Epilogue: Birth of a President
George Washington found the November air chilly; he had learned the hard way at Valley Forge to dislike northern winters: snow did not fall in small quantities and melt, ice did not rain and muddy the roads as in Virginia. No, instead snow just... grew, inches and inches to feet and feet, begging for harvest. That one winter, almost three years ago now, had been miserable for a myriad of reasons, and the cursed season had not helped.
… The dreams had not helped either, and even some of his men had begun eying him, noticing his much darker eyes, his softer voice. He feared more dreams tonight, and he did not wish it. This was Evacuation Day, the British were loading their ships and finally leaving. He and the army stood at the edge of the city, waiting politely (if not always patiently) for their departure. One last dignity of honor: let them leave on their own terms. And now they had. But, of course, the British had not left with the dignity that he had offered; instead there were reports that one Union Jack still flew on a flagpole, and the pole had been greased to prevent removal. Domineering to the end.
Domineering... Strong hand... leading a Republic... the title of King...
He shook his head, biting back a yawn.
"Sir, they're making cleats to climb the pole, sir," General Knox said, ever practical as the army's engineer. "Stars and Stripes will be up before they lose sight. Forgive me sir, if I feel that would be a pleasant spit in their eye as they retreat, sir."
"No man can deny his own feelings," Washington said softly. "Acting on them is another matter." For the good of the country, for the good of the people, one strong man in the center...
"Sir?" Knox asked, ever perceptive.
"Nothing, General," Washington said politely, shaking off the increasingly cloying feeling with a practiced but increasingly difficult shrug. "Let us at last ride into the city. It has been seven years since I was forced to leave it. Is the Fort at last empty?"
"Sir, yes, sir."
"Then let us move." He flicked his reigns and his white stallion shifted into a slow walk.
The mass of people was enormous, even with all the Loyalist refugees evacuated the city buzzed with humanity, the streets were filled with so many people people you can lead people who will bow to you bowing to his army and waving and cheering. They were the impoverished and destitute, Tallmadge had sent many reports about the squalor of New York after the fire and the ruins that Patriots were forced to live in, the city left to rot as the Loyalists claimed everything else of value and sustainability. He had also heard of the neglect on the prison ships, how many men had died staggering because the Crown would not look after those honorably captured you can do it differently show them what it means to be King and he felt only relief that the city was now at last free. They stopped at the northwest fort of the city, everyone now calling it Fort Washington in his honor, and shed their supplies there before a procession through the town was organized.
"Locals say the Brits just shot a cannon back at the city," someone reported. "Fell way short, final spit in the eye I'd wager."
"Foolish."
"Tyrants are what they are. Were, now."
Lead them all... a republic cannot survive in a world with so many contending powers...
Washington shook his head again, rubbing his eyes and holding in another yawn. He needed to smile for these people; he was a public face and he needed to play the part. He took a deep breath and put on a smile, waving as they moved through the streets, confetti being thrown out of windows, Broadway packed with people in rags pressing up against the procession to see the men who had fought for them. There were cheers, singing, dancing, shouting, drinking, so much positive energy the air was charged with it. The pomp and circumstance all for you were touching and he felt it slowly push into him, waking him up and putting more authentic smiles on his face. A great accomplishment had been made, and he did have a small not small big know your place your place as King part in bringing it about. The good cheer was everywhere, and the men loved it as much as he did.
All except one.
His eyes snapped to the one still body in the crowd, one man who towered almost as much as he did over the others, white coat and the fierce frown that he always wore, always so serious and so determined, an inspiration as much as a mystery it's him he would ruin it all kill him now before he knows what is to come.
He had never had such an ill thought before, and he felt fear in his heart once again for the dreams he had and the things it made him think about. His gaze was locked, now, he saw the young man – no, not young, his eyes were so old now – nodded, acknowledging that he had been seen. No... that he had let himself be seen, one final visit to remind Washington of what principle really meant, the example he set without even knowing it, the disapproval he felt when anyone failed to meet his impossibly high expectations.
His message sent, Connor turned and left, disappearing into the crowd.
The general nearly wheeled his horse, moving to chase after him – before he remembered his place and went back to smiling and waving, pleasing the people who were already so pleased with him.
It was well after midnight before his men sent word on where Connor was, and an hour after that before he was certain he was alone and could leave his position. He changed out of his uniform, putting on regular clothes and ducking his head into a bucket of water, washing most of the powder out of his hair. He could not hide his size, but looked different enough now that walking a horse out of the fort would make little notice, and soon he was riding through the streets. He was not completely sure what compelled him, he could barely trust his own mind the last few weeks, but something about seeing Connor, here, sparked something deep inside him he will end you ruin your plans kill him now. He tried to shake the feeling off again, it was growing stronger and stronger, he feared he would succumb to such thoughts that he did not feel were right, and he pushed his horse into a gallop. He was unsurprised to find Connor in the forest, half Indian as he was, he likely felt more comfortable in the wilds than civilized world of the cities.
Though, he corrected himself, New York City as it was now was hardly a paragon of civilization. And Connor hardly deserved such an ignorant thought, when he had spoken so eloquently and articulately at Valley Forge; he had clearly been educated and was comfortable with the ways of the white man. The Sullivan Expedition had left him sleepless for weeks, thinking of Connor and the effect his decision would have on the boy, but he had no other solution to stop the raids, and with their alliance so broken to begin with after meeting Mr. Kenway...
He is your enemy he never liked you he will destroy you remove him and take your rightful place as KING.
He spurred his horse.
The boy obviously heard his arrival, was already standing at his camp, fire pit dug and glowing with warmth in the cold air, black mare tied to a tree branch. Washington dismounted and stood, awkwardly waiting for some kind of greeting, but at always the half-Indian was reticent. "Connor," he greeted instead.
"... Commander Washington." Neutral voice, neither warm nor cold, cautious but open to conversation.
KILL HIM NOW. BE THE NEXT KING.
His body stiffened with the command, face loosing all color, before he shook his head again. "I am..." he started. How in the name of Providence could he explain this? Who would believe it? But Connor was as much mystery as man, and there were hints that the world he lived in was vastly different than the commander's, and he hoped it was different enough. "I am attacked by a new enemy," he said, the only way he could express what was happening to him. "I fear I will succumb."
Connor's eyes narrowed, his vision always so clear even in the face of despair. "What has come over you?" he asked. He frowned, pursing his lips. "Perhaps you should sit and tell me the problem." He gracefully dipped into a sitting position on the frozen earth, gesturing Washington join him. The commander's moved to a stone be above him you are above him know your place as King. He pushed his face into his palms, rubbing up and down, trying to shake off the feeling. He was so tired...
"I do not know what's happened," he said, hurt that his voice sounded as drained as he felt; he could usually mask his ill ease when speaking to others, it was a critical skill when dealing with Congress and bargaining his way into getting what he needed do not bargain do not beg be the leader be the King get what you desire. "It's..."
He pulled his hands away, casting a bleary gaze to the half-Indian. Connor said nothing, gave away nothing, absolutely wooden. He was so envious at that moment he was nearly blind with it KILL HIM NOW. He shook again, and words spilled out of his mouth. "It's the dreams. They're driving me mad..."
"I never thought you were a man that would be disturbed by dreams," Connor said. His voice was still so ominously neutral, but at the same time there was rebuke there, perhaps an unconscious jibe at the decisions he had made as commander. He could not deny the difficulty of many of the decisions he had made during the war – war was never meant to be easy, there was rarely a clean-cut right and wrong, the modern world was not the fables of antiquity, it was a complex menagerie of ideas and opinions and goals and you can unify them all and it required delicate skill to navigate and find the path best suited for YOU you are the best path can make everything better for the people. Certainly he had many dreams of his mistakes: the Braddock Expedition hurt him even now, he could hardly speak of his failures there and his feelings over the loss of the general. But Connor was right, normal dreams did not disturb him – not to this level. How could he even explain?
"You must understand," he said, "They beguile me with fantastical visions. In my dream, I'm at Mount Vernon during the war. In fact, there is no war. I stay with Martha, tending my fields, peaceful and content."
"It sounds like paradise."
"No," he insisted, "they don't stop there, the peace of the vision pushes me to..." He could not believe he was saying any of this aloud, speaking of it to a half-Indian whom he barely knew, spilling the darkest parts of what was happening to him. "It is unspeakable," he said at last, shaking his head again, numb to the warmth of the fire. "The things that happen, the things I do... And yet there is a sense of rightness about them that I cannot shake, and sense that this is how the world can be better. No more politicking with the Congress, no more fighting for food and clothing for the men, no more uncertainty about my reputation and how I'm running the war... Everything in its place, Order, Purpose, all moving in one Direction..."
He saw Connor stiffen at the words but control any other reaction. Something in what he said stirred a reaction out of the wooden Indian, and Washington was both glad and disturbed he knows he knows he is a danger and he stretched his boots out, trying to get warm. Why could he not feel the fire?
"Where did you hear such words?" Connor asked.
Washington opened his mouth to find the words die in his throat, his body stiffening against his will and the weight of... it... pressing into his back. Breathing became hard, he saw Connor lean forward in concern and curiosity both; and he reached jerkily, slowly, behind his back and pulled out... it.
"I believe..." he forced out, voice tight and words hard to form, "the visions come from this."
And he held it out.
Connor was immediately on his feet, face a storm of emotions: hurt, confusion, fear, anger, none of them positive KILL HIM NOW BEFORE HE TAKES IT and he held an accusatory finger forwards, pointing at the commander.
"Where did you get it?" he demanded, all neutrality in his voice gone, replaced with firm command, the voice he held when directing his young Virginian rifleman at Trenton.
"It was taken from a captured officer in Yorktown," the commander said, body locked in place and fighting for words. "There was something compelling about it, so I kept it on my person. It's strange, for I cannot remember that officer's face." The rest of that day was crystalized in his mind: the siege, the attacks on all the redoubts, the bombardments, the drummer and the officers with a white handkerchief moving through the smoke – a stark image he would never forget – the negotiations not only with the British but the French as well, signing the capitulation, making General O'Hara – not General Cornwallis, turn his swords of office over to Benjamin Lincoln as comeuppance for the American's humiliation at Charlestown, watching them march away with flags furled, muskets upside-down in shame, The World's Turn'd Upside Down filling the air from the drummers and fifes. He doubted he would ever forget any of it, and yet the face of that officer was empty from his mind, only the red coat, the tricorn hat, a voice that had said... said... something.
Connor was staring at the object with such intensity it seemed his eyes glowed in the firelight. Thoughts were running back and forth with such quickness Washington had no hope of naming them, only know that the young Indian knew well what this object was and the dangers it possessed.
"May I see it?" he asked, hand lifting.
NO DO NOT LET HIM TOUCH DO NOT LET HIM SEE DO NOT LET HIM RUIN EVERYTHING
Against his will, Washington shied away, shielding it from the young Indian.
Connor froze, hands lowering, his intense gaze now focused on the commander.
"You are not thinking clearly," he said firmly, an order HE CANNOT ORDER YOU no one can order you you are KING that Washington wanted to rile at, being a commander for so many years, but he knew that even as a commander of an army he answered to men: his men, the Congress, the public, the French, he was not and was never in a position to give orders to all people, only some people you can order them all you know this to be true.
He worked his jaw, forcing his body to submit to his will let all submit to your will, saying, "You are right. It is the dreams that come from this... this Apple, that put thoughts in my head such as I had never considered before. Help me..."
He was frozen again, unable to move, thoughts in his mind that were not his own, and Connor reached out and touched the Apple.
So many faces so many voices so many changes Sam Adams the beloved Benjamin Franklin Israel Putnam back at his side young Jefferson always a bright mind a Pyramid a cape a crown and DEEDS so many deeds and depravities and resistance destroy the resistance fight the fools who don't understand there is Connor dressed in skins like the savage he is come to kill him take the Apple rule for himself under its spell compel the minds of men what an interesting idea what would you do help the people is that not what I do you cannot kill me I HATE WHAT YOU STAND FOR YOU CANNOT—
The light burst from their hands, the Apple fell inert to the ground, and Washington was gasping for air, still be-spelled by a world not his own. His entire body was shaking and his emotions were wroth with feelings he had not thought himself capable of feeling. He was somehow surprised to find himself outside among the trees instead of the Pyramid, surprised to see a simple campfire, surprised to see—
Connor.
Anger boiled inside him, and Connor stood straight, ready to defend himself, before the last of the spell evaporated.
Washington sank to the ground, now thankful for the chill, he was certain he was fevered after such a terrible vision – the things he had done... that the Apple bade him do...
He looked at the object, and terror filled him. To be King... such a thing was a sin to all of Nature. For him to be King... never. Never. He would never dare bring such a world about. No. He was done.
"Commander?"
He looked up, Connor was still standing, in his white wool coat, watching him with a critical eye, eyes that still chilled him as they had in the vision.
The terror of those eyes pushed him to his feet – he knew Connor now, better, perhaps, than he had any right to know, knew what he was capable of, knew the lengths he would go to, the things he would sacrifice, to do what was right. Connor was everything Washington wished he could be: upright, honorable, principled, moral, everything he strived to be, reached for every day, Connor simply was, with every fiber of his being. Providence had gifted the world with the existence of Connor, and Washington would be an ill-begotten idiot not to heed the boy's – the man's – advice.
"Take it," he whispered, terrified. "Take it from me. I do not want it."
Connor shook his head. "No man should possess a power so absolute."
Washington was done, done with the Apple, he refused to ever set his mind to it again, he would die before he became a victim of its abuses. Never, he would never let that happen, not if it was in his power. It belonged in no one's hands. It did not belong in this world... "Sink it into the sea," he suggested, "Weigh it and sink it to the bottom-most reaches of the ocean." He mounted his horse, running away from such a cursed object, determined to put as much distance between himself and it as possible. Connor would handle it, and handle it well as he always did.
He galloped back into the city, back to the fort – Fort Washington, what an arrogant name – and bid himself to bed, willing himself to sleep and pray that all of this was little more than a dream.
A week later he gave a short but emotional farewell to his officers – he had already formally said his goodbyes to the troops at the beginning of November – and he was walking along the Battery Park to clear his mind before riding south to the Congress. The visions of the Apple still haunted him with their possibilities, he understood his place now as the Apple had likely not intended.
The December air was cold, but there was a lightness in his steps. The war was over now, he was free of his duties, and he learned not to pursue more. How was Martha doing, he wondered. Would she believe the things he had to say, the experiences he had lived through? Would she believe Connor, whom she had met but briefly, to be as much as he was?
Ah, speak and he appears.
"Connor," he said.
"Commander," the warrior said, ever serious, "It is done."
And suddenly the weight was now completely off his shoulders. There was nothing else to worry about after this. Soon he would be able to sleep truly, without fear of haunting, and all of this terrible affair would fade away to history.
"You have what you set out for," Connor said softly, his sandy tenor only carrying to the former commander's ears. "The country is free to do as it will, the British are gone, and the tyranny has ended. What will you do with it?"
"A fair question," Washington said. "I was just thinking of that. But if truth be told, I do not know. Men with far greater minds than mine will build this country's foundation, a task I am simply not equipped for, as you and I both saw. Have you played bocce before? I'm really growing quite fond of it. I think I'll have a green built in Mount Vernon when I return. Martha will be glad for the distraction, I think, and I know she will be happy to have me back permanently. I fear she is a greater Patriot than I, willingly subjecting herself to such loneliness and allowing me to run the army as I did. I owe the most to her, and look forward to the private life I gave up to serve my country."
He watched Connor rankle, eyes bulge briefly in anger and sucking in a large breath through his nose. "All that death and sacrifice and you mean to leave the important tasks to 'better men' while you play games?" He accused. Then he snorted. "I might have expected it."
The tone surprised the former commander; he would have thought the young warrior glad that he was leaving public office, glad he would not pose a danger to the people he and the Indian had fought for so passionately. "Connor – " he started to say, but was cut off with a hand.
"Whether you think you are worthy or capable of the task is of no consequence," Connor lectured, face hard and unyielding, a little of the warrior he saw in the vision bleeding through. "What you seem to have forgotten is you were chosen, for good or ill, and you have done much in this war. After the things you have done... after the things we have done to ensure this outcome: the people we lost, the sacrifices we made, the pieces of ourselves that were torn out of us to ensure victory, after all of that pain you should not have the luxury of peace. I do not, because I understand my duty to my people, and I will gladly bear that burden even now that they have abandoned their home. I do my duty to protect those around me, to protect those who do not know me, to show others what a better world truly looks like. I will be the change I wish to see in the world, regardless of how much more is torn from me, because it is the right thing to do. Because it will bring justice. Do you know what the right thing to do even is? Do you know what you did wrong in the war, did you learn from the mistakes you made? Did you try to better yourself?
"Instead you tell me you will leave it all behind and tend your farm, as if none of this has ever happened. What gives you that right? What makes you think you can live peacefully after all the things you have done, not the least of which you did to my own people?"
"Connor, after what we both saw, how can I possibly... ?"
"You deserve nothing less than running the country you have helped to birth," Connor said. "Perhaps then you will understand that responsibilities are not to be abandoned when one menial task complete, bur rather carried for the rest of one's life."
Washington disagreed, strongly, but he knew of no political charm that could sway a man such as Connor, and knew better than to try. He understood Connor's point of view, and privately grieved that the young Indian had lost as much as he had just admitted, but the Apple still haunted his mind, showing him what he would do with power if he was not careful. No, leadership was not meant for him, he would ruin such an honor – such a responsibility – he knew better than to pursue such a thought. Temptation was a Sin, and he would never submit to its graces again.
He left New York the next day, taking a long and circuitous route through the states, one long parade of parades, luncheons, flag-raising ceremonies, celebrations, dinners, parties, all in his honor, an honor that he did not deserve. In that, at least, he agreed with Connor, he did not deserve such pomp and circumstance after what he had done, and what he had been shown capable of doing, but he tolerated it dutifully – perhaps mindful of Connor's words, until he appeared nearly a month later, December 23, to the Congress in Annapolis.
He was sitting at a table, late afternoon sun saturating the room, preparing a short statement to the Congress before he turned over his swords and commission, hoping to convey everything he wanted in as few words as possible. He was but forty miles from home, Martha had waited long enough...
"Commander Washington."
The former commander looked up, surprised. A figure stood in front of the window, cast entirely in silhouette. He frowned, casting his gaze about the office. "I thought I was alone," he said slowly.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," the man said politely, his face lost in shadow.
"It's quite all right," Washington replied in courtesy, feeling something stir in his heart.
"Things appear to be at... a stalemate." Washington frowned, uncertain what the man was referring to. Congress? The French? Something else? The man turned to the window, and Washington realized he could not make out the color of his cloak, the cut of the cloth. Who was this person? "Might I suggest, Commander," the man said, "that a republic cannot survive in a world with so many contending powers."
The words chilled him, words he had heard over and over since Yorktown. Words that... "I beg your pardon?" he asked, hoping he had misheard.
"Elected bodies, to be sure," the man, no, the phantom said quickly, placatingly, "The war was fought for this. But for this nation to prosper, for this nation to thrive, the weakness of a republic must be balanced by a powerful man at its center. A powerful man, Commander, who, if... if I may be so bold, would be elevated in the eyes of the world if he were given the title of King."
Rage stirred in his chest, at realizing he was being tested. He breathed in quietly, calming his mind, centering himself, mindful that yelling now with the Congress outside would hurt the image he had spent so long cultivating, trying to live by, the image Connor crystallized.
"Sir," he said softly, putting his hands on the desk and lifting himself from his seat. "I believe I can answer you in complete candor. Your proposal raises the greatest mischief that can befall my country. You could not have found a person to whom your schemes are more disagreeable. Let me caution you then, if you have any regard for your country, concern for yourself or posterity, or respect for me ... to banish these thoughts from your mind; never communicate, as from yourself, or any other specter you send, a sentiment of the like nature. It will fall on deaf ears, and indeed will make those in power very wroth. We have fought a war to stop the very proposal you have just submitted to me, and so I will turn you away only this once."
A blink and the phantom was gone, having never existed in the first place. He could feel, however, something receding from his mind, and his head dropped as a headache instantaneously formed.
"Connor," he mumbled, slouching into his seat. "Please know that I am doing my duty as best I can."
Six years later he would think back on Connor's sentencing: to run the country he had birthed to learn responsibility, as he rode to what he was certain was his funeral: President of the United States.
Providence, it seemed, had a sense of humor.
He imagined seeing a white coat on the road, watching his ride. The thought made him sit upright in his saddle. "Well, Connor," he muttered. "Whether you believe it or not, I will do my duty diligently."
And he became the stuff of legends.
The End
Author's Notes: The most brain-breaking conceit the two of us have when it comes to time traveling are: time travel (which makes us hypocrites because we like Dr. Who - but they don't even try to take it seriously so it gets a pass) and "it was all a dream." To start the Tyranny of King Washington we were asked to accept that the ENTIRE AC3 GAME WAS A DREAM. Our brains broke and we had so much trouble trying to come to terms with it we never finished the dlc. It was the first and so far only time we didn't 100% a game - dlc and all. We have since read and seen enough of the dlc to respect it for the alternate history that it is, but... damn it what the hell?
Then it occurred to us: It is true the Washington was more than despondent over being elected, wrote that he was riding to his funeral. In history this was because he was acutely aware that every single thing he did would set a precedence: how to great people, how to address Congress, every decision would be disected in history, etc, and he wanted no part in it. Of COURSE he would be reluctant, he had the vision of the Apple to terrify him. Then it all made sense and we were able to write this.
And no, George, you totally DID see Connor on the road, watching you ride to your doom. That's just the sort of thing he would do now that he's a master assassin.
And so we're done. Not with fanfiction, not with the AC franchise, but with this series. We hope you enjoyed.