look into the mirror

Connor couldn’t help himself and chuckled at the thought. In his head it made sense, whatever unknown forces were reigning on this cruel, unforgiving place decided to finally punish his bravado- Calling the plan he devised risky was a gross understatement. Thinking he could execute it and leave the fort unscathed was a naive fantasy, just like the thought that Haytham- his father would listen to him in the end, that just this one time peace could have been an option and his blade wouldn’t have to sink into another’s throat. The part that it was his own blood he was forced to kill didn’t make his thoughts any happier. Perhaps to protect himself, to delay his processing of such a scarring event a big part of Connor thought that what happened after the hit wasn’t real. In reality he was killed by the hit, locked away in some sort of eternal limbo where the events he wanted (needed) to happen would become reality but as a punishment for his hubris he was forced to witness his very being be contorted into something that stopped resembling him all together .

A figure was staring at him from the murky depths of a fishing pond, its dark eyes, drowned in uneven smudges of black paint were unfocused and devoid of any emotion. Pain had been the only companion in what Connor was sure would be his last journey, the constant that kept him anchored to reality and instilled doubt in the fact that maybe- just maybe what he was feeling was his personal purgatory. He wasn’t living in a limbo made to avenge all the lives he had taken, regardless of whether it was right or not of him to do it. Despite it being the only tangible feeling he could make out from the whirlwind of broken pieces his mind had become, the pain felt impossibly far and disconnected from his body, less than any other sensation but still dull enough to where reality itself was still hazy around the edges. The relentless pounding at the back of his head made his vision blurry, the image staring back at him from the tranquil waters didn’t become any more recognizable with the occasional ripple of the pond. Connor forced his eyes to focus, to try and stare back at the reflection. The only thing he received in return was a pair glimmering tears further clouding his vision, slowly slipping on his burning cheeks as the ache in his body grew.

Trough the static-like ringing that wouldn’t leave his ears Connor heard footsteps in quick succession, the only words he could make out from the panicked crowd were about someone killing Charles Lee; he didn’t even have to tell his body to slip away from the small fishing pond and sloppily stumble into a patch of tall, snow covered grass. He was conscious enough to muffle the pained groan that escaped his lips, despite his muscle memory having come to his rescue once again it had also driven some of the wooden splinters deeper into the gash on his flank. A searing pain flashed from his abdomen toward one of his muscular legs, it hurt more than before but he still couldn’t find it within himself to care. It threatened to give out; for the second time his body was betraying him and protesting, signaling to the assassin that he needed to rest or else the death he had been trying so hard to elude - just for a little longer, until his duty was complete - would claim with the same indifference he reserved to his pain, his feelings. He would return to the land unbeknownst to anyone just as he had fulfilled his purpose and avenged the dead, so close but oh so far away from home…

Home.

For Connor it was a weird feeling, bittersweet was the best way to describe it. When Washington’s troops set fire to his village it was as if his connection to home had been irreparably severed, not only was he separated by space but also time. It was never the same even if his people stood strong, that event acted as a catalyst for the miserable turn his life had taken. As he felt his body sinking into the ground, fevered skin meeting the comforting chill of freshly fallen snow, his mind suddenly remembered: the gentle touch of his mother’s hand carefully disappearing into a mess of inky hair, threading carefully as she showed Ratonhnhaké:ton how to braid his hair. He tried to focus on her face, only to find it as blurry as everything else around him. Everything started to spin in a kaleidoscopic haze: the ground was mixing with the vibrant shades of the beadwork his mother had set to the side to give her son her full attention. The distant sound of his friend’s voices calling for him to come out and join in whatever adventure they had planned, the smells of dishes he hadn’t tasted in so long… It was all mixing into an intangible fever dream as the assassin’s body was fighting it’s way out of the comforting reveries from a different time and place.

His body started moving anew, renewed energy coursing through his veins while his mind was still trapped between dream and reality, deep-rooted survival instincts took over and told him to run. The footsteps were now far away now and almost imperceptible against the tinnitus that plagued his ears, the search party sent to kill him had probably scattered; he couldn’t let go now, he was so close to the homestead that even with how shaken up he was the roads still felt familiar enough to regain some sense of orientation.

Connor had always known that the majority of people would consider him a ruthless criminal, his father’s last words about the Templars being ever resourceful still a grim reminder, yet there was one person who he knew would never be swayed by any amount of misinformation or propaganda about him. If he died right there, away from prying eyes, he was sure there would be one place and a person in particular who wouldn’t just mourn him and move on. Just imagining your reaction on finding his cold body buried under who knows how many layers of snow broke Connor in ways he thought weren’t possible anymore, the throbbing pain in his head got insistently stronger and the gash on his side ripped due to the sheer intensity of his running. He couldn’t- wouldn’t allow himself the selfishness of drowning into the comforting arms of death just yet. Letting go would propagate the sorrow and grief to the one he had sworn to protect the most, he knew that you always preferred actions to words and his loss would lead you down to the exact path that he had once embraced; you would take the remaining Templars down one by one to drown the grief, make sure nobody else had to suffer the death the man they loved just like you did, and then you’d find the same soul-crushing numbness he found at the end of the path.

The air felt stifling, as if Connor’s throat was being constantly constricted by a tight would string- The chase after Lee was maddening and littered with all the anger he tried to repress when his mother died, the moment when she made him promise that he would make it out alive was permanent seared in his memories. Inside that inflamed building he had inhaled who knows how much smoke and his lungs were giving out, but the path to your house was close, he knew it by heart so he pushed trough the pain, the cynical thoughts and the part of himself that desperately wanted to let it all go. It was his only chance of seeing the future he had relentlessly fought for, he needed to resist just a little longer.

Home also meant something else, a different voice now repeating his real name over and over. He could hear it clearly over the ringing in his ears, like a desperate mantra he wanted to focus on as the world around him grew dark. He smiled when he made out your features, a mix of horror and deep sorrow washing over your face when you saw the man you loved stumble towards you; Ratonhnhaké:ton knew that you would be angry at him for disappearing without a word, for not taking care of himself and coming back to you at the brink of death. You probably wouldn’t let out of your sight for at least a month while you were both battling with the psychological repercussions of him pulling such a stunt but he wouldn’t have it any other way if it meant he could forge ahead, even if it was just for another day.