1784

The smell of smoke coupled with the heat from the large fire didn't bother Connor. In fact, it relieved him. To feel something was a comfort. He had been numb to any kind of emotion for so long it had worried him. He feared he may never have the ability to feel again. Not joy, not sorrow, not anger, not even depression, which he had become intimately familiar with over the course of his adult life.

The sounds of yelling caught his attention as he stood silently by the road. Footsteps running. Toward him, toward the fire. The sound of Norris yelling his name did not make him to turn his eyes away from the flames.

"The house is on fire!" he yelled, as if Connor didn't already know. As if he weren't watching while the last fourteen years of his life turn to ash. It was poetic, in a way. Connor had lost everything to fire once before. It seemed right to him that he suffer the same fate a second time.

"Hurry and get the carts!" Myriam ordered. "We need to haul water."

"No!" Connor heard the others as they approached. He had spoken loud enough that they would all hear. Lance, Dave, Ellen, Warren. They all froze at the command in his voice. "Let it burn."

"But Connor…" Norris spoke softly, almost pleadingly, in his thick accent. "All your possessions…"

"Do not matter."

The others spoke in low voices. About him. About what he had done. No doubt they all thought him mad. Maybe he was. Maybe Connor had lost his senses to grief. At the moment, that didn't matter. All that mattered was finally feeling something. Even if it was pain and sadness. At least he could feel again.

Eventually, everyone left. Everyone except Norris. The Frenchman stood beside Connor, watching as the manor, the small house and the stables burned. "If it's okay, I would like to stay with you, my friend."

Connor gave a short nod. That would be fine. He did not want to be alone right now.

April 5, 2022

Connor opened his eyes to darkness. He had no idea where he was. But the pressure on his wrists and ankles let him know he was restrained to the bed upon which he lay. He struggled to remember what had happened as he surveyed his surroundings. The room was small and clean. But odd. Unlike any place he had ever been before. There were noises, beeping and humming. Not natural sounds. They were mechanical, manmade.

And there was another sound. Faint, but audible if Connor listened. It was the sound of breathing. The sound of someone in the room with him. They were standing in the corner. Connor could sense them, almost see them with his special vision. Eagle vision, as Faith had once called it. He had to admit, he liked that name.

Using that, Connor was able to tell that the man in the room with him was not a threat. But Connor still didn't trust him. There were very few people that Connor trusted. And the number became smaller daily. In his youth, Connor had thought everyone had the capacity for goodness. He had learned the hard way that was not true. People – most people – were selfish and cruel. Willing to manipulate anyone just to get what they desired.

"You're awake."

It wasn't a question. Connor didn't treat it as one. He only watched the man intently as he moved a little closer to the bed. The man's steps were slow, cautious and very quiet. Like an Assassin's.

"You have any questions?" he ask.

Connor thought for a moment. He had many questions. But only one he needed answered right away.

"Do you plan to kill me?"

The man shook his head. "No. You're not in any danger."

No danger. Yet, he was restrained. Did that mean Connor was the danger? These people must fear him. He knew there were more than just the man in the room with him responsible for his capture. He could feel their presence in the rooms above him. A small smile formed on the Native's face at the thought of him being seen as a threat. He wanted his enemies to fear him.

"Is that all you want to ask?"

"What else matters?" Connor countered.

Connor sensed the man shrug. "I thought you might want to know where you are, who I am."

"Would you tell me if I ask?"

"Yeah, I would." That answer actually surprised Connor. Information was the most valuable form of currency there was. If the man was offering what he knew, he was either lying or stupid.

"Tell me," Connor stated.

The man took a deep breath and let it out loudly. "Where to start?" It was rhetorical. Connor knew that, still he answered.

"The beginning."

The man chuckled. There was something strange about him. Connor wasn't sure exactly why, but he had the sensation he knew the man. Not as an acquaintance. He was sure they had never met. But the man's actions and way of speaking sparked a memory in Connor. A very old memory of someone he had tried very hard to forget.

"My name is Desmond Miles. And – like you, Connor – I'm an Assassin."

Desmond paused, giving the Native time to process. Connor didn't need as long as he was given. He waited in silence for the man to continue.

"I'm also a descendant of yours."

Connor huffed at the absurdity. Assassin or not, this man was crazy. Connor had no family, no children. No one. And this man was roughly the same age as he was. There was no way they could be related.

"I don't blame you for doubting me," Desmond said. "But it's true."

Connor said nothing. He wasn't going to get caught up in lunacy. He just wanted to know where he was, why and leave using whatever means it took to do so.

"What year is it?" Desmond ask. When Connor stayed quiet, he changed tone. "I know it's a stupid question, but just humor me. What year is it for you, Connor?"

"Seventeen eighty-five."

"Guess you haven't gotten married yet."

Connor did not want to speak about that. He just agreed with Desmond. This conversation was inane. It didn't help Connor to learn anything. He needed to be free. He needed to leave this place.

"I know a lot about your life up until 1781."

Connor barely listened. He was concentrating instead on trying to free his left hand. The binding was loose. If he was subtle about it, he would be able to wiggle out of the strap without Desmond noticing. He just needed to distract the man.

"What do you know?" he questioned. If Desmond was talking, he probably wasn't paying attention to what Connor was doing.

"I know about your parents. I know it was Washington who burned down your village when you were four. I know about all the years you spent training under Achilles and how you worked to take down the Templar threat in Colonial America. I know you were forced to kill your father...and your best friend."

Connor's jaw clinched. He remained silent.

"The only thing I didn't know was that you got married when you were seventeen. And had a daughter."

Dark eyes gazed at Desmond with painful rage. "Who told you that?"

"The people here. They know a lot about you, too."

Connor worked harder to get his hand out of the strap that bound it. He had given up being subtle. He didn't care if Desmond knew what he was doing or not. The mention of Faith, of Abby, had incensed him. He was ready to kill.

"Give me their names!"

"Just calm down."

"You do not mention my family then expect me to remain calm! No one is to know about them!"

"Except the people you trust," Desmond spoke. "And you can trust me. I told you, we're all Assassin's here."

Finally able to pull his hand free, Connor used a slower motion than normal on purpose. If Desmond was what he said he was, the man would have no trouble evading Connor's grasp. However, he didn't. As Connor held Desmond's shirt in a tight fist, he realized the only reason he had been able to make an advance was because Desmond had let him. He knew that by the look in the other man's eyes as he watched the Native without moving.

Connor relaxed his grip but did not let go. Again, he ask for the names of the people who knew about Faith and Abigail.

"The man in charge here is the one who told me about them," Desmond answered. "His name is Jack Wilkinson."

As his hand released Desmond of its own accord, Connor thought back to the first time he had heard the name Wilkinson. It had been years ago, when he was still a teenager. The young man he had known and recruited spring to mind. Clipper Wilkinson. There was no way that could be a coincidence. For two men – both Assassins – to share the same surname. They had to be related.

Connor looked up at Desmond curiosity etched on his face. Again a multitude of questions filled his head, each begging to be answered. Again, only one was paramount. "What year is it?"

"Two thousand and twenty-two."

A sigh escaped the Assassin as he lay back on the bed. He fought to maintain control over his senses. Nothing Desmond was saying made sense to him. Connor had thought he had experienced the peak of strangeness when the spirit he spoke to turned him into an eagle. That had been nothing compared to this. This was impossible. To travel in time was farfetched. He only knew of one other person who had been through such an ordeal.

"I want you tell me everything," he said. "Do not leave anything out, no matter how absurd you think it may sound. I will do my best to believe you."

Desmond nodded. He took a breath and began his story.