"I do not know if this alliance with my father bodes well or ill," Connor admitted. The horses' hooves sent up puffs of dust from the dry ground as we walked, sticking as closely to the shelter of the trees as we could. I was sure I had never experienced a hotter summer than this one - even the rain was humid, not at all like the cold winter rains I found myself missing. The sky was unnaturally dark with unshed water that had been gathering all day, and we watched the clouds warily.

And in the midst of this startlingly hot and volatile weather, the war still raged. We were safe on our homestead, but it was easy to forget that the other colonies did not live like we did.

It was two days after the wedding, and we were riding steadily through the frontier, heading for New York. Though it had not begun raining yet, his hood was up in expectation. It would not be long now until we reached New York, but we knew the rain would start before then - and, since the ground was so dry, the landscape would swiftly flood.

"As far as independence is concerned," I said, taking a neutral stance for the sake of debate, "our goals are aligned."

He looked over at me, his expression taut. "Yes, but he continues to defend Charles Lee. The very man that burned my village and killed my mother."

No matter how many times we talked about it, the hurt in him was not healed. Sometimes I wondered if it ever would be. "But," I injected, "Haytham does make a good point about Washington, and the patriots. He's not a strong leader. We've been fighting this war for years, and there's still no end in sight. Where's this freedom they speak of?"

"It seems one must be a landed white man to benefit from this proclaimed freedom and equality," muttered Connor. "What of someone like me? Or Surry?"

(All these years - after all these years, Connor had not forgotten Sam Adams' slave. It was touching in a way that made my heart ache. How he cared for the small folk. How he took their burdens upon himself.)

Connor spoke to fill the silence I left. "What role is there for us in this new world?"

He met my eyes, and I knew that I was included in this question. Where was our place in this growing nation? Should America gain her independence, what then? How would we be governed, how would we be taxed? What impact would it have on the Assassins and Templars?

That was why it was vital that we either forged a peace between our factions, or obliterated our enemies entirely, before the end of the war. We did not have much time - but with Washington's snail pace, it was hard to tell just how much we had. Much of the time, I felt as though I were stumbling blind through a labyrinth, hands stretched out; sometimes they brushed the back of Connor's coat, sometimes they were plunged into thorns, sometimes I felt nothing at all.

Wartime was such an unfortunate time when one was in one's early twenties. Whatever dreams for a life we might have had were stalled as the country fell apart. If we were not at war, what might our lives have looked like? Ryan would not have been sent to Virginia, for there would have been no conflict in Boston to protect him from. Meredith would not have run away with the theatre, for the theatre would not have been made illegal. Connor and I . . .

We would have married, I thought. With no large-scale war to hold us back in this other universe, our happy ending might have started sooner. We might not have been plagued by Achilles' cynicism or followed by the shadow of Charles Lee.

And if we lost?

We would never see that world born. The likelihood of us seeing our thirties, or even our-mid twenties, dwindled to a pinprick. Perhaps that was why Connor was trying and failing to be subtle about the fact that he was making my upcoming birthday, my twenty-first (two months away yet), a Very Big Deal. We did not know how many more birthdays we would see.

Connor was still looking at me. Expecting a response.

I gave voice to the question that neither of us had dared to ask, but had grown more pressing with each passing day. "What if Haytham is right?"

Connor's look pinned me in place, and his horse slowed to a stop. The glossy flanks were damp with sweat. "Then we find a compromise."

It was so easy to say it. I stopped my horse and faced him, letting my hands holding the reins drop. In response, my horse snorted and swished her tail. "And if we can't?"

His stare was level, but there was a tension at the corners of his mouth that betrayed him. "Then we will make peace. By any means necessary."

How far would you be willing to go? I wanted to ask, but I feared the answer. Nobility and honour were so deeply engraved on his heart that they were in his blood; every beat of his heart was a fresh infusion of these things to his body. It was something I loved about him, yes - but I always wondered where he would draw the line. He would rather die himself than see such harm come to others. But was that where all of this was going? One last sacrifice in the name of the greater good? What of love?

He seemed to take my silence as an answer, and urged his horse forward once more. Thinking that was that, I tightened my hold on the reins and turned my horse's head to continue down the path - but Connor stopped me with a gentle hand on my arm. "I do not forget why we do this," he said quietly. "I want to see a better world born - for us."

*

Somehow, as we rode through the north gate of New York, I was not comforted. The first drops of rain had fallen not too long ago, and already we were damp and miserable. It was not the heavy flow we had been expecting, but with the blackening colour of the sky, we could see that it was coming.

As every step took us closer to Haytham, so my thoughts followed their trail. Because neither of us had been able to answer the question of if he was right or not, my mind raced to form her own conclusion. The Templars were starting to make sense - and that was a terrifying thought.

If what they said was true, and they were attempting to protect America from what could be a disastrous failure under the authority of George Washington, then why were we fighting them? Did we not also want to see peace once more?

But the Templars would see us enslaved to a system that sought to destroy us, I reminded myself as we wound through the dry streets, feeling my eyes lose focus. Yes, we agreed on our mutual need to be free from English rule, but they cared not one whit for individual freedom - only for order. I did not deny that complete freedom did come hand-in-hand with anarchy and chaos, but surely there was a way to have it both ways? To have both order and freedom?

I did not realise that the horses had stopped until Connor placed a hand on my leg, drawing me out of my thoughts. He had dismounted and led his mount to a water trough, which his horse was snorting into.

"You okay?" he asked me.

I nodded, suddenly dazzled by how dull the day had become. "Sorry. Just thinking."

I climbed off my horse and brought her next to Connor's, dusting drops of water from my breeches. It was easier to travel such distances on horseback if I wore breeches and a waistcoat instead of my usual skirts, and with wrappings across my chest to conceal what little was there, a cloak over my shoulders, treated with deer fat to keep out the rain, and my hair tucked into a tricorne, I looked like a boy with an oddly feminine face.

We left the horses in an open stable and began our walk. In case things went wrong, we had decided to leave them on the other side of the city from where we were going, after slipping a coin to the neighbouring tavern owner's son to look after them. For the most part, we walked in silence. I wondered what an odd sight we were: not a man and a maiden, but a tall Native American and his . . . What? His squire?

The thought was an amusing one. But by the time we reached the graveyard, it was evening, and my amusement had worn off. Even from afar, we could easily spot Haytham in his navy cloak and tricorne. He was standing by the entrance to the graveyard, and he was not alone. Dying grey light glinted on pale gold hair. The soldier's uniform was a splash of blood in the dusk.

The graveyard wall formed one of the perimeters of an otherwise-pleasant market square, where the vendors were beginning to pack up their wares, casting rueful looks at the sky as the drops of rain got bigger. I saw several stalls with withered-looking fruits for outrageous prices, hand-woven rugs, second-hand clothes, and homemade jewellery. I wandered over to these and pretended to look, to the annoyance of the vendors, but I did not care. It was my excuse to inch closer to Haytham and his companion and listen to their conversation.

"We need to know what the Loyalists are planning if we're to put an end to this," Haytham was saying, and there was a bite to his tone that I had grown oddly familiar with.

But it was his companion, whose face I glimpsed when I looked over my shoulder, that sent my heart rattling in its cage. Tobias had changed in the two years since I had last seen him - he was broader now, and his eyes were colder. He regarded Haytham coolly, as though he addressed an equal, and his scarred face remained impassive. "I've tried, but we're told nothing now - only to await orders from above."

To my smug satisfaction, Haytham did not look impressed - if anything, there was utter disdain in his expression. "Then keep digging. Come and find me when you have something worth sharing."

An obvious dismissal. I watched Tobias' back stiffen, like he was holding himself back from a sharp retort below his station, before he placed his black tricorne on his golden head. I turned away quickly, immersing myself in a set of wooden earrings as Tobias stormed past me, smelling of tobacco smoke.

I thanked the vendor for her time, earning myself a glare for not buying anything, and turned to see Connor already making his way to his father. Fixing my tricorne, I joined them.

Haytham acknowledged us with a look of distaste and a slight inclination of the head that sent the water gathered in his hat splashing down. "We're so close to victory. A few more well-placed attacks and we'll be able to put an end to this civil war and be rid of the crown."

Under the shadow of his hood, Connor's eyes were narrow. "What do you intend?"

Haytham indicated, with exasperation, to the street that Tobias had disappeared into. "Well, nothing yet - since we're completely in the dark."

Connor met my eyes for a split second. He knew I had seen Tobias. Our look was a silent promise to dissect it later. "I thought the Templars had eyes and ears everywhere," he said, slyly.

"Oh, we did." Haytham fixed him with a sharp stare. "Until you started cutting them off."

The corners of Connor's mouth curled up slightly in satisfaction. "Your contact said 'orders from above'. It tells us exactly what we need to do - track down the Loyalist commanders."

"As if I hadn't already considered that," retorted Haytham, stung by Connor's condescension.

I perked up. "I know of a few of their meeting places."

Haytham turned his pale eyes to me. "How did you come by that?"

I was not about to disclose Jacob Zenger's name to the most dangerous man in the colonies. "You're not the only one with eyes and ears."

A beat passed - and then Connor huffed out a restrained laugh, earning us both a flat glare from Haytham. Still, he stepped aside and gestured for me to lead the way.

We were closest to Trinity Church, so I started there, taking the most sheltered routes as the rain grew heavier. Wide puddles were already spreading across the stones of the ground, so we avoided them as best we could.

As we walked deeper into the west side, I could see that, even after almost two years, all of the black, crumbling buildings incinerated in the fires had not been touched. The ground still smelled of smoke.

Thomas had lived along this street. Francis had lived over there. We kept our silence as we walked through the ghost town, listening only to the sound of the rain.

Trinity Church was a shell of what it used to be, as it had been decimated by the fires. We paused in the shelter of a crooked doorway next to it, though the roofless building offered little comfort. Over the sound of the rain, there were voices. Quiet, like they were speaking of confidential matters, but nevertheless they were speaking.

I nodded toward the ruined church. "They're in there."

Haytham was not a man to offer praise, and I never asked it. He was looking up at the broken bell tower that stood guard over the broken, three-walled church. "How do we get in?"

I followed his gaze. "It's not difficult to climb up. There's a mostly-undamaged platform halfway up the tower. We can listen to their conversation from there."

"Marvellous," he muttered.

Connor cut him a glare. "I will climb first."

He stepped out of the meagre shelter - not that it had done him any good anyway - and took a running start at the broken tower. After he had raised himself a few metres above the ground, and saw that there was indeed a path up, he waved us over.

Haytham gave me a cool stare, and his silent meaning was loud. You first. With a huff, I followed Connor's path up the tower. The bricks were slick with rain, and my cold fingers cramped, but the fires had, in the very least, burned away anything on the tower that might have hindered our ascent, for there was plenty of purchase for our feet and nooks to dig our fingers into.

Soon all three of us were crowding the tiny wooden platform, once a floor, now no more than a few planks of wood connecting two walls. Haytham leaned over the edge, looking down at the meeting below. For a dizzying moment, I imagined what it would be like to watch him fall from this tower, and was shocked to find that I actually did not want that to happen.

I joined him at the edge, though I was more wary than he was. There were eight redcoats below: two standing guard at the church door directly below us, one at each of the east and west walls, and one at the empty space where the back wall of the church used to stand. Three officers stood close together in a conspiratorial huddle, and it was their voices that drifted up to us.

"Have you considered the proposal?" the smallest of them asked, squinting against the heavy rain, in spite of his black tricorne.

The tallest of them spoke with a slow, unrushed ease. "I'm unconvinced. To reinforce them would leave New York exposed. It's hard enough maintaining order with our current numbers. Cut in half–"

"Yet," the third broke in, "if we do not join with them, they risk defeat. And then what?"

They looked to the first, who spat, "Well, they should have come by sea."

Next to me, Haytham shook his head in irritation. "They're talking in circles. We'll learn nothing watching as we are."

As he straightened up, Connor glared at him. "Then what do you propose we do? March in there and demand answers?"

A sudden light entered Haytham's eyes, like he had just heard the greatest idea in the world. "Well, yes."

Another look passed between me and Connor - but before either of us could speak a word of caution, or talk Haytham out of it, the Templar had dropped from the platform, unsheathing his dual wrist blades, and landed squarely on top of the two guards beneath us, using their bodies to soften his landing.

Immediately the other guards raised the alarm, and I heard one call out, "Ambush!" Connor sighed, and there was a glint of dying light on his wrist blades. As he jumped down to join his father, I remained on the platform, and pulled a flintlock out from the shelter of my cloak.

I loaded it as swiftly as I could and knelt at the edge of the platform. Connor and Haytham had been separated, each engaged in their own skirmishes. The guard from the back wall had not directly joined the fight: standing apart, he had loaded up his musket, and was taking aim.

I pulled the trigger before he had a chance, and even from here I could hear him cry out as his leg collapsed beneath him. I had hit his knee, I thought distantly, but did not care as I reloaded the pistol. The sounds of steel clashing on steel drifted up to me, but I did not fear for Connor, or even Haytham. They were capable fighters: Haytham had poise and precision, and Connor had brute strength and simmering rage. Together, they were invincible.

Before I knew it, only the officers were left - but we wanted them alive. I climbed down just in time to see Connor disarm the last of them, and all three were standing, helpless, with hands raised in surrender. Haytham forced them back against the wall, all icy anger once more, and Connor took a length of rope from his belt to bind their hands.

"We'll bring them to my quarters at Fort George," Haytham was saying, "and see what secrets they might share."

Two of the officers made a break for it. I darted after the first one before he could get very far, grabbing him by the scruff and shoving him into the wall face-first. "Don't move," I snapped.

His voice was muffled and pained as his cheek scraped against the roughened bricks. "Get off me, boy!" he spat.

The other officer ran on, sprinting like his life depended on it (and it very well did). Haytham watched him go, his face twisting with annoyance. "Really?" He looked over his shoulder at Connor, who had just finished tying the hands of the man I was holding. "Well, you'd best get after him, then."

"You go," said Connor tightly. "I will watch the prisoners."

"No, you do it."

"Why me?"

"Because I said so!" Haytham sounded offended. "Now go."

Though he did not like it, Connor could see when he was beaten - and we really didn't have time to stand here and argue. With an annoyed growl, he took off after the runaway officer.

Haytham watched him smugly. "Has he always disrespected authority like that?" he asked me without looking.

I thought of all the times he had argued with Achilles, had defied orders, had taken his own path. "Once or twice."

Haytham, unimpressed, shook his head. "Come on. We'll head for Fort George."

It was not a suggestion, but a veiled command. I wanted to remind him that he held no real authority over us, but I also did not want to remain standing out here as the rain grew heavier. So I took the end of the rope tying our captives' hands together, and gave it a yank. "Come on, then."

*

By the time Connor joined us at Fort George, the rain was sheeting down from the black sky. I stood under the shelter of the entrance to the fort, letting the cool night air ease my nerves. Haytham had taken our captives for interrogation one at a time, and had made me stand in the hallway, guarding the second while he questioned the first.

The first was obstinate at first, hurling foul insults at both of us, but did not last long once Haytham started lifting his fingernails with the tip of his blade. Then he spilled everything.

The second took a different strategy - silence. It took him longer to bend than the first, but I could not say for certain what it took to break him, for it was at that point that I fled to the safety of the entryway, at once waiting for Connor and trying to take deep breaths.

Now, as Connor half-dragged his prisoner up the path, the man balked, and tried to back away. "Wait!" he cried, his voice squeaky with panic. "Wait! I'll tell you anything you want - anything! Only don't make me go in there!"

Connor was wet, muddy, and annoyed. "We just have some questions for you."

"Cross that threshold," the officer pleaded, "and I'm a dead man."

Unfortunately, he was probably right - but I could not voice this as I heard Haytham's soft footsteps on the stone floor behind me. "There you are, Connor," he said coolly. "I was worried you might have gotten lost." He cast an indifferent eye over his son, taking in the mud that caked his legs and the tension with which he held himself. "Come along, then."

He took the man from Connor's grip and hauled him inside. As he passed me, the officer, even more muddy than Connor, turned to me with wide, panicked eyes. "Please . . ." he whimpered as he was pulled away. "Please."

What could I do but watch him disappear into the dim stone corridor? There were so many reasons to be hopeless in this world. I turned my eyes away.

Connor was sheltering from the rain beside me, officially soaked through, but unable to remove his coat, for there was nowhere to let it dry. I looked down at his muddy legs. "Are you all right?" I asked.

He followed my downward gaze. "I cannot wait for this to be over."

"I know." I dearly wished that we could stay here and avoid having to return to Haytham, but knew we could not. Defeated, I turned away from the safety of the exit, and faced the darkness behind us.

"Have they told anything?" Connor asked, his voice hushed in the echoing hallway. We walked side by side, and the corridor seemed to go on for ever.

"I don't know," I said. "Haytham . . . He's brutal."

He was silent at that, and I did not explain - nor did I need to, for as had reached the heavy wooden door to the interrogation room. It was wide open.

Haytham was pacing, a panther in human skin, in front of the chair in the centre of the room, to which the final officer was tied. The man's face was the colour of curdled milk. Dark pools of blood had spread along the stone floor beneath him - and behind him, slumped against the wall, were the bodies of the first two officers. The air was sharp with the smell of urine.

Haytham's voice was cold as steel. "What are the British planning?"

This officer did not resist at all. "To march on Philadelphia," he bleated. "That city's finished. New York's the key. They'll double our numbers, push back the rebels."

"When do they begin?" Haytham idly wiped blood from the steel blade at his wrist.

The man in the chair was very, very still. "Two days from now."

"June 18th," murmured Connor, thoughtfully. "We must warn Washington."

Haytham had not heard. "You see?" Patronising, condescending. "That wasn't so very difficult, now, was it?"

Even from my place at the door, I could see the officer quivering. "I've– I've told you everything. Now l-let me go."

Haytham's smile had the bland, cold look of a shark. "Of course."

The man's death was swift: a drawing of Haytham's blade across his throat, the gushing of dark blood down his front. Twice he had done this - promised men he would release them, and killed them just as their hope sparked. Connor started forward in outrage, held back by my hand.

Haytham wiped his blade clean with a bloodstained handkerchief. "The other two said the same. It must be true."

"You killed him," Connor seethed. "You killed all of them. Why?"

With an indifferent shrug, Haytham tossed the handkerchief on the discarded bodies. "They would have warned the Loyalists."

Connor was indignant. "You could have held them until the fight was done."

Haytham scoffed. "What, and waste precious time and money on their care? What would be the point? They'd given up everything they knew."

A muscle in Connor's jaw jumped as he ground his teeth, biting down on his silence. His dark eyes shot arrows at Haytham, but his father wore his thick skin like an armour.

"Come," he said, brushing past us. "We should be leaving."

I did not look back at that room of death when I turned away. The sharp, metallic smell of fresh blood clogged my nose, so I hurried down the corridor, which echoed with the roar of the rain outside.

Connor was not far behind me. Once we were outside, he said, "We should make for Valley Forge. Washington must be warned."

Even behind the screen of rain, Haytham looked disdainful. "We should be sharing what we know to Lee."

We started a brisk walk back through the city to fetch our horses from the stable. Connor, leading the way, snapped over his shoulder, "You seem to think I favour him. But my enemy is a notion, not a nation. It is wrong to compel obedience - whether to the British crown or the Templar cross. And I hope, in time, the Loyalists will see this too, for they are also victims."

Every word was injected with venom. "You oppose tyranny, injustice," argued Haytham as we splashed through the street. The puddles were growing alarmingly large. "These are just symptoms. Their true cause is human weakness. Why do you think I keep on trying to show you the error of your ways?"

Connor whirled on him then, his eyes sparkling with fire. Unwilling to listen to them argue, and too miserable to care, I stomped past them.

"You have said much, yes," I heard Connor scoff. "But you have shown me nothing."

I had almost reached the stable. My horse nickered when she saw me, ears pricked forward. So focused was I that I hardly heard Haytham's quiet response. "Then we'll have to remedy that, then, won't we."

By the time I had laid the saddle over my horse's back, the men had reached me, in tense silence. Connor reached out to touch his horse's muzzle, offering a slightly sticky lump of sugar from his pocket. Without looking at Haytham, he said, "I hope you have a horse. It is a long walk to Valley Forge."

Haytham watched the horse snuffle up the sugar from Connor's palm, and turned his eyes to the other stalls in the stable. There was a chestnut next to my horse, watching with bright eyes. "I'll take that one."

Connor stared at him. "You cannot just steal another man's horse."

"I'll leave him some money to buy a new one." Haytham rolled his pale eyes, clearly done with the conversation.

Before long, all three horses were tacked up and we were mounted. True to his word, Haytham tossed a small, jingling pouch into the empty stall before leading the horse out with stiff-backed arrogance. Wordless, we followed.

*

We reached the encampment at Valley Forge in a record two hours. By now the moon was high in the sky, but one would have never known it for the dark clouds that covered it. At least the rain had eased its force - for now.

The night was too dark, and too still. I did not like it.

As we entered the camp, I noticed the signs of life. Most of the soldiers were sheltering from the rain, but a few stood guard, scattered across the perimeter. They were gaunt-looking, and tired, but they recognised Connor and me, and let us pass.

Washington's war cabin was in the centre of the camp, an open-front building that faced the training ground. It was there that we found Washington, alone and occupied with reading a letter spread across the splintered desk. His grey wig was dull, flickering white and orange in the dim candle light.

Connor made our presence known with a simple, "Sir."

Washington looked up sharply. "Connor. And Cassandra. Come in." We stepped into the shelter, dripping wet, and I could see Washington's wooden teeth as he asked, "What brings you here?"

"The British have recalled their men in Philadelphia," said Connor, clasping his hands before him. "They march for New York."

Haytham stepped deeper into the shelter, creating a space for Washington to take a grim step closer to Connor. "Very well," said the commander, holding his arms behind his back. "I'll move our forces to Monmouth. If we can rout them, we'll have finally turned the tide."

Connor nodded, and perhaps he said more; I was watching Haytham lean over the table, peering down at the letter Washington had been reading. Slowly, he picked the page up by its corner and held it to the light.

"And what's this?" he said. Slow. Smug.

Washington whirled around. "Private correspondence," he snapped, making to snatch it from Haytham's hand.

But Haytham was quicker, and sidestepped easily. "Oh, of course it is." His eyes were fixed on us. "Would you like to read what it says, Connor?"

Silence. My heart was roaring in my ears.

"It seems," Haytham continued in that lofty tone I had grown to despise, "your good friend here has just ordered an attack on your village."

Beside me, Connor was very, very still.

Haytham frowned at the sheet. "Although 'attack' might be putting it mildly. Tell him, commander." A cold look at Washington, and he stepped to Connor's side.

Several moments of cowardly silence passed as Washington tried, and failed, to form words. He would not look at any of us. "We've been receiving reports of allied Natives working with the British. I've asked my men to put a stop to it."

"By burning their villages, and salting their land," was Haytham's grave response as he referred to the letter still in his hand. "By calling for their extermination, according to this letter - not the first time either. Tell him what you did eighteen years ago."

Eighteen years. Connor was four. Oh God–

"That was another time," Washington ground out, slowly. "The Seven Years' War."

I was stuck in time, but Connor had taken a step back, away from the other men. His face was devoid of feeling.

Haytham leaned closer to Washington, until they were face-to-face. "And so now you see what happens to this great man when under duress." He turned towards us, throwing up a hand in Washington's face.

He was triumphant, I realised. He had won.

"He makes excuses," he continued, "displaces blame - does a great many things, in fact, except take responsibility."

"Enough," cried Connor before the other two could leap for each other's throats. He was trembling, I realised. Trembling with rage. "Who did what, and why, must wait. My people come first."

Haytham leered into Washington's face one last time, pure violence in his expression, before turning away. "Then let's be off."

"No." Connor took a step back - one. "You and I are finished."

Haytham's eyes shuttered. "Son–"

"Do you think me so soft," snarled Connor, "that by calling me 'son' I might change my mind? How long did you sit on this information - or am I to believe you discovered it now?" Haytham opened his mouth to get a word in, but Connor was not finished. "My mother's blood may stain another's hands, but Charles Lee is no less a monster, and all he does, he does by your command."

Washington and Haytham had the decency to stay silent. I wanted them to speak; I wanted to watch my blood run down my knuckles while Washington choked on his stinking wooden teeth.

Connor turned sharply away, and I followed - but before we left, he pointed one unwavering finger at them, and his voice was as cold as death. "A warning to you both - choose to follow me, or oppose me, and I will kill you."

*

DONT try to talk to me I am in MOURNING

Because what do you MEEEEEAN GRRM might never publish winds of winter???? This has, quite honestly, ruined my entire week. Maybe even my year.

So yeah. I'm angsty. Connor's angsty. There are a lot of feelings in this house rn and not many of them are very demure

If you have any good Braime fics to cheer me up, send them my way xoxo