So, good news, no more university for me. And, even (hopefully) better news, a new chapter.
It is a blue sky that greets him as he finally reaches the top of the mountain pass, the veil of ominous clouds that has dominated the skies for weeks having dispersed after a final burst of snowfall during the night. Glancing back Connor frowns at the distinctive tracks he has left, his persisting limp having created a telltale furrow with every dragging step. Doubtless the sprain, combined with the less-than-accommodating weather conditions, can be said to have slowed his progress significantly. By now Haytham should be back in Boston, back with the Templars where he can do damage and back under the watchful eyes of Yvette and her spies. He pushes those thoughts aside, trying not to dwell on it in much the same way that he's spent the entire trek trying not to dwell on it. The two of them have parted ways, perhaps for good, so he needs to keep his priorities straight.
Still, making his way slightly closer to the cliff's edge and the familiar valley below, the teenager feels a need to linger here. In his present state of mind this home is simultaneously both inviting and foreboding. Watching the distant wisps of smoke rising from the manor's chimney, he wonders if it would have been easier simply to have done the foolish thing and taken his companion's offer. Of course it wouldn't, he knows that, but still... When he has not been concerned with decidedly not thinking about the grandmaster, and all the complications the man is creating, he has been worrying that somehow Achilles will know. The gruff man is keenly perceptive, surprisingly so. Maybe all it could take is one good look for him to figure out what the novice has done. Because no matter how much he tries to convince himself that he believes otherwise, Connor is still aware that he is treading a very thin line these days.
Although he sincerely doubts that anything has really, perceptibly, changed about him the nagging fear persists. Haytham's sudden switch from the golden yellow of a target to the calming blue of an ally could be entirely innocent, he tells himself. His sense and perception of the man doesn't have to have altered so drastically, it could simply have been because of his mission's effective ending or a temporary side-effect of what had happened in the cave. It doesn't have to mean so much, it doesn't have to mean anything.
None of that has prevented the nightmares of finding the homestead suddenly populated by red silhouettes though. He is quite conscious that after two nights of broken sleep and then hours of sitting awake there must be shadows developing under his eyes. It doesn't help that he remembers how much easier his nights had been in the Templar's company, if anything it only makes him feel worse. For once he is thankful for this bracing cold. Shivering slightly, he folds his arms tighter around himself and does not miss Haytham or his warmth.
He cannot stay up here and delay forever though. Even if hunger or discomfort don't drive him down back to the house then someone is bound to come through the pass eventually and discover him there delaying. A fairly regular flow of messengers and Assassins travel to and from the homestead after all, and Dobby may not even have returned from her surveillance post in Lexington yet. The longer he puts this off the harder it is going to be. With a little reluctance, and difficulty, he finally pulls himself up from the fallen tree-trunk on which he had been sitting. Stiffness makes him slightly unsteady on top of the dull ache of his ankle. Rather than face the long, unpleasant slog down this side of the pass he has already set his mind on taking that old, much favoured shortcut. Carefully he picks out the designated spot and takes the leap, although really it turns out as more of a controlled fall than an executed dive. In those few seconds before he hits the pile of ferns beneath the weight briefly lifts from his shoulders.
Breath temporarily forced from his lungs by the force of landing Connor lies there, recovering and stalling. The usual sounds of the woods around him are absent, due no doubt to the oppression of the snow that lies thick over the land. There are no leaves left for the wind to rustle reassuringly through, and there is no wind today either for that matter. Straining he catches a faint crunch of footsteps which, slow and deliberate as they may be, resound loudly in the relative silence. Most animals will still be in shelter, so he doubts their success. Any creatures venturing out today will surely be spooked by their approach long before they get a chance at a shot. He has just braced himself and regained his feet when a rifle discharges nearby, closely followed by a rather loud curse. Of course Clipper would insist on coming out even in the cold.
'You don't honestly expect me to believe that there was a misfire, now do you?'
'Was distracted is all. By all your loud breathing and moving. I had the shot lined up perfect and then you went and moved.'
He barely has to walk ten paces into the trees before he finds them; Duncan smirking while the younger novice scowls indignantly, a long rifle slung casually over his small shoulders. It isn't entirely surprising that the Irishman is the one on watch duty, for all their squabbling the two of them always do seem particularly inclined to each other's company. In spite of their respectively being the oldest and youngest Assassins-in-training, one is usually not far from the other around the homestead. Clipper never is particularly happy to be reminded that at eight years old he is effectively the baby of their group though. It certainly doesn't make him any less deadly with a rifle.
It is the Irishman who spots him first and raises a hand in greeting; 'Hey there, Connor, back in one piece I take it?'
Feeling nervous despite himself, he shrugs, managing not to let it show too much. 'Mostly. How goes the practice?'
'Pff,' Clipper immediately scoffs, already affronted, 'it'd be better if someone weren't so unrepentingly loud. I-'
'Can pop a muskrat's head from a quarter of a mile away, we know.' Duncan cuts him off, ruffling his hair. All of them realise just how much better off the muskrat population in Virginia is in the absence of their little sharpshooter. But rather than launching into any further teasing as he would normally, the man glances at Connor and switches tone. 'Now, how about you go ahead and see if you can't find us a horse or two to give Connor here a hand?'
Looking between the two of them with a mixture of frustration and hurt on his face, the young one clearly realises that he is being left out of something. He bites his lip, hesitating. While he's always naturally excluded from the major matters of the Brotherhood the boy isn't blind, he's seen all the tension and worry that've been plaguing almost everyone else recently. That keen curiosity clearly wars with his impulse to do as he's told and be helpful, ultimately losing. Clipper's feet only drag for a few steps before he speeds up, possibly realising that the sooner he goes the sooner he can be back.
Watching until the small figure is out of sight, Duncan is finally free to round on his newly returned comrade in search of information. 'So, did you find him?'
'Yes, I found him.' Connor sighs. Although reluctant to go into further detail he has a feeling it may prove wise to practice answering the questions that must naturally follow his absence. Certainly the older novice is a far less intimidating listener than their mentor, or any of the master Assassins for that matter.
'That bad, hey?'
'No, just...' He struggles to find the right word to explain it. Well, maybe not quite the right word but a safer one. Ultimately he settles for the mostly truthful he can think of; 'Exhausting.'
Duncan nods sympathetically, having already drawn a similar conclusion from his appearance. 'It was always going to be that way I suppose, having to be around a Templar like that. You don't think he suspected anything, do you?'
'I do not think I would not be here if he had.' Connor frowns; that possibility and its consequences hadn't really crossed his mind.
'Probably not, from what I've heard.' The Irishman seems to quickly think better of his words, quickly continuing and switching subjects before anything can be made of it. 'So what happened to your leg then?'
'Slipped on some ice.' At the incredulous look he receives the native feels obliged to amend somewhat and add; 'I was jumping from a tree onto a roof, over the wall of a fort.'
'The last thing I would have thought you would've had to worry about was slipping on ice.' Duncan laughs. Any tension, imagined or otherwise, between them evaporates as he claps him on the shoulder.
Nevertheless he is grateful to hear the approach of the returning Clipper, who comes trotting back towards them dutifully with a pair of saddled horses in tow only to find that the prohibited subject has already been discussed. There is no doubt in Connor's mind however that he's going to be cornered later, at least once, in order to tell the full story. Dobby for one will be keen to worm as much out of him as possible, especially given what she saw at the inn, and the Irishman is hardly going to be giving up after a tantalising morsel like that. The only escape he is likely to find from the various interested parties is if he hides out on the Aquila, and even then the questions will just wait until he resurfaces. Better to get it over with sooner rather than later, in theory at least.
While he mounts with only the slightest of troubles it takes the others a little longer to negotiate sharing the second horse. It's nice to have been pushed from the centre of attention, at least for the moment, giving him a proper chance to gather his thoughts again. He doesn't dare look for the auras of his friends, not yet at any rate. Happy to see them as he is Connor can't deny that he feels an unpleasant tension in his stomach, one that he doubts can be blamed on his lack of sleep. This is probably just because he's had to continuously keep his guard up recently, he reasons, it will go away as soon as he readjusts to being out of imminent danger. It means nothing, just as that blue aura meant nothing really.
After some squabbling Clipper finally ends up settled in the saddle in front of Duncan and they are free to set off for the manor; a short ride, true, but it provides a welcome break. An amicable hush hangs over the journey for the most part. However the sharpshooter keeps shifting around in his position to make quiet little inquiries of his riding partner, using the opportunity to try and drag at least something out. This strategy doesn't look to be paying off though as the young one sinks into further and further into a pout as they go. Connor on the other hand itches to ask questions of his own, about the Brotherhood and about any developments in Boston, but knows that this is not the time for them. The last thing he really needs is to get into extra trouble with Achilles for mentioning such matters in front of the inquisitive boy.
He certainly can't bring up the subject of General Braddock, and the potential assassination he may be preparing to mount on the man in partnership with the Templars. In hindsight he wishes he'd said something about it when he'd had the chance, then he might have at least gauged the sort of reaction the news could provoke. This might easily be the single worst thing he has to report, given that a number of more compromising episodes are not going to get any sort of mention here. How he deals with Haytham is simply not relevant right now. But still... Glancing over at his companions he is worried that perhaps he has crossed a line, done the wrong thing. Perhaps the Brotherhood would have rather he found out what he could and then simply let the grandmaster die when he had the chance, retrieving that artefact of Eden while he was at it. If his stomach twists even more unpleasantly at that thought he pretends he doesn't notice it.
Upon their reaching the stables it's pretty clear that nobody else is in the mood to brave the cold, the yard deserted and still. This is something of a relief to Connor, allowing his minor struggle with dismounting to go unnoticed. On the other hand it all but confirms his suspicion that Achilles will be waiting, in his study most likely, ready to grab the teenager for an extensive debriefing as soon as he hears his footsteps in the hall. If he's really unlucky Tallmadge or one of the others will be waiting with him. He could always take his chances, sneak in the back door and try for the temporary sanctuary of the kitchen...
'Don't worry, Connor, you go on ahead.' Already having commandeered his animal and started leading it away, the Irishman easily waves off any attempts at an objection.
Irked by his exclusion still, Clipper has already disappeared into the stalls with the other horse. Despite not being quite tall enough yet to deal with the task of unsaddling them alone he is apparently determined to stay and do as much as he can. Another one of his stubborn protests that he's old enough to do this so surely he's old enough to know at least some of what's going on. It won't work of course, it never does.
Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [11/?]
It is a blue sky that greets him as he finally reaches the top of the mountain pass, the veil of ominous clouds that has dominated the skies for weeks having dispersed after a final burst of snowfall during the night. Glancing back Connor frowns at the distinctive tracks he has left, his persisting limp having created a telltale furrow with every dragging step. Doubtless the sprain, combined with the less-than-accommodating weather conditions, can be said to have slowed his progress significantly. By now Haytham should be back in Boston, back with the Templars where he can do damage and back under the watchful eyes of Yvette and her spies. He pushes those thoughts aside, trying not to dwell on it in much the same way that he's spent the entire trek trying not to dwell on it. The two of them have parted ways, perhaps for good, so he needs to keep his priorities straight.
Still, making his way slightly closer to the cliff's edge and the familiar valley below, the teenager feels a need to linger here. In his present state of mind this home is simultaneously both inviting and foreboding. Watching the distant wisps of smoke rising from the manor's chimney, he wonders if it would have been easier simply to have done the foolish thing and taken his companion's offer. Of course it wouldn't, he knows that, but still... When he has not been concerned with decidedly not thinking about the grandmaster, and all the complications the man is creating, he has been worrying that somehow Achilles will know. The gruff man is keenly perceptive, surprisingly so. Maybe all it could take is one good look for him to figure out what the novice has done. Because no matter how much he tries to convince himself that he believes otherwise, Connor is still aware that he is treading a very thin line these days.
Although he sincerely doubts that anything has really, perceptibly, changed about him the nagging fear persists. Haytham's sudden switch from the golden yellow of a target to the calming blue of an ally could be entirely innocent, he tells himself. His sense and perception of the man doesn't have to have altered so drastically, it could simply have been because of his mission's effective ending or a temporary side-effect of what had happened in the cave. It doesn't have to mean so much, it doesn't have to mean anything.
None of that has prevented the nightmares of finding the homestead suddenly populated by red silhouettes though. He is quite conscious that after two nights of broken sleep and then hours of sitting awake there must be shadows developing under his eyes. It doesn't help that he remembers how much easier his nights had been in the Templar's company, if anything it only makes him feel worse. For once he is thankful for this bracing cold. Shivering slightly, he folds his arms tighter around himself and does not miss Haytham or his warmth.
He cannot stay up here and delay forever though. Even if hunger or discomfort don't drive him down back to the house then someone is bound to come through the pass eventually and discover him there delaying. A fairly regular flow of messengers and Assassins travel to and from the homestead after all, and Dobby may not even have returned from her surveillance post in Lexington yet. The longer he puts this off the harder it is going to be. With a little reluctance, and difficulty, he finally pulls himself up from the fallen tree-trunk on which he had been sitting. Stiffness makes him slightly unsteady on top of the dull ache of his ankle. Rather than face the long, unpleasant slog down this side of the pass he has already set his mind on taking that old, much favoured shortcut. Carefully he picks out the designated spot and takes the leap, although really it turns out as more of a controlled fall than an executed dive. In those few seconds before he hits the pile of ferns beneath the weight briefly lifts from his shoulders.
Breath temporarily forced from his lungs by the force of landing Connor lies there, recovering and stalling. The usual sounds of the woods around him are absent, due no doubt to the oppression of the snow that lies thick over the land. There are no leaves left for the wind to rustle reassuringly through, and there is no wind today either for that matter. Straining he catches a faint crunch of footsteps which, slow and deliberate as they may be, resound loudly in the relative silence. Most animals will still be in shelter, so he doubts their success. Any creatures venturing out today will surely be spooked by their approach long before they get a chance at a shot. He has just braced himself and regained his feet when a rifle discharges nearby, closely followed by a rather loud curse. Of course Clipper would insist on coming out even in the cold.
'You don't honestly expect me to believe that there was a misfire, now do you?'
'Was distracted is all. By all your loud breathing and moving. I had the shot lined up perfect and then you went and moved.'
He barely has to walk ten paces into the trees before he finds them; Duncan smirking while the younger novice scowls indignantly, a long rifle slung casually over his small shoulders. It isn't entirely surprising that the Irishman is the one on watch duty, for all their squabbling the two of them always do seem particularly inclined to each other's company. In spite of their respectively being the oldest and youngest Assassins-in-training, one is usually not far from the other around the homestead. Clipper never is particularly happy to be reminded that at eight years old he is effectively the baby of their group though. It certainly doesn't make him any less deadly with a rifle.
It is the Irishman who spots him first and raises a hand in greeting; 'Hey there, Connor, back in one piece I take it?'
Feeling nervous despite himself, he shrugs, managing not to let it show too much. 'Mostly. How goes the practice?'
'Pff,' Clipper immediately scoffs, already affronted, 'it'd be better if someone weren't so unrepentingly loud. I-'
'Can pop a muskrat's head from a quarter of a mile away, we know.' Duncan cuts him off, ruffling his hair. All of them realise just how much better off the muskrat population in Virginia is in the absence of their little sharpshooter. But rather than launching into any further teasing as he would normally, the man glances at Connor and switches tone. 'Now, how about you go ahead and see if you can't find us a horse or two to give Connor here a hand?'
Looking between the two of them with a mixture of frustration and hurt on his face, the young one clearly realises that he is being left out of something. He bites his lip, hesitating. While he's always naturally excluded from the major matters of the Brotherhood the boy isn't blind, he's seen all the tension and worry that've been plaguing almost everyone else recently. That keen curiosity clearly wars with his impulse to do as he's told and be helpful, ultimately losing. Clipper's feet only drag for a few steps before he speeds up, possibly realising that the sooner he goes the sooner he can be back.
Watching until the small figure is out of sight, Duncan is finally free to round on his newly returned comrade in search of information. 'So, did you find him?'
'Yes, I found him.' Connor sighs. Although reluctant to go into further detail he has a feeling it may prove wise to practice answering the questions that must naturally follow his absence. Certainly the older novice is a far less intimidating listener than their mentor, or any of the master Assassins for that matter.
'That bad, hey?'
'No, just...' He struggles to find the right word to explain it. Well, maybe not quite the right word but a safer one. Ultimately he settles for the mostly truthful he can think of; 'Exhausting.'
Duncan nods sympathetically, having already drawn a similar conclusion from his appearance. 'It was always going to be that way I suppose, having to be around a Templar like that. You don't think he suspected anything, do you?'
'I do not think I would not be here if he had.' Connor frowns; that possibility and its consequences hadn't really crossed his mind.
'Probably not, from what I've heard.' The Irishman seems to quickly think better of his words, quickly continuing and switching subjects before anything can be made of it. 'So what happened to your leg then?'
'Slipped on some ice.' At the incredulous look he receives the native feels obliged to amend somewhat and add; 'I was jumping from a tree onto a roof, over the wall of a fort.'
'The last thing I would have thought you would've had to worry about was slipping on ice.' Duncan laughs. Any tension, imagined or otherwise, between them evaporates as he claps him on the shoulder.
Nevertheless he is grateful to hear the approach of the returning Clipper, who comes trotting back towards them dutifully with a pair of saddled horses in tow only to find that the prohibited subject has already been discussed. There is no doubt in Connor's mind however that he's going to be cornered later, at least once, in order to tell the full story. Dobby for one will be keen to worm as much out of him as possible, especially given what she saw at the inn, and the Irishman is hardly going to be giving up after a tantalising morsel like that. The only escape he is likely to find from the various interested parties is if he hides out on the Aquila, and even then the questions will just wait until he resurfaces. Better to get it over with sooner rather than later, in theory at least.
While he mounts with only the slightest of troubles it takes the others a little longer to negotiate sharing the second horse. It's nice to have been pushed from the centre of attention, at least for the moment, giving him a proper chance to gather his thoughts again. He doesn't dare look for the auras of his friends, not yet at any rate. Happy to see them as he is Connor can't deny that he feels an unpleasant tension in his stomach, one that he doubts can be blamed on his lack of sleep. This is probably just because he's had to continuously keep his guard up recently, he reasons, it will go away as soon as he readjusts to being out of imminent danger. It means nothing, just as that blue aura meant nothing really.
After some squabbling Clipper finally ends up settled in the saddle in front of Duncan and they are free to set off for the manor; a short ride, true, but it provides a welcome break. An amicable hush hangs over the journey for the most part. However the sharpshooter keeps shifting around in his position to make quiet little inquiries of his riding partner, using the opportunity to try and drag at least something out. This strategy doesn't look to be paying off though as the young one sinks into further and further into a pout as they go. Connor on the other hand itches to ask questions of his own, about the Brotherhood and about any developments in Boston, but knows that this is not the time for them. The last thing he really needs is to get into extra trouble with Achilles for mentioning such matters in front of the inquisitive boy.
He certainly can't bring up the subject of General Braddock, and the potential assassination he may be preparing to mount on the man in partnership with the Templars. In hindsight he wishes he'd said something about it when he'd had the chance, then he might have at least gauged the sort of reaction the news could provoke. This might easily be the single worst thing he has to report, given that a number of more compromising episodes are not going to get any sort of mention here. How he deals with Haytham is simply not relevant right now. But still... Glancing over at his companions he is worried that perhaps he has crossed a line, done the wrong thing. Perhaps the Brotherhood would have rather he found out what he could and then simply let the grandmaster die when he had the chance, retrieving that artefact of Eden while he was at it. If his stomach twists even more unpleasantly at that thought he pretends he doesn't notice it.
Upon their reaching the stables it's pretty clear that nobody else is in the mood to brave the cold, the yard deserted and still. This is something of a relief to Connor, allowing his minor struggle with dismounting to go unnoticed. On the other hand it all but confirms his suspicion that Achilles will be waiting, in his study most likely, ready to grab the teenager for an extensive debriefing as soon as he hears his footsteps in the hall. If he's really unlucky Tallmadge or one of the others will be waiting with him. He could always take his chances, sneak in the back door and try for the temporary sanctuary of the kitchen...
'Don't worry, Connor, you go on ahead.' Already having commandeered his animal and started leading it away, the Irishman easily waves off any attempts at an objection.
Irked by his exclusion still, Clipper has already disappeared into the stalls with the other horse. Despite not being quite tall enough yet to deal with the task of unsaddling them alone he is apparently determined to stay and do as much as he can. Another one of his stubborn protests that he's old enough to do this so surely he's old enough to know at least some of what's going on. It won't work of course, it never does.