I REACH THE END OF THE TRAIL.

No doubt the tales of the ROGUE made its way to her ears – from BOTH sides, during her time in both organizations. Was it his story that inspired Emily to follow her own path? Perhaps. It was certainly a starting point, to say the least. A catalyst that brought her to this very moment. Yet everything still seemed so uncertain, so unclear. Clarity was needed, and it seemed like he held the answer she was looking for. And what better way to grant such clarity than to tip the scales? To use her skills as an informant, and to bring him here.

“ A little birdy. ” she quipped ; her gaze trailed his hand hovering his pistol. “ However, I’m not here to cause trouble. I simply wish to get the facts straight. ”

      it’s been too long, shay repeats inwardly. who, in what remains of the fractured colonies he’d once worked to pacify, remembers shay cormac, his betrayal, his story? who still has any interest in letting rumors about him circulate? times are changed, he is changed; faded into ghosthood as soon as he’d sailed across the ocean. by a strange paradox, his name is more famous in europe than it appears to be in his own homeland. but the woman remembers, or pretends to. that much is enough to stoke both his interest and his wariness.  

❛ i did a lot wrong that i can’t make right . ❜                                                                @templeire​

𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐧  𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝  𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦  𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥  𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲  𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞  𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝.  Pulled  left  and  right  to  help  the Patriots,  his  People,  and  the  Assassins.  What  little  hope  he  garnered  to  work  the Templars,  his  father,  to  help  better  America  dashed  when  his  blade  slipped  clean  in Haytham’s  throat.  Since  then,  he  spent  the  lesser  months  gathering  what  he  could  in terms  of  reestablishing  the  Brotherhood  in  full  after  Lee’s  death.

At  thirty,  things  are  running  well.  It  keeps  him  on  his  toes.

Until  a  moment  ago.  An  old  ghost  sits  across  from  him  as  they  sit  to  chase  away the cold  in  December.  The  fireplace  licking  the  air,  colors  dancing  their  features.  Raton listens,  nodding,  being  polite  than  malicious  against  former  enemies.  After  some duration  of  quietness,  the  Mentor  reflects  to  Shay’s  comment.  His  younger  self  would have  said  something  along  of  being  the  agent  of  making  right.  Killing  and  stopping their  plans  without  a  second  thought.  He’s  done  so  for  years  yet  now,  grown  from  his naivety,  Raton  can  only  nod  in  acceptance.  

A  glass  of  tea  is  raised  to  his  lips,  the  aroma  and  taste  filling  his  senses  with  calm. Warmth  loosening  stiff  shoulders.

❛  𝐒𝐨  𝐝𝐢𝐝  𝐈,  ❜  he  sighs,  ❛  𝐛𝐮𝐭  𝐈  𝐝𝐢𝐝  𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦  𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡  𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞  𝐭𝐨  𝐧𝐨  𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞.  𝐂𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬  𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐝𝐞  𝐢𝐭.  𝐁𝐮𝐭  𝐈  𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞  𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞  𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞  𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡  𝐢𝐭.  𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞  𝐲𝐨𝐮? ❜

     in the dancing firelight it looks like parts of him have caught some of the flame, but there’s a truth hidden there that only those with eyes as keen as them can tell; that now his hair are streaked grey, and there are wrinkles beginning to stretch on his forehead. it’s been a long journey, shay reflects, there and back. coming home doubles the effort, so that it falls onto his hunched shoulders as he sits the night away. he could have stayed in france, work the fractured local rite back to its old glory. leave some memories behind. he could have, but age halves resolve, and he wished to go home. report to master kenway the outcome of his mission, then maybe, finally, settle with the awareness of having had his own bit of redemption. 

     he came home to find the grand master buried, as the american rite of the order, by hand of his own son. his, or achilles’? shay had thought. in the bonfire thin smoke, he sees neither.   ‘ i used to believe so, but as it turns out, i was delusional. ’  only ratonhnhaké:ton of the kanien’kehá:ka sitting across the fire, older than what they fabled across the ocean, pensive and, perhaps, serene. the cold bites at shay’s fingers, and he nears the fire. the assassin. there’s something to be said about such a meeting unfolding with little to no blood spilled; the snow is only dark with the dirt under their boots.  ‘ i carry it with me all the time, i too have no choice. ’