we just don't know. Doctors are only just beginning to share information, it's why I have so many journals arriving all the time, to see what others have observed and learn from it. From what I've seen, Achilles's heart is getting weak. From what, I can't say, but stress will not help. He needs rest. Whether he has years or decades, I'm not sure. I just don't know."

Connor frowned. The best way to avoid stress would be for Achilles to not have to deal with the Assassins, but there was no way the Old Man wouldn't be involved. The same for rest, when there were still recruits to train while Connor was away. He would need to completely rearrange how training was done, without the Achilles realizing what he was doing. The Old Man was too stubborn otherwise.

"The hardest part," Lyle continued, "is that his weak heart is making him susceptible to pneumonia."

"Pneumonia?"

"A build up of mucus in the lungs," Lyle explained. "That's why I was here for February. When the weather gets cold, he's at a greater risk, and his lungs might end up drowning if the case gets too severe."

That settled it for Connor. His winters would now be spent at the homestead. Anything that required the Assassins out in the colonies... the states, he could send his recruits to. They were Assassins now. They could handle it, as he had. And they would support each other, where Connor had started alone.

"I will look after him."

Lyle stared long and hard at Connor then nodded. "He worries after you," the doctor said softly. "You are the only family he has."

That bit deeply into Connor, and all the issues he had with his father, and the heavy weight of what he'd learned of Achilles's time as Mentor.

"I will be here for him."

Lyle offered a tired, wan smile. "I know you will be. Thank you, Connor. Achilles means too much to all of us to lose him without a fight."

Suddenly Connor realized that he alone wasn't the only one affected by the Old Man. By interviewing every new homesteader, Achilles knew everyone in the small growing village, he dealt with things while Connor was away. In many ways, Achilles was the roiá:ner, the chief, of the village, despite how prickly he was. Connor was determined. Determined that he would keep Achilles alive. Not just for himself, but for everyone in the village.

By the following week, the rest of Connor's recruits had started to filter in and Connor solemnly sat them down and explained the situation. They were all eager to help in any way they could, with the same grim determination that Connor felt burning within him. They all sat around the fire and quietly discussed ways to relieve some of the stress.

"What we need to do is distribute ourselves," Connor said softly. "Duncan, I know your contacts in Boston have disappeared after the siege three years ago, but can you establish a network again?"

Duncan chuckled. "That'll take a few days in the pubs, but I guarantee ye I'll be known again."

"Then consider Boston your assignment. You'll keep an eye on the city, look out for people who are taking advantage and are Templars," Connor said. "If you find any who might be of value there, send them here and we will start to train them and send them back to you in Boston. Dobby, you will do the same in New York. You still have your contacts?"

"Assumin' the British haven't conscripted everythin', I think that shouldn't be a problem." The woman gave a wry grin. "Listenin' in on all those Brits might be an advantage. As well as keepin' an eye out for bullies."

"Jaime, I think you should be in Philidelphia," Connor narrowed his eyes. "It's under British control like New York. But the bulk of the army is wintering there at the moment, so be careful establishing yourself."

"That won't be a problem," Jaime replied. "No one ever pays attention to an extra doctor in the army." He gave a humorless laugh. "And if they're keeping their quarters and city as filthy as they have New York, I'll be plenty busy."

"Stephane, you'll be in Albany," Connor continued. "It is on the Hudson between the British controlled Canada and British controlled New York. The British tried to conquer the Hudson River already to cut off New England from the rest of the colonies, they may try again, so be careful as well."

"Pas de problem," Stephane scoffed.

"Clipper, Jacob, you will be staying here. As the others send recruits, you will help with training them. Achilles will be unable to stay out of training, but with you two teaching fighting, climbing, stealth, and hunting, that will leave him for philosophy, reading and writing, which will not be as taxing."

Connor looked at the map once more. "Be careful everyone. A war is still going on. The Templar's hold is weakened, but not broken. A bear injured is more dangerous than a bear alone."

"We heard ye the first time," Duncan replied lightly. "We'll be stayin' in contact with ye and each other. Support's only a mail delivery away."

Dobby leaned onto Stephane. "We'll go to New York together," she giggled. "I'll show ye some o' the sites, then kick ye on ye're way to Albany."

"I'll go with you as well," Jaime said. "Then I'll head to Philadelphia."

Clipper looked around. "Y'all sure I c'n be a good teacher?"

Jacob gave a loud guffaw. "I vill knock heads if any don't listen to you."

Achilles was staring at them with heavy suspicion when Connor brought up their plan at dinner, all the Assassins sitting around the dining room table. But Connor argued logic, needing eyes further out in the colonies, keeping watch that no soldiers started abusing their authority, British or Patriot. They may know where Lee was, sadly with Washington, no one knew where Haytham was after they had marooned him on Martinique. Connor regretted that decision, partly for not knowing where he was, partly because of the gnarled mess of emotions that his father brought forth, and for so many nuanced reasons he didn't even try to examine them at that moment, and instead presented the simple facts for needed a new set up for all their Assassins.

"What about the southern colonies?" Achilles asked, a gray brow raised.

"Aveline and Gérald can help. We don't have enough Assassins to spread so far from the homestead, but they have a better foundation in Louisiana and can send help to places like Charleston, Richmond, or Raleigh."

Question after question Achilles asked, dissecting their plan, interrogating everyone and their plans on how to set up bureaus in their various cities, particularly of Stephane and Jaime, who'd never been to their respective cities before. The inquires continued well after dinner and late into the night, and Connor was slowly becoming certain that Achilles suspected that they'd found out about his health, but finally, the Old Man sat back with a heavy sigh.

"It's not a bad idea. I'd rather have another year or two with you, but you are right that time is of the essence. And aimless soldiers can be worse than Templars." Achilles only nodded. "You've made some good plans for this doomed endeavor of yours, so you might as well get to it."

They didn't burst into cheers, that wasn't really in character for any of them, but there were plenty of smiles and chests filling with pride. It took another two days to start gathering supplies, and Connor headed into town to see Ellen about a dress that Dobby had ordered that might come in handy to getting into higher society.

Connor was surprised, however, to find Lyle with Ellen, some sort of trumpet like device going from his ear to her back.

"Another deep breath, Ellen, take as much air as you can," Lyle quietly said.

She did so and Lyle frowned heavily. "Your lung capacity has shrunk from last year. You really need to stop that corn-cob pipe of yours. It's the only thing that I can think of that might shrink your lungs like this."

Ellen frowned right back. "Unless you can prove that it's my pipe, Doctor, I'm not giving up the only thing that can calm my nerves."

It sounded like they'd made this argument before.

"And if your lungs shrink to the point where you can't breathe?"

"Well it will be too late then."

"That's exactly my point."

"I'm still waiting for proof, Doctor."

Lyle let out a long and heavy sigh. "You won't have enough breath to go chasing after Marie."

"She's a big girl. She can take care of herself, and if she can't, she knows when to get help." There was a flicker in her eyes, and Connor knew that she was thinking about Marie getting help after Ellen had been beaten.

Lyle frowned. "Can you at least cut it down to two smokes a day?"

"No proof, no promises."

Lyle pursed his lips, but said no more, putting his instruments away. "Very well," he said softly, but politely. "Contact me if the shortness of breath gets worse."

"I'm not short of breath, Doctor."

"Not yet."

"Ah, Connor!" Ellen turned, surprised to see Connor standing there. "I didn't hear you come in."

"I did not wish to intrude."

"Looking for that dress Dobby ordered?"

"Yes."

"Well, come on then."

Both Achilles and Connor watched the four recruits leave from the door, Connor silently choosing to continue Achilles's tradition of being at the door when his Assassins left and returned. Clipper and Jacob also watched, from the study, feeling the weight of the change of things, knowing that those leaving would likely not be back for anything but small bursts. That the cities they were going to would be permanent homes as they set up their bureaus and started making their network spread.

Achilles let out a heavy sigh once they were gone, before limping back into the home quietly to stare at the covered painting and the place it was meant for over the fireplace.

Connor did not wish to stay, the weight of the home at the moment too much, and his own anxiety on whether or not this was a right decision roiling in his chest. So he took off to the trees, focusing on leaping from branch to branch to stump, digging his fingers into sap to get a better grip and to just be numb for a while.

Once he was tired, he dropped down to an empty clearing that the Freemans often used for their cattle. Wiping the June sweat from his brow, he took a deep warm breath. It was time to walk back and start talking to Jacob and Clipper on what sort of training routines they would use with recruits, and for Connor to refine some of their techniques in case he wasn't around to help with the training. He walked the cattle path, heading to the farm, and waved hello to Warren who was stalking the fields, looking at every stalk and vine and for any sign of pestilence. His dog was yipping, chasing anything in the field until Warren whistled and it returned.

Connor approached the back of the farmhouse and wiped the sweat from his face again.

"Prudence, I do not know what to do about it;" came a soft voice from the porch, "I mean, his company is very pleasant!"

Prudence's soft voice replied, "You must be cautious, Ellen," she said, and it sounded like she was pouring tea. "A woman's reputation is of such importance. It's almost impossible to recover once lost. If a woman doesn't have her virginity, she's nothing more than a prostitute." There was a short pause. "Does he consider such things?"

"Yes, he does!" Ellen replied enthusiastically. "Because he is a gentleman. That is what he is. A perfect gentleman," she sighed contentedly. Then, almost conspiratorially, she whispered, "Let me just tell you, if he were interested in me I would not turn him out."

"Ellen!"

"I can not believe I just said that!" Ellen gave a small squeal.

"Ellen!" Prudence hissed. "We have farmhands, people come to order deliveries! Someone might hear!"

"I do not care!" she declared.

Connor angled his path to the other side of the farmhouse, so that he wouldn't be seen to be eavesdropping, even though he didn't intend to.

"Before I met Warren, I was courted by a man," Prudence continued. "A man for whom I felt affection. Then I found out his intentions were not at all honorable. And that he was only after me to claim my purity."

"Prudence! You must tell me, what happened?"

"What I will tell you is that I was lucky to escape with my honor intact," Prudence shuddered, her teacup rattling. "I was lucky. Several saw me screaming 'no,' so they believed me to still be pure when he was pulled away. But I left that island soon after. Then I met Warren."

"Yes... Well..." Ellen sighed heavily. "Honor. It is a bit of a luxury. A divorcee. Everyone here knows why I left, but that doesn't change the stain of being divorced. I'm used goods, regardless, and one need look no further than Marie to see that."

"I don't think he sees you that way..."

Connor continued on, far enough away to finally block out what was clearly a private conversation. It was very heartening to see that Prudence and Ellen had bonded, and that Ellen finally had a connection after being so isolated and abused for so long. Idly, he wondered what man had caught Ellen's eye and was being so gentlemanly towards here, but that wasn't his business, so he returned his mind to what he would discuss with Jacob and Clipper.

Author's Notes: And lo, there are consequences to events in the game. Actually wait, we'll save that for later. First: because all of the Biddle missions were handled expressly by Faulkner in the fic (which makes much more sense than 13-something Connor starting the chase), it seemed appropriate to make Falkner be the one to have the "memory corridor" conversation. Also, did anyone else ever enjoy coming across Dr. Lyle giving someone a check up - the ones we knew the most was him checking Ellen's lungs, and she sometimes pulls out a pipe for a smoke - exceedingly rare for women of the time. He also give Lance a checkup where he prescribes alcohol, but we have our own suspicious about Lance, so... Also-also, One of the best side conversations we ever came across on the homestead was Ellen and Prudence talking about men, and it forever solidified our headcannon that they are besties. I wonder who Ellen fancies so... :P

But really, this fic is the natural consequence of what happened when Connor ran away. Achilles isn't as young as he used to be and intense fights with dramatic exits won't just bounce off him like they would, say, when Rogue began. Similarly, long intense discussions about deeply painful things he's held inside for years isn't easy for him. Note that this if the first time Connor is still without anything resembling effort. He's grown again for all his encounters, and he finally comes to understand just how fallible the people around him are. His own personal journey may be divine, but he can no longer hold the Assassins on that same pedestal, because Achilles was wrong to turn Shay away when he was lost in grief, and he was wrong about other things as well, no matter how justified he and Keseegowasee might have been. Though we didn't get into it, we assume they also killed settlers who were determined to scalp natives for profit and bloodshed, willing to be bloody third parties if it kept the opposing sides from declaring war left right and center.

Note that Achilles can't even talk about how he had lost his family. Some hurts just can't be touched.

Anyway, this chapter serves as an epilogue for the Church assassination.

Next chapter: Monmouth. Poor Connor can't get a break...