Part Thirty: Death of a Stone Coat
After that was the sickness. His hours out in the cold rain in conjunction with a healing gunshot wound took their toll on his body. He woke up the next morning and could hardly get out of bed. He slipped on the steps and nearly fell down the stairs, it was all he could do to make a cup of hot chocolate, and he collapsed in a chair to sip it. He shivered and sweat at the same time, and could think of little else until Father Timothy found him again. The preacher had knocked repeatedly on the door and Ratonhnhaké:ton had not heard it. He helped the young native to a bed – Achilles' bed – and he dimly heard something about getting Dr. Lyle.
He could remember little for the next week, only cool hands that were not Achilles', prayers and the sound of beads. Wampum? Were medicine men here? Was he being affected by Achilles' spirit? Just how imbalanced was he...? Pictures flitted through his eyes: Dr. Lyle by candlelight, pressing something onto his forehead, needle and thread in hand; Father Timothy, sitting at his side with a bible open, praying. The images were colored with heat and cold and sweat and shakes, thick breathing and wet coughs. Sickness. He was sick. Of course he was sick, he was a mourner...
And then, one morning, he woke with a clear mind. No fog, no thick clouds, only tiredness. He looked around, confused, saw Father Timothy in a chair at his side.
"Welcome back," the preacher said softly. "How do you feel?"
He looked around, surprised to find himself in Achilles' bed. What happened...?
"You've been sick the last week," Timothy said gently. "The fever nearly took you. Said a lot in your native tongue, neither of us understood it."
A new face crossed his line of vision, and he saw Dr. Lyle, deep bags under his eyes and brown hair askew. "Connor," he said quietly. "How are you feeling?"
"... cold," he said.
"I expected as much," the doctor said, pushing his glasses up his hooked nose and grabbing at another blanket. "Fever broke last night, thank God. I knew it was a matter of time before you woke again. We are going to have a long talk about this," he added, finger hovering over his gunshot wound, "but for now what you need is sleep above all else."
"... was it a dream?" he asked, voice thick. "Achilles...?"
The men shared a quick look, but Father Timothy turned and shook his head. "I'm sorry, my son," he said. "That was not a dream."
He had not thought so. But he dared to hope.
Strength came to him over the next week, Lyle and Timothy both his appointed caretakers. Ratonhnhaké:ton gave a heavily abridged account to Dr. Lyle about how he managed to be shot in the back, and Father Timothy seemed bound and determined to look after the health of his soul as he slowly processed the fact that his Mentor was dead. Eventually, however, deep into November, he was left in the manor by himself. A fistful of letters had arrived from Virginia and Philadelphia and elsewhere, and slowly he began to catch up on the news:
Namely, General Cornwallis had surrendered to Commander Washington at Yorktown. It was a victory that everyone had been hoping for, the news had spread like wildfire through the village, everyone happy to hear one piece of good news in the sadness they were currently living.
Connor felt nothing. It was his shared goal with the Patriots to defeat the British, to show them that self governance was something to be celebrated instead of stomped on, to express the desire to hold to rational law. He thought he should feel glad, accomplished, happy for the Americans, but there was nothing in him to feel. Washington was a slave owner with no care for the native peoples, fork-tongued and quick to equivocate and investigate instead of take actual action. Sam Adams was no longer part of the Continental Congress, retired to his home in Massachusetts, and he knew no one else in Philadelphia. His people had been devastated by the Sullivan Expedition, war had torn the Haudenosaunee to shreds of its former glory; where once there were the pillars of the long house there was now nothing. New York was still a rotting wound, half burned down and fraught with sickness and disease. Charles Lee was still alive.
… Achilles was dead.
How could he be happy?
He shuffled down to the root cellar, uncertain what he would do but wanting to at least try and get back into shape. He looked over at the paintings and saw his father.
Oh...
Haytham was dead, too.
He moved over to the paintings, the white paint crossing out each target, the notes he had written, the scraps of plans and intercepted letters and ciphers, staring up at the visage of his father. The journals bled into his already overstuffed mind, his father's purpose in coming to the Colonies, the Grand Temple, the artifact that would open it, finding his mother and choosing to conquer her, only to be conquered instead. Jenny. Holden.
… He could not cross the man out. It was too callous, too unfeeling. It did not represent what he felt about his raké:ni being dead. What he felt about reading those journals. It was not the removal of a piece on the board, it was the death of his father, and all he felt was regret. Regret that they had never known each other, regret they could not understand each other, regret there had been such an overpowering falling out. Yes, that was the word he wanted.
Sakaterihwáhten.
He wrote the word slowly, with care, making each letter clear.
After that was giving the news of the death of Achilles to the brotherhood. It took him three days of drafts to compose it, his mind quick to drift, disappear for hours at a time, lost in memory.
Brothers, he finally wrote. It is with a heavy heart that I must pass on the loss of a sachem of great esteem. He gave as accurate an account of the life of Achilles Davenport as he could: student of Ah Tabai and John de la Tour, who crafted a strong and worthy brotherhood; who suffered painful lessons and loss that no one man should bear; who spent years lost in his grief before he found hope again. He introduced himself, Ratonhnhaké:ton of the Kanien'kehá:ka, riién of Haytham Kenway and riiateré: of Edward Kenway. He supposed that he would be the Mentor unless the others found him unworthy. He detailed his exploits as clinically as he could, expressed his uncertainty and his regret, and his hope that he would find his way into their hearts having never met him.
It was the most difficult letter he could imagine writing, but finally he ciphered them and made copies, and sent them to Faulkner to be delivered.
"You sure you want me leaving, captain?" the old salt asked. "Don't like the idea of you being alone."
"I will be fine," Connor replied. "Father Timothy is a good akatoni."
"Don't rightly know what that means," Faulkner said slowly, "But I usually know when you're off about something. I'll be back soon as I can."
"I understand. I hope you have a safe journey."
"I hope you are still sane by the time I get back."
With the new year, Connor spent a great deal of time in the manor. Lyle stopped by weekly to see how the gunshot wound was healing, Father Timothy was by twice a week to talk with Connor and continue his roll as an akatoni, the clear-minded. Myriam and Prudence also came by regularly to drop off food and ensure he was eating well. Godfrey and Terry kept coming up with firewood for him, Lance and Dave seemed to just appear once in a while to go over any lumber or smithy needs, repairing broken axels or re-shoeing horses. On holidays, Corrine, Diana, and Catherine showed up and insisted on cooking a "hearty meal" for him before he became "skin and bones".
All the visits were pleasant and Connor tried to be kind and appreciative of all their efforts. But there were times he just didn't feel up to dealing with all the people coming to the manor to try and help. None of them were Achilles. They didn't know everything that he did, they didn't know that he was hirokoa, an Assassin. So they couldn't understand. He often just headed out and walked in the snow, seeking isolation in the tall barren trees that seemed to emulate how he felt inside.
So much loss...
He lived off the land out in the forests, but he could never stay away for too long. He had only done that once, and Myriam was soon attempting to track him in the woods with Warren and his loyal dog. Though Connor hid too well and watched them walk right by his spot in the snow-covered shrubs without any knowledge that he was there, he eventually sighed. He was causing people worry. When Myriam and Warren made camp, he'd silently joined them and followed them home.
So he never wandered too far or for too many days.
It was one day, when Connor was in the library, reading one of the books that Achilles never got around to getting him to read. It was almost his project for the winter, to go through all the books Achilles had that Connor had never had the chance to read. Old Farmer's Almanacs, records, treatises on politics, law, governance, equality, a book of mathematics from a Greek named Euclid that Connor found both frustrating and fascinating. It was a way to occupy his mind when he did not wish to focus on just how much his world had changed in one season and having lost a raké:ne and a roiá:ner. To not have something for his mind to focus on meant that he was dwelling on Lee, how to find him, how to kill him. The atenenyarhu had eaten his mother, his village, his people, his father, his chief... almost everything. And still the Stone Coat was not sated...
Connor refocused on his book.
He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and was unsurprised to see someone coming up the path. It looked to be Norris, which was unusual. The miner usually couldn't come up with a good excuse to come and visit like almost everyone else in the village did, so he sent his support with Myriam and Prudence.
Connor watched, the grey skies above blocking the daytime sun, leaving everything void of color. Norris hiked up the trail, lacking proper snow shoes, but with his legs wrapped in deerskins. His feet sunk through the snow, and Connor remembered that he had not yet shoveled from the snow that had fallen the previous day.
But to his surprise, Norris didn't come up to the house. Instead, he just walked around in back. Curious, and glad that something else could occupy his mind, Connor followed Norris's progress from almost every window in the house. The miner walked past the stables, out back, and Connor moved back to his room wondering why Norris didn't just use the main path down to the shores. If he was heading down to the docks, why cut across the property?
He watched Norris tread through snow that was much deeper than the path because it had never been shoveled since the snows had started. All the way to the gravestones.
I implore you to return here when the time is right for you and share those stories with the waves and the trees. Clean your eyes here, empty your ears and clear your throat of the grief here.
Father Timothy's words flooded through Ratonhnhaké:ton, and he staggered back from the window, not wishing to see something so private. His eyes watered. His chest emptied. And he was soon walking down the path away from the manor to find the akatoni. Because Ratonhnhaké:ton had not realized... He had felt the loss so keenly, been lost in the fog... Might still be lost in the fog if he didn't occupy himself... And he hadn't realized that he was not the only one to lose Achilles. Where Ratonhnhaké:ton was often away, traveling through the war, visiting cities and colonies far and wide, it had been Achilles who had stayed behind. Achilles was just as much an anchor for Rockport as all the people. Ratonhnhaké:ton wasn't the only one set adrift by the loss.
And it was so selfish of himself to think that he alone was bereft.
They may not know of the Assassins, but they were still part of the family, nonetheless.
After that, Connor made sure that there was always a clear path to the gravestones, even if he himself had yet to talk to the Old Man. His feelings were still too strong and still too tangled to put into proper words. So once he had shoveled a path to the headstones, he simply offered his apologies, and returned to the manor.
After Norris, Connor sometimes would observe others standing by the stones. He always let them be. By March, Connor was getting word from his various bureaus, along with very long personal letters of sorrow and sadness at Achilles's passing. Reading those letters was one of the most difficult things Connor did, and after each letter, he often went to find Father Timothy. Lafayette's sent word that his return to France had been met with many honors, including a very, very large promotion to maréchal de camp, and that he was preparing for an expedition to the British West Indies in the Caribbean. Washington was in Philadelphia, trying to convince Congress that one sound defeat did not a war win and that Congress needed to start setting aside money for the next summer's campaign since the British had only admitted defeat in one city, not across the whole country, despite the British claim that all hostilities were suspended.
Washington was also dealing with corrupt suppliers and all the hassles of basic management. Connor didn't even feel anything towards that. His feelings towards the Commander were more numbness than anything else. Washington had also boosted morale of the army greatly with the Badge of Military Merit, a purple heart-shaped cloth for unusual gallantry or extraordinary fidelity and essential service.
To Connor's surprise, the Commander had sent him one of the badges. With it was a letter, explaining that Washington believed Connor had earned it, though he had never been enlisted, and his heroic deeds either when crossing the Delaware River, helping Lafayette at Monmouth, or investigating both Charles Lee and Benedict Arnold, despite the personal betrayal that Washington had done, deserved some recognition, even if Connor did not care for who gave it.
Uncertain what to do with it, for Washington was correct, Connor didn't care for who had bestowed the medal, he instead stuffed it in a drawer of the desk.
As spring started to bloom, Connor suddenly realized that he had gotten up, done his morning run, and basically went about his normal day without once thinking about the Old Man. That stung. It stung a lot. But it no longer ached. It seemed Father Timothy was doing a very good job as an akatoni. Looking at all the colors of the flowers and the greens as the trees filled in, Connor felt like they were more vibrant than he'd ever felt they had been before. His eyes were indeed cleaned. His ears were cleaned.
Connor squished through the mud to the graves and stared down at them.
His throat was not cleared.
He tried, but the words would not come.
Connor was sitting in the Mile's End eating a hearty dinner that Corrine insisted on giving him ("You're still so thin, m'dear!") when Connor realized why his throat had not cleared.
Lee was still out there. The last of his enemies. The most dangerous and devious. The one that kept getting away. The cannibalistic atenenyarhu that had eaten so much of his life. His throat would be plugged as long as Lee lived. He had lost sight of Lee when he'd realized that Achilles was gone.
Now it was time to right the error. It was time to get rid of Lee.
Slaying the atenenyarhu wouldn't bring back Achilles. Nor would it bring back his raké:ni. It wouldn't bring back his mother, restore his people to how they were, or bring back Kanen'tó:kon. But it would rid the world of its evil. Connor once more spent more time in the manor, but this time writing letters, focusing on the bureaus on this side of the Atlantic. He needed to find Lee. He could only hope that Clipper would find him at his plantation in Virginia.
Most of the summer was sending letters back and forth. Clipper was keeping a sharp eye on Lee's plantation, but there was no sign of him. Jamie, in Philadelphia was the only one who was hearing anything of the Stone Coat, suggesting that he was in the capital trying to garner support again, but everything was unconfirmed. Dobby also had rumors of the Stone Coat showing up in New York to try and get support, but they were also unconfirmed. Neither rumor would be a surprise, since with the Templars destroyed or being hunted down, the Stone Coat would of course try and regain power after Ratonhnhaké:ton had cut off so much of it.
Word also came that the various mentors of the Order had approved of Connor as the new Mentor for the United States of America. Hopefully, within a year, a more seasoned mentor would visit to explain things that could not dared be put to pen and paper, though none of those who wrote were certain who that might be. Along with responses about Mentorship, came many sympathies from the Mentors, and even within his own brotherhood spread out as it was. To Connor's great surprise, a beautiful sword arrived late in June, encrusted in jewels, gold and silver, with a note that a grateful man was greatly saddened to hear of Achilles's death, and was giving the sword that Achilles had refused to take in life from a man he had saved.
The gift only reminded Connor that Achilles had had a long and prosperous life that he had known little of. Like many things did, it stung, and ached, and Connor would seek Father Timothy during those moments for the akatoni to help him.
"Connor," the pastor said once as they sat in the pews of the church. "You have come to me a great many times since Achilles's death. Should I think you wish to learn more of my religion?"
To that Connor gave a wan smile. "No," he replied softly, enjoying the quiet of the church that wasn't quite so oppressive as the silence of the manor could be. "You are akatoni. The clear-minded. You help me put things in perspective. That is merely because you are who you are. Religion has little to do with it."
"Then I won't press any further."
And that was why Father Timothy was such a valued addition to the community.
Connor was finishing his morning run, bare-chested and sweating profusely in the humid August heat. It was easily midmorning, and Connor was wondering if there would be thunderstorms that afternoon with how thick the air was. A stiff breeze coming up from the southeast did little to ease the heat and he walked behind the manor to the bluff overlooking the small cove. Maybe he should go for a swim later on to help cool off before heading in to town. There were some supplies he needed... wait...
Narrowing his eyes, Connor looked out to the horizon and then rushed inside to grab his spyglass and climb atop the roof for a better vantage point. "A ship..."
A heavily damaged ship.
Mast leaning heavily, sails in tatters, rigging tangled in a mess, a ship was slowly entering the harbor and limping towards the docks. Through the spyglass, Connor could hardly see any men manning the lines or anchors, only a single man at the wheel. Not good.
Connor swiftly climbed down and leapt onto the black mare, barebacked, and rushed her into town.
"Doctor Lyle!" he shouted. "Doctor Lyle!"
"Connor?" the good doctor stepped out from behind his house where he had likely been tending his herbs. "What's the matter?"
"A ship has arrived, but is severely damaged. I suspect there are injured on board."
"Right!" Without any other prompting, Lyle raced into his house and grabbed his bag and then paused, before going back in for another bag. "We don't have time to hook up my buggy!" he shouted, and Connor helped him up onto his mare. The doctor was clearly uncomfortable riding barebacked, and had to grip Connor firmly as well as his bags, but they raced down to the small dock were people were already rowing out to help bring the ship in safely.
"Captain!" shouted one of the Clutterbucks who had stayed home on leave. "Looks like that ships been through a hurricane!"
"I agree!" he shouted back, easing his horse to a stop. "I have brought Dr. White to tend to the injured that are likely aboard."
"We need to set up an examination table," Lyle already started to give out orders. "Maybe two or three, depending on if I need to do any surgery. Hot water to sterilize! A horse ready to head back to my home for anything I run out of or need!"
Men were already scrambling to set things up to make things go as quickly and smoothly as possible. A wide set of boards was balanced between a pair of barrels as a makeshift table, since most tables were too small for what Lyle needed. Water was fetched from a well and set to boil and Lyle set down his bag on the table to lay out his instruments. He called for men to be ready to help him hold men down as if they were conscious, they likely wouldn't like whatever he had to do to sew up wounds or set broken bones.
An hour later, the ship was finally docked and Connor raced up the gangplank to start helping people aboard. Lyle was at the base of the plank, and as sailors helped the frazzled, beaten, and starved men off the ship, Lyle started shouting where they needed to go as he started triaging. Those who would die were laid out on the beach, those in critical condition were set up by his examination board were he would likely end up doing surgery, and the rest were laid wherever they could settle down. The dead were left on the ship for now.
There were a great many people on board.
The ship was a passenger ship of some kind, though from where and to where was unclear as most passengers were so hungry or parched as to be incoherent. Lyle quickly had some coffee boiling and ordered it to be served to everyone, but nothing more as these people likely wouldn't take solid food well.
"Someone go see Corrine about getting a light broth down here!"
Connor flitted about serving out cups of coffee, helping people drink it, and doing what he could with the bandages that Lyle provided.
"You've done field medicine, right? Help me by setting some of these bones!"
So Connor did the painful work of pulling shoulders that were dislocated back into their sockets and getting splints set. Twice, the people he was helping screamed in such pain they tried to punch Connor. But given how starved and weak they were, it didn't even faze him. It was the small children that pulled at Connor's heart the most. Wraithlike and down to bones, the youngest were the hardest to treat. Those that were conscious were confused and asking for parents, but no one knew who was who yet.
"It will be all right," Connor said softly, "a moment of pain is all you will feel. It is understandable if you cry."
The little boy was already sniffling, his arm all twisted at odd angles and bone thin. "Aren't you a savage?" he asked softly, terror in his eyes. "Will you scalp me? Or eat me?"
"Shh," Connor ran his sweaty and bloodied hands through the young boy's matted hair. "I will do no such thing. I will set your bone. You have heard of setting a bone have you not?"
The boy sniffed and nodded.
"That is all I will do. Set the bone and splint it."
"O...okay..."
The boy passed out once the arm was straight.
"Connor!" Lyle shouted, wiping sweat from his brow with a blood-coated hand. "I simply can't get to all these men in reasonable time. I need help! Not just from you, but from anyone!"
Connor immediately thought of Diana, who had cared for Achilles in his final days while Connor had been hunting down the Stone Coat.
"I think I have someone for you!"
"Hurry!"
Racing for his mare, who was still barebacked, he leapt up and drove in his heels racing up to town. The sun was at its zenith and bearing down on everyone with brutality as Connor skidded to a halt in front of lumber mill, where Catherine and Diana were setting out lunch for their husbands.
"Diana!" he called, his horse prancing with energy. "Come with me! I need your help!"
Diana quickly stood, as did the rest of the Scotsmen.
"O' course," she said, walking up. "What's the matter?"
"Dr. White is overwhelmed and needs extra hands."
"I'm no doctor, Connor," Diana's face scrunched in worry. "I never learned any o' that."
"Maybe not," Connor said, reaching down a dirty hand, "but I have seen you care for people before. You have the way of it."
"I'll come too," Terry said, already racing to get a horse.
"We'll tell the rest o' the town," Godfrey said. "See what we can do."
"Come."
Hesitantly, Diana took Connor's hand and he hoisted her up so that she could sit side-saddle and then raced back the way he came. He explained the situation along the ride of how the morning had been, the passengers, and the likely long and gruesome task of identifying bodies that the town would eventually have to do.
Once back on the shore, Connor guided Diana to where Lyle stood over a young woman, her shirt open, modesty ignored in favor of practicality, and her stomach open as Lyle was stitching something up inside of her.
"Diana!" he breathed, rubbing more sweat from his brow, smearing the mess. "I'm told you have a healer's hand. Please, help me! Hold here and here while I stitch. Connor, get back to setting the bones you can."
The afternoon remained painfully long. People from the town were down by the shore within two hours, with wagons and buckboards loaded with blankets and clean clothes for whatever Lyle needed. While the extra hands were useful, very few knew doctoring, and as such, weren't sure how to help. Connor, remembering how Achilles had organized things when Norris had been trapped in a cave-in, started setting everyone into teams.
The ship was soon emptied of supplies and cargo, laid out in the hot August sun, and those who could read were going through the ships logs to try and get names for everyone and start asking questions and identifying people. Father Timothy, ever the akatoni, bore the difficult task of performing last rites on not only the dead, but also those who were too hurt for Lyle and Diana to do anything. Warren and Prudence worked with Ollie and Corrine to keep food going so that no one forgot to eat as the long day continued, Myriam and Norris kept boiled water handy and kept insisting that everyone wash up before they even thought of eating with such dirty hands. Obviously their time locked in Lyle's house when consumption had raced through the town had done something to teach them a few things. Dave, with his bad leg, couldn't do much to help, but he surveyed the cargo and supplies, raiding it for whatever was needed in the care of all the people. Ellen stayed with the children, her daughter Maria, now twenty, stayed with the children to keep them occupied and keep giving them coffee and broth.
As the skies started to look distinctly unpleasant as the afternoon went on, with the wind picking up even further, tents were soon set up to keep out the rain that was coming down in droves by the time the sun set. Lyle, who had been working non-stop since Connor had found him, finally collapsed into a chair and Norris rushed forward with the boiling water and a towel for the good doctor to wash his hands of all the blood.
"You all did well," Lyle said tiredly, meticulously cleaning his hands with the water and towels. "I thank you Connor for your quick thinking in getting Diana and so many others." He turned to the Scotswoman with a tired smile. "But Diana, you impressed me greatly."
Diana actually blushed. "Well, thank you, doctor. I haven't studied the practice or anything."
Lyle nodded, but kept smiling. "Maybe not, but your instincts are superb and you have a healer's touch. If you have the time, I would be grateful for your help on a more regular basis."
Turning to Terry, she gave a small smile. "With the young ones all grown, I might be able to drop by. Catherine will have to do the laundry herself."
"And if she can't," Lyle said with a touch of firmness, "we'll find someone who will."
Terry looked uncertain about all, this, but he didn't exactly oppose it.
The rest of the week was spent organizing and treating all the injured. Those who were stable were brought up to the clinic or to the inn, and as the people started to get used to regular food and become more energetic, they started to help with identifying each other and cargo and such. The passengers were all an interesting mix of peoples from different countries, all who had been heading to Canada for various reasons. Connor left their care for the townsfolk as autumn started to slowly roll in through September. He was getting some interesting word from Jaime in Philadelphia. People from across the Colonies were gathering, of all shape and form, rumors were for a memorial for a great man who died, just over a year ago.
Haytham Kenway.
Connor's heart froze as he read the letter, eyes widening as he sat there, before energy poured into his feet and he darted down to the root cellar, looking at all the paintings, including that of his father. All that was left was Lee... except now that was no longer the case. This was not a game of fanora, won once all the pieces were removed. Lee had found new men and women, new Templars to once again route the new nation, still in its infancy, still uncertain of its footing, still malleable for maligned interests. Killing them all was not enough. Haytham was dead. His raké:ni was dead. Charles Lee now led the Templar Order in his place.
"I see now," he said softly. "I see now why ours is an eternal war. For each piece taken from the board, another is placed upon it. Back and forth we go. Across the world. Across the ages." It was not fanora, or checkers, or chess, or even a game at all. Games could simulate a war but it could not replicate it, replicate changing climates, betrayals, unfair outcomes, selfish desires. All his life Ratonhnhaké:ton thought that if he only killed them all, killed Charles Lee, then everything would be well; his village safe and his task complete. Jamie's letter had ruined the last threads of that belief. It had started all again. Some days, it felt an impossible task. How could he remove so many pieces, how could he stamp out the Templars, the Atenenyarhu, and ever be done? Could he ever be done? Would he live to the age of Achilles, old and weathered and bittered by his struggle, only to die at some Templar's hand? No. He could not afford to be consumed with doubt. The people needed him. Now, more than ever.
"I must stop the Templars," he said, looking at the portrait of his father. "I will kill Charles Lee."
He wrote the bureaus, asking them to assemble in Philadelphia, to bring everything with them. If all the Atenenyarhu were gathering there to mourn his father, then he would bring about the entire brotherhood, answer their memorial with the blood the enemy had spilt for so many years, for so many centuries. This was an opportunity he could not afford to miss. If he succeeded here, if he killed Charles Lee and all his followers, then they would be safe for more than a few months or a year. It would be an incalculable loss for the Templars, and make them think twice before coming to the Americas. The victory for the brotherhood would give them room to grow, a chance to acclimate to this new country and find places they were needed.
What he was planning was brutal, deadly, and as cold as what his father had unleashed with Shay Cormac. There would be no mercy here, no offering of peace. Perhaps with Haytham... but never with Charles Lee. That demon had no other option but to die. He had taken everything, everything: Ista, Raké:ni, Kanen'tó:kon, even Achilles, and now there was nothing left to take. With him dead, his quest granted by Iottsitíson would be complete.
He glanced at the journals, Haytham's journals. With Charles Lee dead, the amulet could be returned to his people, a gift to Oiá:ner perhaps, proof that Kanatahséton was at last safe. Or he could return it as an offering to the Great Snake Oniarekó:wa. With such a great gift perhaps the horned serpent would spare more than just travelers, perhaps the Great Spirit capsized and ate people looking for that medallion. Regardless, it had to be retrieved, it did not belong to the Templars, it belonged with his people.
His people... He ran a hand through his hair. He had worn settler hair long enough. It was past time to wear his hair as he should.
He took a knife – eagle hilt, perfect balance with a serrated tip, a gift from the Old Man – and began shaving. By tradition he should pluck his hair, but he was as ever in a hurry. Long strings of hair fell about his bare shoulders, he watched his progress in a mirror as he shaved his dark tresses away, leaving only a square tuft of hair at his crown. He braided the hair carefully, weaving in eagle feathers and wampum he had been collecting since the death of the Old Man. Achilles had always been respectful of his ways and traditions, never commenting on the differences of his world view and that of the settlers, never stopping him from his ceremonies and even helping him gather wampum. He pulled a string from the cuff of Achilles' coat, realizing belatedly he had never asked why or how the Roiá:ner'kó:wa had been honored by such elaborate decoration on his cuffs, and wove it into his braids.
Ratonhnhaké:ton left the manor to buy supplies from the village. Everyone stared at his new hair; he felt shy but did not waver, saying nothing as he bought bowstrings from Ellen, arrowheads from Big Dave, dried fruit and seeds from Oliver and Corrine, medicine from a deeply concerned Dr. Lyle, wooden toothpicks from Godfrey and Terry, shafts from Lance, and meal from the Freemans.
He booked passage on one of the ships from in the bay and left that night. The ship hooked around the cape, down the coast and into the Delaware Bay, up the Delaware River. He passed the mouth of the Schuylkill River and wondered how the troops were doing; if they were ready to winter at Valley Forge again. Twenty minutes later he was docked, disembarked and walking along side Anne as she guided him through the narrow streets. "That's Carpenter's Hall," she said, "Over there's the State House, where the Congress is meeting. Jamie's got a room for us at the hospital, though, so we need to take a left here."
Connor could not say he knew the area well, though he had been to the city before, and he took the time to sweep his eyes left and right, absorbing the feel of the city, the alleys and markets and smells and sounds.
Pennsylvania Hospital was the first hospital in the colonies, beating out even Bellevue in New York City. Founded thirty years ago in 1751 by Benjamin Franklin and Dr. Thomas Bond, it was conceived as a place for the sick, free of charge, funded entirely by private donations. Known locally for innovation and medical advancement, it was a teaching hospital with a focus on maternity. It had a medical library (that Dr. Lyle would likely faint over) and plans for an as-yet unmade physic garden of medicinal plants such as Dr. White had behind his house. Anne led Connor through the grounds and into the hospital, the scent of sickness everywhere before she led him down a narrow hall and into a tiny hovel of a room that was overstuffed with Hirokoa.
"Connor," Duncan said with a wry smile. "Glad ye could be joinin' us."
"What do we know so far?" he asked, leaning against the closed door. Red Feather moved to sit by his legs, giving Anne room to seat herself on the floor as several others were. Clipper had his rifle leaning in a corner, while Stephane, Dobby, Jacob and William all squeezed together on the bed, Jamie in the one chair and Duncan and Joseph propped up against a table. Everyone looked to the doctor.
"As Dobby and Anne can personally attest," he said, "women talk a lot. They talk even more when they're giving birth, and through them I've been learning about the influx of people coming in from the other colonies – I guess they're states now – preparing for a memorial of some kind. Travel in that kind of numbers is noticed. That was at the beginning of the month, and I realized what it was and I sent the letter. I didn't think it would get to you in time."
"Do you know when? And where?" Connor asked softly, his mind slowly bending towards the task.
"Gloria Dei's, the Old Swedes' Church, about a mile and a half down the river. Tomorrow. We've got about fifty members easily, all gathered to remember the old Grandmaster. Lee will be there to give the eulogy. I don't know where they're staying, though, and I'd rather not fight on holy ground, everything permitted or not."
"No," Connor said softly, nodding his head. "We must act in secret, and a church is a public place. We will offer them bait instead, and they will lead us to their stronghold."
"Beggin' yer pardon, Connor," Dobby said, crossing her legs, "But what kind o' bait are ye thinkin' o' offerin'?"
"Myself."
Silence fell about the room, several members of the brotherhood exchanging glances, uncertain what could be said to such a statement. The moment stretched from shocked to awkward to finally painful, before Stephane gave a bitter French curse. "You cannot be serious!" he hissed.
"I am," Connor said softly. His sandy tenor held everyone's attention; he continued. "Charles Lee must die, and an example must be made. To do so, more than he must die. I had thought that peace might be made between our two peoples, but it cannot be done. Human or not they are Stone Coats, men and women who have chosen to satiate themselves by eating those around them, and I have at last come to learn that they will never repent from such actions. Instead they laud it; they enjoy consuming the lives and loved ones of others, enjoy the power of it, enjoy controlling everything and everyone. If left alone they will grow again to threaten this nation, sneak their people into the Congress as they have snuck people in to every single government around the world, and use that power to eat even more people. This is our chance to send a message to them and to every Rite in the world: this country will not be so easily consumed. It will also give us the opportunity to grow, as Hirokoa and as members of this new nation; it will give us an advantage that we are about to deny them.
"We must kill them. All of them. Leave none alive. The other Rites must be left to wonder what happened, worry how they disappeared, be anxious that the same could happen to them. That is the message we must send, and it cannot be done in a church, where anyone might see. Instead, I will allow myself to be captured. Lee will glory in it, in the power that gives him, and he will choose to keep me alive to eat as much of me as he can. That is the mistake he will make, and it will be up to the rest of you to follow him to their hide out, wherever it may be, and plan the assault. Plan it well, plan it carefully, take all the time necessary, and then strike with the force of Hinon and his Thunders."
"Unsinn," Jacob said. "Such an attack would take days to plan."
"Then take days."
Joseph was irate. "We cannot let them have you for that long...!"
"You must," Connor said simply. "Or else one of them will live, and that cannot happen."
"We can't kill fifty people with just us," Anne said, "We're barely a dozen, how could we possibly-"
"That is what you will have to do," Connor replied. "You are all trained, skilled in your crafts and abilities, and there are many ways to kill them. I trust all of you with my life."
"But... literally?"
"Yes."
They all dismissed to their different inns and taverns, many giving Ratonhnhaké:ton intense looks, but the native himself was calm. He sat cross-legged in his room, eyes closed, visualizing the upcoming day, knowing what he was sacrificing and content with his decision. This was the final reckoning, there were no other plans after this. He would either succeed, or... But there was no other option but to succeed. This was his life's goal: Kill Charles Lee. And now he was accomplishing Achilles' goal: Destroy the Templars. There would be no misplaced sentiment, that had died with his father. There would be no olive branches, no mercy, no quarter. Only bloody, cold, death. Necessary death. For his people and people everywhere.
Kanen'tó:kon thought him a traitor, but this would redeem Ratonhnhaké:ton's single worst sin.
The Haudenosaunee thought him atenenyarhu, but this would protect them for years to come.
Achilles thought him naive, but this would prove he was no longer a child.
What would he do after this? What would happen once his people were safe? He thought of Red Feather's question: what would happen if we win? What would he do?
Go home. That much was obvious. Give news that his people were safe from the Stone Coats, that the danger had at last passed. After... he was not sure. He had never thought that far ahead, never considered what life after the death of Charles Lee would be like. Even now, nothing came to mind, and he quickly turned it to more practical pursuits – how would he turn himself over to Lee, what would be the best approach, what could he do to minimize the pain that was about to come? Could he get word to his brothers and sisters if things went sour?
In the end, none of it mattered. He would either succeed or not. If it did not, he would find a way to kill Charles Lee himself.
His mind slowly drifted to his early memories: Ista when she was alive. He remembered little, so much of his mind had been burned with the fire and her death, but he had pieces, images. A frown of disapproval, putting bear grease in her hair, the sensation of being carried. The clearest image was of her face, looking over at something in the longhouse. It must have been night, everything was cast in the orange glow of fire... or maybe it was the night she died. That image would never go away, the blood, the bone, trying so hard to lift the wood. He remembered her voice, so full of pain but still so strong as she begged him to leave. He remembered the look in her eyes before he saw no more.
Nothing had felt safe after that, anxiety so deep a part of him he never knew what it was like to not feel it. It was not until he had the quest of Iottsitíson, until he met Achilles who knew his pain so intimately well, that he felt relief in his chest. Now, even that small relief was gone. Achilles was dead, and with him went any form of solace. No matter how strained their relationship, how difficult the Old Man was, the Roiá:ner'kó:wa always found a way to offer solace. Even Oiá:ner could not give him piece of mind as Achilles did. Now anxiety was once again a constant companion. All he could do was wonder what else would be taken from him before Charles Lee was dead.
That fear of more loss had driven him to this. He knew he was being reckless, even desperate. This was an action he would have done as a child – determined to kill them all as quickly as possible. A part of him could see now what Achilles saw – the rashness, the oversimplification. Now that he was older Ratonhnhaké:ton better understood his actions, he understood how complicated the world was, he understood the weight of killing men and women, he understood the consequences of the decision he had made. He understood what his other options were, the gains and the costs, and this was the best decision he could make – not only for himself but for the Order. It was that knowledge that gave him stillness. Calm.
Dawn broke and he at last put himself to bed, sleeping for four hours before Red Feather woke him up. They met at the City Tavern, newly built in 1772, barely ten years old and very genteel in atmosphere with fine clothes and tailored coats. Jamie and William had a few more details from their respective contacts. The tense ripple of anticipation filled the group. Noon came, and as one they rose to begin their mission.
"This is a dark day," Connor said. "This is not an action that is lauded or celebrated, or even remembered. This will change us in ways we do not yet know – dark ways because of these dark deeds. But I know that the consequences of this day for this nation will be positive, and I will accept this burden gladly for the sake of this country, the ideals it purports, and for the safety, however temporary, it will afford us to grow and become better in our work. May we never need to do something like this again."
"Here, here," someone, Joseph maybe, said.
They split apart, each having a different route to the church. Ratonhnhaké:ton lingered, going to his room and the paints he had prepared. It was passed time he acknowledged this battle as a war. He dipped his fingers in the mixtures, running them down his face, watching himself transform in a mirror. Connor was gone now, even Ratonhnhaké:ton had all but disappeared. All that was left was an Hirokoa. He was an embodiment of the Creed, his people, his brotherhood.
Now he went to war.
Gloria Dei Old Swedes' Church was originally a blockhouse repurposed in 1677 before being rebuilt in 1697. In spite of a fire in 1740 the church was still a Lutheran church and the oldest house of worship in the state. Almost on the river, the church was not nearly so filled as Jamie's numbers had implied, but Charles Lee was there, talking to fellow Templars and moving about the small morning crowds. Ratonhnhaké:ton stayed at the edge, kneeling at a grave as if in prayer, watching people arrive and Charles greeting them. He could not see his brothers and sisters, and that meant they were well hidden. He waited.
And then, Charles began to speak.
"We gather today to remember a man of peerless vision, who sought to change the world. And change the world he did. Look around. Even now the British prepare to retreat - their spirits broken - their forces splintered. The Patriot leadership shall soon follow - either into our service or into the ground. And then, my friends, all of this will finally be ours!" He gave a grand gesture, encompassing all the Colonies, all the States, with a sweep of his hand, casually talking about eating an entire nation, digesting all who would oppose him. "We have Haytham to thank for this. He and all those others who sacrificed for our cause. But he was not content merely to save the people of America, no, his compassion was far greater than that. He sought to save those sworn to our destruction. He sought to save the Assassins."
The crowd murmured, and Ratonhnhaké:ton took his cue, quietly rising to his feet and turning. The morning sky was overcast, grey as thin streaks of gold light struggled to break through. "Aye," Charles said. "It seems a mad thing, now, a year after the tragedy. But he believed it fully; he believed he could save the Assassins, bring them to see the truth of the world, make them see the error of their ways. And it cost him his life. The Assassins are a cruel and terrible coven," he snarled, anger bleeding into his voice and tone. "They speak only the language of death. Kill or be killed, it is the only thing they can comprehend. Even the bonds of blood cannot sway them from their desire to kill anyone and everyone. Too late Haytham learned the truth of this. Murdered by his own son, a creature more savage animal than human. He gave his life as he lived, in service to a dream we all share. And so we must fight on. We will vanquish our enemies. We will spread our word. And in time, my brothers and sisters, in time we will have our New World."
And then, he saw Ratonhnhaké:ton. The white hood was a beacon to everyone in the crowd as he walked calmly up, heedless of the stares and the whispers and the gestures. He walked right up to Charles, and lowered his hood, showing his warpaint to the enemy. "You think me a savage animal," he said calmly. "But you are not even that, you are an atenenyarhu."
Charles Lee stared in absolute shock, but those around him were not so dumbstruck. Two men, guards, darted up and leveled their pistols at Ratonhnhaké:ton's head. Their threat of violence meant nothing. He was a body of stillness, calmness, nothing could disturb him. Either he would die, or Charles Lee would. It was a simple as that. Nothing else mattered.
The two combatants stared at each other for a long time. Charles' face was even now filled with contempt, he had not changed since Ratonhnhaké:ton was a child, the only addition to the contempt was hate. Personal, intense, ugly hate. The indifference was long gone, Charles Lee knew who Ratonhnhaké:ton was now, knew what he was: the atenenyarhu's death, and he hated Ratonhnhaké:ton just as intensely as Ratonhnhaké:ton hated him. They were at last the same. All Ratonhnhaké:ton's life, Charles Lee had looked down on him, as a Templar, as an Atenenyarhu. The young native was so beneath the Stone Coat's notice as to be literally forgotten, even after killing his mother. Their various meetings as an adult he was little more than a curiosity, a native in a sea of white men, hardly worth any notice. Even in New York, locked in the prison, when the demon had finally realized who and what Ratonhnhaké:ton was, still he was beneath him. Now, after the death Haytham Kenway, now Charles hated him with the same passion, the same obsession, the same desperation. Charles Lee was a dark mirror of Ratonhnhaké:ton. The thought was equal parts chilling and enlightening.
If Charles Lee looked like this while contemplating Ratonhnhaké:ton, did the native, too, look like this when speaking of the Stone Coat? He had, the reason he could recognize the combined look of hatred and obsession and thirst for blood was because he had so often seen it on himself. For years he thought it the look of righteous justice, but now he knew the truth.
At last he saw what Achilles saw, and objectively he could understand the worry the Old Man held for so many years. Did he burn this brightly with the dark energy the demon did? What did that say about him?
He could not finish his thought, however; a nod from Charles made one of the guards flip his pistol and slam it into the Hirokoa's knees, forcing him to the ground. Fists grabbed his arms and shoulders, holding him in place. All of it was immaterial. He merely looked up, eyes calm and perfectly still. He watched as Charles became more and more intense in his gaze, searching for something that no longer existed, searching for the thing that had given him power for so many years. He searched for fear.
But it had died with Haytham Kenway. His worst fear had already been realized: losing his chance with his raké:ni. Nothing was left after that. Nothing but killing Charles Lee. Did the demon think similarly?
Charles could no longer hold his hatred, a brutal fist appeared and bounced heavily across Ratonhnhaké:ton's temple, snapping his head to the side and sending stars to explode across his vision. Pain rocked his head, his eyes blurred, but slowly he managed to turn his head and look calmly at his enemy.
"Get him on his feet," Charles growled, twisted and ugly. "He will wait. He will watch. And then - when he's seen all his life's work brought to ruin... Only then will I allow him to die. Take him away."
He made a show of being dragged, he did not want to give away the purpose of this blatant display of himself, but he knew that Charles Lee would not be rational enough to think about what he had just witnessed. He had seen in Charles what he lived with every day, and he knew that nothing would stop the demon from ending the service and come running to wherever Ratonhnhaké:ton was being taken, running to inflict hurt after hurt and pain after pain to make up for what Charles felt he had suffered. Charles was now just as desperate and fixated, and the Hirokoa, through that dark mirror, knew exactly how to exploit that.
They moved up the street, the river on their right, as they moved north. If he was taken to a ship that would be disastrous, there would be no way to rescue him and kill the Templars all in one swoop no matter how fast the Aquila was, and he eyed the ships one by one as they moved passed, tense but not anxious. It was a half hour walk before turning onto a narrow cobblestone street filled with residential homes. Elfreth's Alley was founded in 1702 and houses had existed since 1728, mostly tradesmen like shipwrights and silver smiths and glassblowers. The houses were all small, build next to each other so completely there was no space to pass between houses, indeed no space at all. The buildings were all three stories, access to root cellars out front instead of in back, and it was into one of the root cellars that he went, shoved mercilessly down the steps before the guards slammed the doors closed, followed by the sounds of bolting. He was locked into place.
Or so they thought.
They had stripped him of his weapons of course, ripped away his bow and his two pistols and his tamahaac, they even pulled at his hidden blade, but they had not searched him thoroughly. Reaching into the red fabric of his sash and running his thumb along the leather belt that held it in place, he found the lock picks he kept on his person and pulled them out. His moccasins made no noise on the soft earth of the cellar and he moved to the entrance. The wooden door was firm, secure, but not without fifty odd years of wear, and it was not long before he found a loose seam and worked his tools in. He found the hinge of the cellar door, and he began his work. If this was to be a long imprisonment, then he wanted to use his time economically; he did not know how long he would be healthy enough to do this and it was better to get the harder work done first.
As he did so he thought of that face of hatred. Of Charles Lee, and his mind spun back to the stark realization that they were now the same. The demon had finally sunk down to Ratonhnhaké:ton's level, full of desperate anger and hatred and intense desire to destroy the young native. Haytham Kenway, it seemed, was as to Charles as his ista was to him. Their deaths had left them irrevocably damaged, and all that was left was to kill one another. The demon had eaten everything dear to Ratonhnhaké:ton, and now... he had eaten the one thing dear to the demon: Haytham.
Was that why so many villages thought of the Twins, Hahgwehdiyu and Hahgwehdeatgah, not as the Good Twin and Evil Twin, but rather the two faces of humanity? Did the other tribes know something he did not?
Ah, but Achilles had been telling him that for years. The Old Man was right, even now, after his death. For a brief moment Ratonhnhaké:ton smiled.
The hate would never go away. After almost twenty years of blame and personification and imagination, Charles Lee would never be anything but the Atenenyarhu that ate all the good parts of his life. But now, at last, Ratonhnhaké:ton understood that his own hate could turn him into the very thing he so desperately hated: a Stone Coat. His irrational need to kill Lee, kill anything that stood in his way, kill anything he perceived as even slightly like the Stone Coat, and made him exactly what Charles was: judgmental, condescending, unbending. He had all the qualities to turn into a Stone Coat – just as Big Dave did as he ran away from his problems. It was a choice to eat those around them, and for a long time Ratonhnhaké:ton had made that decision without realizing the danger he was putting himself in.
That would change.
He could not kill Charles out of hate, or desperation, or even with the intention of kill or be killed. He had to kill the demon simply because it was necessary, because he would eat everyone and everything around him. Words he had used over and over to justify his hatred and his bloodthirsty need for vengeance suddenly became real in his own mind, and he slowed for a moment as he saw, truly saw, the difference of the two points of view.
"I am sorry," he said softly, "that it took me so long to realize what you saw when we first met."
… Had the situations been reversed, he would have refused to train himself as well.
The eerie calm he had felt since the night before shifted; it was no longer the calm of a man content to die, but the calm of one who understood. He was now a Master Assassin, an Hirokoa'kó:wa, if such a merger of Algonquian and Haudenosaunee words could exist. He was one who understood the Creed: Nothing is true and everything is permitted. Demons could be men and men could be demons, good people with good intentions could become evil, and evil people could still be – at least partially – good. Stone Coats were not cannibals in the literal sense but in the metaphoric sense, it was an analogy to better understand the ways of men, a story of old to teach children how not to be. Kanen'tó:kon had been right, all those years ago. It was all just stories, morals, just as the fairy tales he had learned of the settler culture.
Fear and anxiety would never bother him again after this. The Templars held no more power over them, because he understood them on a level he never had before. For the first time in his life he saw the demon as a man, an actual, real, man. A man could be manipulated, and the dark mirror of what Ratonhnhaké:ton might have been was all he needed to know how.
He worked for some time, perhaps an hour, before the sounds of a pack of dogs alerted his eagle, and he moved to the center of the cellar, sitting down cross-legged, hands resting lightly on his knees. He knew the Stone Coat's mind now, and he would push every button that was available, keep Charles' attention on the young native instead of outside, where his Hirokoa were most likely watching the house, deciding on a course of action. He leveled his eyes on the cellar door, and watched as Charles came down to see his prey waiting calmly for what was to come. The stillness unnerved him, a twitch of the eyes gave him away, and deep in his mind Ratonhnhaké:ton took dark pleasure at seeing he had such an affect on the man.
Charles recovered, however, and walked with heavy boots to the native, three dogs with him. Kneeling down, he pulled out a necklace under his cravat. Kanien'kehá:ka markings grabbed his eye. This was the amulet Haytham Kenway had retrieved, the thing that had sparked his journey here and all the terrible events that followed. This was the origin of all of Ratonhnhaké:ton's pain.
"He sent me away..." Charles said, his voice soft, bereaved. "That day at Fort George. He feared for my safety. I should have stayed. He said there was no danger."
The confession of pain did not move the Hirokoa. He had already realized how similar they were, and there was no surprise in those words. Nothing this person could say would sway him. All that was left was to correct him. "He was wrong," he said. Calmly.
Charles glared, struggling to contain his emotions, breathing audibly through his nose as his slovenly face struggled to remain calm. It failed of course, there was a vein at his temple that became more visible, and hatred bled into every feature. Stone blue eyes glared, and Ratonhnhaké:ton could see what he saw when he was six, what had convinced him that this man was an atenenyarhu. What he had felt for almost twenty years. What he had almost become.
"I will kill you, Connor," the man said, a low growl of a promise. "This, I swear. Not here, though. Not today," he added, glancing at the guards that had followed him into the cellar, aware of the audience he had. "No... First - first I'll destroy all you hold dear." The words were water, washing over the Hirokoa as if they were nothing. Charles Lee had no more power over him, could do and say nothing that would ever put him in power, he was impotent with regards to the native. "I'll burn that homestead of yours to the ground - and roast the severed heads of your precious 'founding fathers' in its flames. And when I've finished with them, all the rest will burn as well. Your merry band of Assassins. The human refuse that lives on your land. Your village and its people. All of it – gone!" It was the same ugliness as all those years ago, the same bigoted hatred. Only, Ratonhnhaké:ton was not a child anymore, nor was he a naive youth, nor was he a misguided son. He was an Hirokoa, and he knew the value of these ugly threats, and he knew the weight of his own experience. Oh, the threats were real enough, promises that Charles would carry out with gleeful pleasure, but the man had neglected, ignored, or most likely did not value one critical fact: Ratonhnhaké:ton was an Assassin. He answered with the truth.
"You can try, Charles," he said calmly. "But as with all your schemes, this too will end in failure."
It was not the answer the enemy expected, and the intense hatred at last left for anger, and the beating began. Punches, kicks, brutal orders to the dogs, all fell upon the young native for the next twenty minutes. When it was over, blood flowed freely from his mouth, his vision was more black stars than actual sight, bite marks littered his body, and his core was aching beyond reasonable belief.
Spent, Charles pulled out a handkerchief to ostensibly clean the blood of his soaked knuckles, dull the sweat on his brow in the coolness of the cellar. He spat when he was finished, the ugly wet drop landing on the young native's bloody cheek. "Enjoy the reprieve," Charles said in a low voice. "Spend your time thinking about all the people I'm going to destroy. All because you killed the man who gave you life. Was it worth it? Did you enjoy killing your father? Did you savor knowing how it would hurt me?"
"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton answered, his voice watery and thin. "I enjoyed nothing about it. I take no pleasure in my work. I only do what is necessary."
"Necessary? Necessary?" the demon growled, turning around. "He was trying to save you!"
"He was trying to kill me," the Hirokoa replied. Rolling to his back, he lifted his head to gaze his unearthly calmness to his enemy. "His hands were on my throat, squeezing the life out of me." He leveled his cool eyes, maintaining perfect stillness even after his most recent ordeal, his gaze unnerving to the Stone Coat. "If he would kill me, his blood, so easily, what would he do of you, his spiritual son?"
The question bored into the Atenenyarhu's mind, his face twisting into several dark emotions, disturbed by what he heard. Good. Ratonhnhaké:ton pressed his point: "Is Shay Cormac still alive? Or did Haytham plot his demise as well?"
The root cellar door slammed closed with more force than strictly necessary.
The night was spent tending his injuries as best he could, waiting for nausea to pass, gathering strength, until he found his way to the cellar door and began to work again. As he had expected, it was much harder; his focus wavered in an out after so many blows to his head, it was hard to lift his arm for the protests of his ribs, but he steadfastly ignored the pain as he did his work, widening the seam and picking apart splinters as he did so. The next morning by contrast had him sitting in the middle of the cellar again, waiting for the inevitable next visit. Food came, which surprised him – he thought he would be starved to death, but apparently Charles Lee wanted him to live as long as possible – and in the afternoon the Templar came again. There were no dogs this time; he was flanked by two other guards.
"Do you find me so dangerous?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked in a level voice.
The Templar looked down on the native. "I could snap your neck, you know," he said, spite and contempt in his voice. "A little pressure and pop! The sad little flame of your life extinguished. You are a nothing. A speck of dust. You and all your ilk. Living in the dirt like animals, oblivious to the true ways of the world. The wiser among you recognize the shape of the future. They throw themselves at our feet and beg mercy. But not you, it seems. No... You cling desperately to your ways. Too ignorant to know your folly."
"Did you tell your Kanien'kehá:ka wife that when you married her?" the native asked. "Or the twins she gave birth to? Are they nothing as well? Or did Ounewaterika leave his family to fend for themselves as he returned to Europe to fight other peoples wars?"
"Is that word supposed to mean something to me?"
"It is your name, is it not? Boiling Water?"
"You think me a savage piece of scum like you because one of your pitiful chiefs offered me his daughter as a prize? What does it say about your people that a woman was sold to me?"
"Or, perhaps," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, "You wanted to know why Father was so interested in Mother, you wanted to understand why a man you valued so greatly could 'lower' himself to loving a woman like Kaniehtí:io."
"Never speak that bitch's name."
Ratonhnhaké:ton offered a soft smile. "You seem to think you are in control of this situation. You are not. Kaniehtí:io was a woman of such integrity that even a man as emotionally aloof as Haytham Kenway could be swayed by her and reminded of what living was like. He thought of her fondly, did you know that?"
"Shut up."
"He wrote of her often in his journals, of her strong spirit and independent mind. The women of my people are valued; they are the Clan Mothers, who train and choose the Chiefs, theirs is the clan that inherits the son. Did you appreciate that heritage when you took your wife and became a Bear, as Haytham did when he loved my Mother?"
"Silence!" The kick to his head was brutal and sent him sprawling to the floor. "You are an animal! You and all those savage beasts that live in that valley, running naked through the woods and living in collected sticks and branches! You have no civilization, no culture, nothing that brings any merit to the world! You value inconsequential things like beads and forests and have no appreciation for civilized life!"
The beating that followed was filled with similar epitaphs, slurs and ugly degradations, leaving a bloody mess on the floor as Ratonhnhaké:ton struggled to stay conscious. The guards looked on impassively, uncaring of the violence they were witnessing. When the Templar left the Assassin only then allowed himself to pass out and recover his strength. One arm was broken, he could feel that, and his vision swam with such throbbing pain that thought was slow to almost impossible. His ribs were sore but still intact – he knew that would not last long if this kept up – and he knew lying in his own blood would only bring sickness. Jamie would have a hard time after all of this, and he felt regret that he could not break out now and kill Charles Lee; he had to wait until he had word that all the others were dead, that the assault was successful.
He did wake up in the night, head fuzzy. He thought he saw people: the Old Man, Haytham, Ista.
"You must be strong, Ratonhnhaké:ton. You must be brave," his mother was saying, kneeling down and reaching out to touch his forehead. "You will think yourself alone, but know that I will be at your side. Always and forever. Ratonhnhaké:ton... I love you."
Those had been her last words. Even as she was dying she had offered him comfort, solace. Achilles looked on, leaning on his cane as he always did, face inscrutable as it always was.
"I have been a man dead for decades," the Old Man said. "Every year I waited for my bones to understand, and yet now you have breathed life into me, made me see outside myself for the first time in years. My gratitude towards you will be unending, even in the next life."
That had been in his letter, the words alive as if he had spoken them aloud. The gratitude gave him strength even as his mother gave him solace. Bleary eyes looked to his father, wondering what he would say.
"You have shown great conviction. Strength. Courage. All noble qualities."
That was when he knew this was a dream. Haytham Kenway would never be so kind. Even though those were his last words, the context in it had been one last fit of spite. He turned his head away, eyes landing on the cellar door. He took several slow – ragged, but deep – breaths and managed to get himself on his knees. He crawled to the cellar door, half sitting on the steps, and wiggled his good arm into the weak seam, working until his fingers were bloody. He remembered thinking he saw a shaft of light, a sign that he was progressing, but his next clear memory was of Charles Lee standing over him, omnipresent dogs at his side, sniffing.
"Why do you persist...?" Charles asked. "You put us down. We rise again. You end one plot – we forge another. You try so hard... But it always ends the same. Those who know you think you mad and this is why," he gestured to Ratonhnhaké:ton and his ruined body, the blood splattered on the dirt floor, and the clear, unwaveringly calm eyes. "Even those men you sought to save have turned their backs on you. Yet you fight. You resist. Why?"
… Why...?
… Why?
He took a deep, labored breath, sucking in air. "Because no one else will...!" he grunted, licking his lips and spitting up into the air. The last time he had expectorated had been when he was six, and there was a curious echo in his mind as he did it again, and watched as Charles, too, remembered that day.
Something was produced in the Templar's hands, and with a viscous downward swing pain exploded into Ratonhnhaké:ton's side as something penetrated and penetrated deep. He had no hope of containing his roar of pain, hands instinctively going to protect the injury and curl away from the source of pain. Tears leaked out of his eyes and his breathing tripled in speed to compensate for the assault on his body. His hands quickly soaked in blood, and he knew little else as his world became consumed with pain, his body jerking this way and that.
Eventually, the rest of the world bled into his senses. He felt a cool hand on his bitten cheek, and slowly he opened his eyes to see what the new sensation was.
Red Feather was there. Another dream?
The face was blurry, and it turned to say something to someone Ratonhnhaké:ton could not see. Another face entered his vision, dark skin. Joseph...?
And then Duncan was there, making a sign of his faith and leaning in close, his narrow face coming slowly into better focus.
"Can ye hear me, Connor?" His voice was distance, underwater, but the young native could hazily nod.
"We did it," Duncan said in slow, clear tones. "Ye did it. All the Templars are dead, poisoned, save for the grandmaster. Clipper's trackin' him right now with Dobby, the rest of us are here finishing the job."
The others were dead...? Nothing was left...?
No.
"We must... kill... Charles Lee..."
Duncan smiled, wan and sad, before nodding his head. "I figured ye' say that. Come on, let's get ye on yer feet."
It was less than a half mile from the root cellar to the City Tavern, just exit Elfreth's Alley onto Second Street and go south, perhaps a ten mile walk. The first challenge was getting on his feet, the change in altitude nearly made him lose consciousness; he leaned heavily on the broad shoulders of Jacob, heard incoherent noises that must have been foreign curses buzzing through his ears before he was able to center himself. He looked down to the bloody mess of his side and was ironically reminded of a year ago when he was shot, blood pouring out of him then as well. What had the Templar used to strike him to cause such a wound? He saw splinters of wood – a plank? He saw the cellar door, saw his loose seam had resulted in a ripped and missing board. Charles had seen his work and sought revenge. Somehow, he was not surprised.
The next challenge was the steps up onto the alley – he was more carried than anything else – but he finally made it and managed to keep his feet under him. He could hardly see straight. The midday light exposed the ordeal he had been through, bloody bite marks and tears all along his coat and leggings, the long unhealthy streak of red staining his side, and the raw sensation of injured skin on his face, strips of his finely crafted braids hanging loose along the back of his head. Was the string of Achilles' cuff still there? He could not tell, could not lift his broken arm to check. Jacob held him on one side, Stephane on the other, as Red Feather and Joseph dashed ahead to pass word, and Anne and William acted as flanks, Jamie taking point as the man who knew the city, and Duncan bringing up the rear.
Few people were in the alley, off to work in their smithies and shops. Several children, orphans, stared, but dared not approach. They turned left at the end of the alley, onto Second Street, and slowly Ratonhnhaké:ton began to adjust to the motions of walking. His legs were still about him, not broken, and he could handle just enough of his weight that he did not have to lean too heavily on Jacob and Stephane. Both men were muttering in their native languages, dark looks on their faces as their grips shifted from gentle to painful, depending on what injury they were touching. Anne and William swept their gazes everywhere, silently daring anyone to approach them as they proceeded down the street. Red Feather eventually came back, eyes wide and saying something quickly to Jamie and then Duncan, words too far away for Ratonhnhaké:ton's underwater hearing to discern.
Most of his focus was on staying conscious, focusing on Charles Lee and his imminent end. He tried to feel something: satisfaction, victory, relief, even anticipation. All he felt was empty. He had battled against this man for over half of his life, had plotted and planned and ran desperately from one target to the next, killing his way to this moment, and now that it was at hand all he felt was cold emptiness. There was no weight to this death, it was but one in a long string of murders he had committed, and there would be a long string more before he was done. It would never end, eternal wars like this could not simply be stopped by conversation and offerings of peace; he understood that now. Haytham had taught him well, that night.
He did not know how long they walked, but eventually the City Tavern appeared on his right, and he realized this was where he and the others had met, before the war paint, before he had begun this assault. The irony was slow to seep into his head, but Clipper and Dobbie where there, and everyone was assembled.
The Hirokoa might think him mad, but they all of them still stood by him. That meant the world to him, and he bowed his head.
"Niá:wen'kó:wa," he murmured in gratitude.
They moved laboriously up the steps of the tavern and inside. It was mid afternoon, few people were about and giving them relative privacy.
Charles Lee sat in a shadowed corner, back to the wall, and watched the approach of the entire guild of Assassins. He was pale, eyes fever-bright, sweaty and listless. Didn't someone say something about poison? It didn't matter.
With great effort, he removed himself from his supports, taking a chair and dragging it over and sitting by Charles. He set a knife on the table, blinked as he realized it was Achilles' knife, the eagle handle and the serrated edge, that he had used to cut his hair. It was fitting. His brothers and sisters fanned out behind him, blocking them from the view of the tavern, giving them privacy to the two beleaguered combatants. Charles, looking down up to know, hazily lifted his head to witness the approach, stone blue eyes taking in the unbridled show of force.
The pair shared a long look. No words were spoken.
None were necessary.
Charles... no. Charles reached out and dragged over a bottle of spirits, lifting it with a shaky fist and taking a swig. His face bittered with the tastes, nose crinkling as the alcohol flowed down his throat, before offering it to Ratonhnhaké:ton. A celebratory toast, to success and victory.
He took the bottle with his good arm, fingers coated with dried blood, just as shaky as Charles' and took a small sip. The alcohol was exactly as Stephane described, pisse, and it tasted utterly foul as he swallowed. Fire burned his throat, setting the hole in his side to spurt even more blood. He glanced down, knowing he was seriously injured, knowing he did not have much longer. Charles nodded his head, acknowledging the damage he had done, acknowledging the price Ratonhnhaké:ton had paid.
The price they had both paid.
There was nothing left after that. The Hirokoa took the knife, shifting his weight, shimmying the chair closer while still favoring his myriad injuries. He reached out and clutched Charles' coat, tugging him slightly forward, closer, to make this easier. Their heads nearly touched, he could feel the fever of the poison, could sense the sickness, witness the lethargy. Charles was already dead, deep in his spirit, and now he sent the body to follow. He adjusted his grip, listened to his eagle, gathered the strength, and he thrust. In the chest, between the ribs, with a twist; as he had been taught since he was a child.
Charles grunted, leaning back, his eyes wide and lost in the pain.
Ratonhnhaké:ton felt nothing.
The amulet was still hanging on his neck, bound in simple twine. He reached out and wrapped his shaky fist around it, yanking. The string broke, and Charles collapsed onto the table, nothing more than a body.
And just like that. It was over.
Should he feel something? Relief? Satisfaction? Joy, fulfillment, anything? But there was no emotion, nothing but emptiness. There was nothing left. Nothing but going home.
He bent over himself, struggling with finding the strength, and managed to get onto his feet. He made perhaps three steps before the Assassins closed ranks, and he left the body where it lay. No last words, not closure, no final absolution.
Only a body.
He remembered little after that.
Author's Notes: ... There isn't all that much to say after that; this chapter mostly speaks for itself. For the second time we chose to rewrite the ending - mostly to make the history make more sense: Charles Lee died "in a tavern in Philidelphia." Not Monmouth, and not after a gloriously epic chase through a burning half-built man o' war - in Boston, no less. Instead, we tried to mirror that epic feel on a much more intimate, personal level. We've never been to Philadelphia, but we tried to pick landmarks that were appropriate.
And Connor's - Ratonhnhake:ton's - arc is nearly to a close. He finally becomes a Master Assassin, an Hirokoa'ko:wa, and accepts that Charles Lee is but Charles Lee, a man. The roller coaster he has been on for the last thirty chapters has built up exactly to this moment. He's been so obsessed, so convinced, so unbending over this ONE THING, and it's only when he sees the dark reflection of Charles Lee that he truly understands what he was so close to becoming.
And, as with all revenge stories, the final revenge brings absolutely nothing. Ratonhnhake:ton sacrificed everything on the altar of his vengeance, even his own body and risking his own life, and when it's over all that is left is a body in a table and he once again near death. I think Ratonhnhake:ton comes closer to death than even Ezio in that respect - he has no sense of self-preservation, poor guy.
Next chapter: Goodbye, Old Man, until it comes time for me to join you - then I will bother you once again.