Its moon! I just want to say I know no one is probably reading this and it's okay. I think at this rate I am just doing it for myself and I have accepted that. Anyways, there are some changes made in this chapter. Like the training scene between Connor and Catherine.
-Moon
Connor gracefully moved from branch to branch, his movements precise and confident. Catherine, her earlier distress momentarily forgotten, followed closely behind. She was determined, her focus now on discovering the source of the cry and offering any help she could.
As they navigated through the trees, the cry for help grew louder, guiding them through the snow-covered forest. The urgency in the sound quickened their pace, the sense of adventure and duty overshadowing the remnants of their earlier emotional exchange.
The two raced through the woods at lightning speed until they reached the base of a steep cliff. Connor grabbed a secure handhold in the rock and began scaling the wall of earth with practiced ease. Catherine hesitated at the base, unsure if she could manage the climb, but Connor glanced back, silently asking if she would join him.
"Go ahead, I'll follow behind!" Catherine's voice thick with determination, grabbing the icy covered rocks.
Sending a silent pray to God, she began to move up after Connor. Only a few days of training, didn't make her a master yet, but she pushed herself further and further. Someone needed help, there was
As Connor climbed halfway up the cliff, a man was suddenly tossed over the edge, dangling by a rope tied to his ankle.
"Help! Someone, pull me up!" the man cried out desperately.
"Sweet mother of Joseph," Catherine exclaimed, scrambling up after Connor. Her lack of climbing experience made her cautious of the icy patches on the cliff. She followed closely behind Connor as he pulled himself over the edge, where a fierce fight was unfolding.
Even though she was a lower height then Connor, Catherine could hear the clashing of weapons. Connor was outnumbered four to one, but his skill was evident. His movements were swift and powerful, his tomahawk and dagger cutting through the attackers with impressive precision. Catherine had never seen him fight like this before.
Before she could fully process the scene, one of the assailants turned and charged at her with a musket. She reached out and grasped the sharp blade at the end of the musket. The edge cut into her flesh. Crying out as the sharpen metal sliced into her delicate skin. The first time she had ever taken such damage,
"You don't stand a chance, girlie." The man sneered as he went to yank his musket back.
The fortitude and grit she had been building through Connor and Achilles's training surged within her. With her injured hand gripping the musket's barrel, she twisted it sharply, using every ounce of her upper body strength to wrest the weapon from the man's grasp.
Without hesitation, she swung the butt of the musket into his face, the impact sending him reeling. In one fluid motion, she pulled the trigger, the shot ringing out as the man fell to the ground, bleeding.
She had shot a man in cold blood. Staring at the blood in the snow, her hands began to shake as if they weren't her own. Dropping the musket, she took a slow step back as blood pooled down from her hands.
The smell of gunpowder filled the air, triggering a flood of painful memories. For a moment, Catherine was transported back to the streets of Boston, the sounds of musket fire and the cries of its citizens overwhelming her. Her bloodied hands reminded her of Rose, and she thought she saw Rose's ghost standing before her.
"Catherine!" Connor's voice cut through the haze, pulling her back to the present.
Catherine took a shaky breath and looked around. She was back on the cliffside overlooking the homestead. To her left, she saw a cart on fire, its flames gradually dying out in the snow. Connor had dealt with the remaining three attackers, his skill and strength evident in the aftermath. Catherine was both amazed and awed by his prowess.
Despite her prior detachment from the idea of killing, her views were beginning to shift. The death of her mother had altered her perspective, making her more aware of the gravity of taking a life, even if it was in the name of survival. Shaking herself, she tried to get a grip of herself.
A few hours later, Catherine sat in the manor, her hand resting on the table as Achilles carefully stitched her wound. Each pass of the needle sent a sharp sting through her palm, and she winced with every prick.
Connor had gone out to help arrange a home and workshop for Lance, the man they had rescued. Lance, a skilled carpenter, had been driven out of Boston, much like her, now seeking a fresh start on the homestead.
Catherine felt a twinge of guilt for not introducing herself to him earlier. She had been too lost in her own demons to make the effort.
Achilles broke the silence. "I remember when your father came back after he killed his first man."
Catherine looked up, her voice trembling. "I-I wasn't planning on killing anyone today… it just happened. That man needed help, and I couldn't stand by without trying."
Achilles continued; his tone steady. "A sense of justice is what got you on that roof with Connor."
"And it got my mother killed," Catherine said, her voice breaking. There was tears again, she was pathetic at this time. The teenager felt ashamed that all she could do was sit in the homestead and cry when she felt times were hard.
Achilles pricked her with the needle again, making her flinch. "You need to stop being so hard on yourself. Rose wouldn't want you moping and pitying yourself."
"Sorry," Catherine yelped as Achilles finished the final stitch in her wounded hand.
"Catherine, you need to be strong," Achilles said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I've been watching you these past few weeks. You're like a shell, consumed by grief. Tell me, do you truly want to become an Assassin?"
The question hung in the air like a blade over her head. It had been dangling there ever since she had set foot on the homestead. Catherine Cormac had been presented with a legacy tied to her family's name—one weighted with impossible expectations.
Ever since she had learned about the Templars and the pain they inflicted on innocent people, she had wanted to stop them. But wanting something and being ready for it were two entirely different things.
Her eyes dropped to her hands, trembling slightly as they rested in her lap. Her first combat scar, inside she knew she should hold them with a badge of honor. Slowly, she nodded, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes," she said, almost surprised to hear herself speak the word.
"Then prove it," Achilles said, his voice resolute. "Your time wallowing in pity is over. You need to decide what actions you will take. Work, train, learn. You can heal from this," he encouraged.
As Achilles bandaged her hand, Catherine took sight of her first combat wound. She made a tight fist with her wounded hand, feeling a mix of pain and determination. "I'll do whatever it takes," she said, her voice steadier now. "I want to be strong. I want to be able to make a difference."
Achilles nodded approvingly. "That's the spirit. It won't be easy, and there will be more battles to face, both outside and within yourself. But you have potential, Catherine. Embrace it."
Catherine relaxed on her settee in her underclothes, she absentmindedly played with the necklace her father had given her. She hated the cross, what it represented, but she couldn't part with it. A reminder that her father held love for her once. Maybe he still loved her, unless the Templars played with his emotions.
Her journal lay open beside her, filled with sketches and notes. She ideally flipped through the book, but her gaze fell on the drawing of the mysterious box that had set everything in motion.
The box was now lost to the wind, and she wondered if the Templars had managed to retrieve it. What struck her as odd was that they hadn't simply left after realizing she wasn't there. Why had they started their search in her house, specifically in her room?
She knew Haytham had gone through her belongings. Her possessions were oddly misplaced, though already disheveled from the thieves who had stolen the box. While she had been sneaking out of the inn unnoticed, he must have been upstairs, meticulously combing through her room.
Was Haytham Kenway still searching for it?
The thought jolted her upright. She snapped her book shut, hastily climbed from the settee, and rushed out of her bedroom. She barreled towards Connor's room, flinging the door open with a forceful shove.
"Connor!" she exclaimed, disregarding his privacy in her haste.
Connor, caught off guard by her sudden intrusion, jumped. He spun around, standing shirtless and only in his pants. Catherine's face turned a deep crimson as she took in the sight. She had never been in the presence of a shirtless man who wasn't a relative.
Connor, equally surprised, looked at her with a mix of confusion and concern. "Catherine? What's wrong?"
Catherine's cheeks flushed even deeper, but her urgency was clear. "I think I might know why the Templars searched my home, not just for me. They might still be looking for that box, which means it could still be here in the colonies."
She quickly turned around so he could pull on a shirt while she continued to explain, offering him a sense of decorum. "I think I should try to find it before Haytham does."
Connor frowned as he pulled on a shirt. "Is that wise?"
Catherine turned to face him. "Yes. It can't be good if they find it. The box was sent to me for a reason, and I need to understand why before the Templars do."
Connor's gaze was serious. "How are you going to do that?"
"We head back to Boston for a few days," she said with determination. "We need to see if we can find any clues about the box's whereabouts."
Connor grabbed her shoulders firmly. "Are you sure? You can hardly fight right now."
"I don't need to fight," Catherine replied resolutely. "I just need to lay low and gather information."
"The soldiers will be looking for you. My father will be, too," Connor warned.
"If there's any news, I'll hear about it," Catherine said, her resolve unwavering. "We need to focus on finding that box. It's important."
Connor studied her for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Alright. I will support you with this," he said. "I will accompany you back to Boston."
"No," Catherine shook her head. "I will go alone. It will draw less attention."
Connor looked concerned. "Are you sure? It's dangerous."
Catherine met his gaze with determination. "Yes. It's better if I go by myself. I'll be less noticeable that way."
Connor sighed, reluctant but understanding her reasoning. "Fine," he said, his tone heavy with resignation.
But as Catherine turned to leave, he reached out and grabbed her arm, his grip firm yet gentle. "On one condition," he added, his voice steady. "You're not leaving until I'm satisfied you can defend yourself."
Catherine opened her mouth to scoff, but the look in Connor's eyes stopped her. There was no anger—only a quiet, earnest plea that struck a chord in her.
After a moment, she nodded. "Alright," she said softly. "I'll do it."
Porto Portugal, Mid-April 1770
The only sound breaking the heavy silence in the captain's quarters was the sharp click of boots on the wooden floor. Shay Patrick Cormac, alone with his thoughts, stared at the letter in his hands. It had brought the devastating news about his wife, Rose.
In a fit of rage, Shay crumpled the letter, then hurled it against the wall. The anger, regret, and sorrow crashing over him felt like too much to bear. He had always intended to be there for his family, but now all he could think about was how he had failed them.
"Rose... I'm so sorry," he whispered through clenched teeth, his vision blurring with tears.
The letter had told him everything. It had been Lee's shot that caused the British soldiers to kill Rose. The cruel irony stung—Shay had joined the Templar Order to do better of humanity and to protect his family. Yet it was the same order that had torn his world apart, taking the love of his life. Despite his rage, Shay knew Haytham Kenway wouldn't have wanted this outcome. He had always respected Haytham—not just as a mentor but as a friend. A time where he would of done anything for the Grand Master passed in his mind. Shay believed Haytham was truly remorseful, but he couldn't stop thinking about his Rose.
Then his mind drifted back to Haytham, swearing he would do anything for him. The day he became a Templar, and after the battle of Louisburg.
Tears fell from his eyes, landing on the boots he'd worn in battle, reminding him of everything he had lost. He sank heavily onto the edge of the bed, overwhelmed with grief. His hand reached for the bottle of alcohol on his nightstand—he needed something to numb the pain—but before he could pour himself a drink, the door burst open.
"Oi, Captain," Gist called out, noticing Shay's distressed state. "What would your wife say?"
Shay gave a weak chuckle through his tears. "Rose would've kicked me square in the arse," he said with a faint smile, though it barely touched his lips. "I should've stayed with her... raised our daughter together."
He did it for Haytham, Haytham gave his word that he would protect his family. His daughter was his greatest treasure.
Gist sat down at the end of the bed, glancing around at the ruckus that was caused in the room. "And little Cathy wouldn't want to see you like this." He shook his head. "You need to pull yourself together, Captain."
"Lil Cathy…" Shay muttered, his voice heavy with regret. He shook his head. "I should've spent more time with them. Should've given up searching for that damned box years ago." He picked up a bottle and threw it against the wall, the glass shattering with a sharp sound. Neither man flinched at the noise. "I wouldn't blame her if she didn't love me anymore."
He did it for the Order, but he knew deep down inside he would do it again. Agreed to find that box for Haytham.
Gist let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. "A joke, Captain. Little Cathy still adores you. I remember when she used to follow you around like a shadow when she was just a little one. She misses you more than you know." He paused, then added softly, "We need to head to Boston."
Shay sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging as the weight of his grief pressed down on him. "Haytham's letter mentioned that Catherine disappeared after that day. She could be anywhere, Gist," he said, his voice suddenly urgent. "But there's something else... She had the precursor box."
Gist's expression shifted, his eyes narrowing at the revelation. "How do you know this?"
"It was sent to her," Shay replied, his tone tense. "Haytham is already looking into it, but we can't wait. This could be a trap for Catherine. Someone might be trying to get to her."
"The Assassins?" Gist raised an eyebrow, questioning. "But they don't operate in the colonies anymore. That seems impossible."
"Unless someone's trying to use my own child against me," Shay said, his voice grim. "It wouldn't be the first time the Assassins tried to manipulate someone like this."
Gist nodded in understanding. "Aye. Well, I'll have the men set a course for Boston. We should be back in a few weeks."
With that, Gist left, leaving Shay alone to grapple with the weight of his thoughts. Shay stood slowly, walking over to the basin and splashing cool water on his face, hoping it might steady him. The mission was clear: Find Catherine, make things right, and—no matter what— find that damn box. For Rose's sake, he had to get it right this time. True to her word, Catherine seized every opportunity to train, determined to prove herself. Under the watchful eye of Achilles, she committed herself to learning how to fight. Connor, more accustomed to his tomahawk, had taken on the role of her instructor, guiding her through the intricacies of combat. Catherine gripped her blade tightly, her knuckles white with determination. She was resolute, focused on mastering each step of her training.
Every day, the clang of steel against steel echoed across the fields they used as training grounds. Catherine's movements were raw but improving. With every swing and parry, she focused on refining her technique, driven by a fierce desire to be prepared for whatever lay ahead. Connor guided her patiently, correcting her stance and urging her on with quiet encouragement, while Achilles watched intently from the sidelines, occasionally offering sharp advice.
"Use your size, Catherine!" Achilles barked, slamming his cane down for emphasis. "Connor's stronger and has reach, but speed and agility are your strengths. Make them work for you!"
Catherine, breathing heavily, ducked low as Connor charged forward, his practice weapon slicing the air above her. She narrowly avoided his strike, swiftly rolling to the side and springing back up. Her footwork was getting quicker, her reflexes sharper. Each dodge, each feint, was guided by Achilles's words, and though Connor's strength was formidable, Catherine's nimbleness allowed her to slip through his attacks.
It had been a month since she had made her promise to Connor and Achilles, and every morning without fail, she was out in the fields with Connor, honing her skills. The relentless training left its mark—bruises and sore muscles were a constant reminder of her efforts. But she pushed through the pain, knowing it was all part of becoming stronger.
After each session, Catherine bathed herself in cold compresses to soothe her battered body, a ritual that had become part of her daily routine. And in the hours between training, she worked diligently alongside Faulkner to ready the Aquila, ensuring the ship was seaworthy.
It still needed repairs, but Catherine's persistence saw her balancing between combat training and the Aquila.
Catherine knew that if she could outmaneuver Connor this time around, she'd prove she was ready. Growing up in his village, Connor had honed his skills as a hunter and warrior, each movement brimming with practiced confidence. Catherine, on the other hand, was a gentlewoman who had grown up in the city, her hands once soft and unused to labor. Though her mother had taught her basic self-defense, her upbringing had never prepared her for battles like these.
Connor twirled his practice weapon in his hand, mimicking the way he wielded his tomahawk. The two circled each other, each waiting for the other to make a move. Catherine's eyes darted around, taking in their surroundings. They were caught in a stale rhythm of back-and-forth, and she needed to break the pattern if she had any chance of gaining the upper hand.
Her gaze flicked to the sturdy oak tree behind Connor, an idea sparking in her mind. She focused on her opportunity, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she suddenly charged forward, feigning a direct attack. Connor readied himself, but at the last second, Catherine dropped low, sliding under his swing and narrowly avoiding his weapon.
Seizing the moment, Catherine scrambled to her feet and darted up the tree. She climbed swiftly, her hands gripping the rough bark as she hoisted herself higher, branches rustling as she ascended.
"Hey!" Connor shouted, bewildered by her sudden disappearance.
Achilles, observing the exchange with sharp eyes, raised a hand to halt Connor's pursuit. "Let's see what she's planning," he said, his tone laced with intrigue. "Connor, try to locate her from the ground."
Connor glanced up at the dense canopy, a mix of confusion and grudging respect crossing his features. He had expected a straightforward fight, not a game of cat and mouse. Still, he nodded, keeping his senses sharp as he scanned the branches, trying to anticipate Catherine's next move.
Camouflage amongst the trees, steady her breathing, Catherine watched the native assassin try to peak through the trees. He had the same sense as her, from what she learned from their conversations, but the Assassin student gave Catherine a fighting chance but limiting his abilities.
She was like a fox ready to pounce on a simple field mouse. Elevated from the height, she pulled herself onto the next branch, using the skills she had learned over the past few months. The Irish teen stalked the native man, waiting him out until he blindly trampled below her. Feeling the rough bark under her palms, she was ready. She knew it.
In a solid deep breath, she leaped, from the high above the tree, she let go of all ambition and fear as she dove onto her target, slamming her whole wait onto Connor, knocking him onto the ground.
Connor was caught completely off-guard, the impact knocking the wind out of him. He hit the ground with a grunt, momentarily stunned by the unexpected assault. Catherine, though slightly disoriented from the fall, quickly scrambled to her feet, blade poised and ready. She stood over him, her chest heaving from the exertion, but her stance was steady, her eyes fierce with newfound confidence.
Achilles stood in awe of his newest student, impressed by the speed and cunning with which she hunted her opponent. It had been years since he had seen such raw talent emerge from a pupil. "Well done," he said, his voice carrying a note of genuine approval.
He stepped closer, leaning on his cane as he studied her intently. "Remember this feeling, Catherine. It's not just the blade that makes an Assassin; it's the mind behind it. You demonstrated one of the tenets today: Hide in plain sight. You upheld it with every move in this fight."
"Thank you, Achilles," Catherine replied, lowering her practice weapon as her breathing began to steady. She felt the weight of his words, knowing they marked a significant milestone in her training.
Achilles nodded thoughtfully. "You've worked hard these past months. If you feel ready to return to Boston, then I believe you are ready as well."
A smile pressed against her lips, "Then I shall start preparing for my journey."
Later that night, Catherine sat at her desk, sketching with charcoal and parchment. She drew by candlelight while humming a soft tune. Catherine didn't know what time it was, but all she felt was simple peace as she worked. On the paper in front of her was a profile view of her mother, smiling—the same smile Catherine had seen when she remembered her.
A knock interrupted her drawing daze. "Catherine?"
Catherine turned her head to see Connor lingering in the doorway, like a cat hiding behind a bookcase. "Connor, I thought you were in bed. Did my singing wake you?"
"No, I've been awake, but I did hear you."
Catherine laughed. "Sorry, I love to sing. Whenever it was late in the evening, and we had music playing, I would sing along while everyone clapped and cheered." Her smile faltered. "I miss those nights."
Connor walked over to where she sat and noticed her artwork scattered across the desk. "Did you do all of this?" He picked up one piece: a sketch of the homestead. Another was of Achilles sitting in his rocking chair, looking like he was half-asleep. "They're full of so much life."
"Thank you," Catherine said, slowly pushing her drawings into a pile. She tucked them safely into the desk drawer. "Here, I even drew one of you." Catherine wasn't shy when it came to showing off
"You still have a great talent." Connor handed the drawing back to her.
"Thank you," She said, twisting her hair in her fingertips. The nerves again of him paying her a compliment. It was silly to feel that way around him.
"You have a long journey ahead tomorrow. Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?"
"No, I need to go by myself. But if there's the first sign of trouble, I'll come back."
He nodded, seeming to accept her answer. "I'll see you when you return."
"Goodnight, Connor," the young girl smiled.
Connor smiled back. "Goodnight... Be careful, anything could happen."
"I will be," she said, walking up to him and giving him a one-armed hug. "Take care of yourself."