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Pain was the first thing Ayden noticed, his head throbbing and his chest feeling as though it was constricted. Voices speaking English words was the next sensation that lingered in his unconsciousness.

Slowly opening his eyes as wakefulness gingerly seeped into his mind, the teen's wavering vision was filled with a white plastered ceiling. The stationary vision was at least a respite from his vertigo and dizziness, his stomach flipping threateningly. Blinking a few times in a poor attempt to clear the cobwebs of fatigue from his vision and mind, Ayden daringly glanced down at himself, curiosity getting the best of him. Laying on his back in a bed, there was a pale blue quilt drawn to his bare pelvic bone, allowing a generous berth to the bandages wrapped around the area beneath his navel. The area where that damned Assassin sliced him with his hidden blades.

The memories of his fatal brush with the Assassins rushing his tender mind, a sense of panic washing over him, Ayden quickly took stock of the rest of his body. His weapons were gone, as were his bracers and clothing, and his hair hung loosely. Running an inspecting hand over his face, he was surprised to find it clean of the dirt he sponged on himself - someone had washed him. Taking in the cleaned and tended maladies that marked his chest, the thick bandage wrapped around his lower abdomen, he concluded he must have been saved from his dire fate at the hands of the dark skinned Assassin.

But one glance up at the strange, unfamiliar bedroom he was in, a more sinister realization set in - he hadn't a clue where he was.

"Ah, awake now, I see."

Whipping his head to the side at the new voice, Ayden immediately regretted the hasty action. The world was plunged into a state of vertigo, his vision looking as though it were on a tilt. The unease in his stomach didn't handle the abrupt dizzying sensation well. The teen all but fell to the edge of the bed as his stomach emptied its meager contents, his newly mended wounds pulled taunt at the action. But with the time that had passed since his last meal, his vomiting consisted mostly of dry heaves. His head pounded ruthlessly, the already spinning sensation not lessening.

"I wouldn't move so suddenly, if I were you."

A warm hand was pressed on Ayden's clammy shoulder, slowly and carefully turning him to his back. Eyes closed, he released a moan of pain. "Where am I? Who are you?"

There was a pause and sounds of several pairs of footsteps on the wooden floor. "These questions can be answered later. How do you feel?"

Slowly he opened his eyes for the second time, though this time his vision righted itself. Glancing to the side, he met a calm stare from a black man, though his crisp accent and pressed clothes pushed away Ayden's preconceived notions of the man. Racking his brain in a poor effect to place the strange face to memory, perhaps one of his father's associates, his efforts came back empty handed. But his father had to be close by - if he was alive after the brawl with the young Assassin, his father or William must have heard the commotion from inside the cabin and came to his aid. "I feel like I have been attacked by a pack of wolves," the teen replied, running an examining hand over the bandage on his abdomen. "Where's-where's my father?"

The air felt tense. The black man narrowed his eyes on him for a beat before turning around and sending a look over his shoulder. Following the stare, Ayden swallowed uneasily as he met the scrutinizing gazes of three other men, each one looking to be middle aged. Their sharpened blades and pistols on their belts didn't go unnoticed by the youth, their heavy artillery adding an edge of lurking danger to the already ominous air.

It didn't take his honed intuition to sense the ill-intent from the men.

"Who are you?" Ayden demanded harsher.

The black man, distinguishing the subtle hint of panic in the youth's tone, snapped his gaze back to him, while the other three men slowly approached the bedside. "I suppose an explanation of sorts is proper, despite your participation in such revolting activities. My name is Achilles Davenport."

Ayden felt his breath be robbed from his lungs, the blood draining from his face. Tensing up like a cornered animal, he darted his eyes between Achilles and the three men that silently surrounded the bed.

The black man chuckled softly. "Ah, so I see your father has spoke of me."

"Assassins..." the teen replied tensely, recalling the few times he overheard his father referring to the hidden Master Assassin that eluded capture from the Templars; then again, Ayden was sure the Assassin's were trying to find his father with similar ferocity. "Where am I?"

"Ayden Kenway, is it not?"

The teen frowned. "How do you know my name?"

"Ah, we knows lots aboyt ya." One of the Assassin's with short cropped blonde hair said, stepping forward and kneeling beside the bed to get a closer look at the boy. A dark grin spread on the Irishman's face. "An' look at that. Ya look jist loike yer ole man."

"Leave him be for now, Fergus," Achilles instructed before moving his stare over the nervous looking teen. The boy looked young, and if he was doing the math right, he couldn't be older than a decade and a half. But age was simply a number; his men had seen first hand the deadly training the boy received, his proficiency with a blade both amazing and alarming. "Well, now that we have been properly introduced, how fares your injuries? It looks like you weren't exactly a match for my son."

Ayden pursed his lips together, sending a heated look at the Assassins. "I am fine. I did not think your Creed encouraged dishonorable attacks as your son did to me."

Achilles grinned. "Well this is new... a Templar giving me a lecture on morality."

"A Templar?" the teen blinked. "I am not a Templar."

An Assassin with drawn back brown hair lifted a brow, his chiseled face thoughtful yet his chocolate eyes were soft. "Son of Haytham Kenway... you're the heir to that entire Order. The great God almighty Himself couldn't defend your involvement with the Templars."

"I am not! I have never been initiated into the Order."

Achilles tilted his head forward skeptically, his eyes flashing dangerously. "And yet it was your arrow that murdered our fellow brother in the White Mountains."

"I had no involvement in that!" Ayden countered. "I was instructed to wait outside the cabin. He ran out and -"

"Ya tuk de opportunity an' killed 'im," Fergus interjected angrily. "Loike father loike son."

The teen balled a fistful of the quilt in his hand; it was all he could do to stop himself from throwing a punch at the Irishman at his bedside. "I am not a Templar," he repeated slowly. "For being known for your network of spies, you sure have poor information on me."

"And yet, you still killed him," Achilles replied lightly. "You may not have been formally initiated into the Order, but you've been trained. There is not a soul in this room that doesn't know of your eventual fate with that Order." The man paused for a beat and softly sat on the edge of the bed. The boy quickly shifted away from the Master Assassin. "Curious... that even with your Native blood, you still agree to uphold the Templar values. Either you're a truly loyal son, or I underestimated your ignorance."

"Why did you even bother saving me?" Ayden countered, ignoring the man's taunting words. "Why not just leave me for dead?"

Fergus smiled, a row of straight, white teeth flashing. "An' chance yer paw findin' ya? We couldn't let a wee bird loike yer git away."

"I have done nothing!"

"The blud on yer 'ands says otherwise."

"Then why the medical attention? Why even tend to my wounds?!"

Achilles lifted a hand, signaling for the Irishman to silence himself. "To be frank, we were hoping you may provide us with some...insight, as to your people or your father's work."

Understanding what was asked of him, Ayden frowned deeply and spat in the man's face . "You might as well have just let me die. I will tell you nothing of either my families."

Pushing himself off the bed, Achilles sent the boy a saddened look as he wiped the saliva from his chin. Fergus indeed spoke the truth - besides his Native features, the boy looked every bit his father's son. Eyes filled with unending determination and burning passion that Achilles had seen in Haytham, the boy's strong jaw line and broad chest harbored similar features to the Grand Master. Though the teen's capture was a small victory for their covert Order, Achilles couldn't subdue the blossom of regret in his chest. If what Ayden said was true, if he was not officially a Templar, was he simply getting caught in the crossfires? Would he be damned to answer for the crimes of his father? Or of his future, potential wrongs?

"After your wounds are better healed, we'll see how much information you have," Achilles said as he bent down and grabbed an item resting beside the bed. Standing up with it, he watched the teen pale as he eyed the steel shackle in his grasp. "I saw you eyeing these windows the second you woke up, no doubt trained to find the nearest exit - I'd expect no less from your father. But... that won't rest well with us."

Ayden swallowed thickly and tried to distance himself from the man, but Fergus and the other Assassin quickly grabbed his shoulders, holding him still. His body hurt and fatigued, the teen didn't have the will to put a formidable fight against the men. He felt the chilly steel on his left wrist first, followed by the damning sound of the manacle snapping resolutely shut. A second clamp sounded shortly afterwards.

The adolescent brandished a heated stare on Achilles for a beat, then gave a few test tugs on the short chain that attached his wrist to the bed post. "You really must doubt your men if you go through this trouble."

Achilles lifted a brow. "I make no mistakes, Master Kenway. You will find that I am rather thorough in my work. Now, I will be sending my wife up to change your dressings on your wounds - we wouldn't want you falling ill before making use of you." The Master Assassin glanced at one of his brothers, a man with shoulder length curly black hair. "Elías, keep watch on the boy. Call us if he becomes difficult."

"Of course," answered the Spanish man, taking a seat in a chair against the wall, calmly facing the youth.

Without so much warning Achilles and the other two Assassin's stalked out of the room, Ayden emitting a frustrated sigh as he fell back against the pillows. He needed to find a way out... and fast.

"We'll find Ayden! We know the Assassin's took the southern passe with him - I doubt they faired far."

The wash cloth in her hand stilling for what seemed like the millionth time that day, Grace blinked back the emotional onslaught from her father's strong voice that echoed from the upper regions in the house. Tucked away in the kitchen to carry out her household obligations, the teenaged girl struggled incessantly to remain on track, despite the relatively short list of chores she was to complete. Born of a gentry, wealthy family, the Hudson's tended to rely on the paid services of their servants that bustled about the estate, carrying out the more pressing and laborious tasks. But it wasn't her despising of the more monotonous duties that slowed her progress, even occasionally stopping her movements all together, but rather the ominous words of the conversation in her father's study on the second floor. Hours ago as the first morning rays graced the lands, a group of her father's associates - Haytham, Charles, and William - filed into the recesses of the room, their expressions gaunt and defiled. She knew something was amiss immediately. Biting her lip in a poor attempt to stop the quiver, Grace nearly wished she didn't eavesdrop on what was supposed to be a covert conversation.

Her best friend was gone. The young man she silently swooned over for years, the only man whom she dropped poorly concealed hints to her father for her longing of his eventual courtship. A barely unnoticed quiver shook her hand that weakly held the cloth against the kitchen table, her mind furrowed with despair. She hated that damned Order - hated the brotherhood and everything they stood for, hated their mindless war that pulled a likely unsuspecting Ayden into it's gruel grasps. The kitchen felt hot and clammy, her breaths struggling to come in and out in the overwhelming emotional wave. Glancing down at her pristine clothes, she briefly considered loosening the ties that crisscrossed over the front of her cream colored stomacher, but etiquette and manners dictated otherwise; an unmarried woman, it wasn't her place to be in such a detestable state with single men in the homestead.

A strange turn of emotions washed over her as she moved her gaze down her dress, the once fervent despair replaced with a blossoming anger at her exquisite clothing. Her soft fingers slowly trailed over the luxurious pale blue silk of her outer gown that flowed graciously over her hoopskirt and layered silk petticoat. The immaculate fabric a pricey import from France, a yard of it could surely afford to pay a months worth of food for vagabonds and panhandlers in the budding colonial city. Her fingers trailed down to the middle of her dress, where it opened up to reveal her ruffled silk petticoat of a similar soft blue color. Raised in the privileged class of the gentry, she was rather accustomed to be garbed in pristine fabrics of the affluent. But it never truly crossed her mind of the incredible sacrifices made to afford the lavish attire or live a comfortable lifestyle that many could only dream to afford. Paid through the likes of her father's indisputable involvement in the vile brotherhood, that was how. Sure, he dressed it up as being nothing more than a trader, earning their wealth through a generous cut in his contracts, but she knew the truth - she wouldn't be blinded or swayed by their grandiose lifestyle filled with posh balls and sumptuous meals. Their costly lifestyle was afforded from the secretive brotherhood her father thought she was so ignorant of, the same brotherhood that took Ayden away from her.

Grace heard movement in the house but paid it no heed - her legs felt weak beneath her heavy, broken heart. Dropping herself ungraciously onto the wooden bench nestled beside the table, she allowed the pooling water in her eyes to spill out, hot trails of tears leaking down her fair features. She wanted to blame her father, Haytham, William - any of them for not protecting Ayden better - but it would prove little use. Her paltry information riddled with unfilled gaps, her source coming strictly from overhearing, she hadn't a clue of what truly occurred beside her neighborhood friend being ruthlessly ripped away by the Assassins.

The sounds of bootsteps on the wooden-planked stairs startling her, Grace quickly rubbed her face on the side of her sleeve, hoping to hide the evidence of her despair. While she wiped away the physical affirmation, it didn't little to wash aside her desolate and trounced feelings that she may never see her friend again. Glancing around the generously sized kitchen she found herself busy in more and more as she aged and matured into her role in society, she felt a sad grin tug at her lips. Since accepting that she was being groomed to be a perfect gentry wife, she'd grudgingly accepted her slowly growing chores with a bit of modified ideations. As the eldest daughter in the Hudson household, she prowled about the estate giving orders to servants when her mother was absent or busy, and carried out her own limited array of chores. Initially she hated them - she preferred to be engulfed in the thrilling literature of esteemed authors, or the mentally-taxing arithmetic from innovative minds. But she knew those days were long past, her time to enter society as a proper woman coming far too quickly.

And with it, eventual marriage.

With her debutante in less than a year, time was a precious resource she didn't have - her father needed to be approached by a suitor long before the grand ball that would mark her introduction to formal society. Grand ball... that's what her parents and society called it, but she knew otherwise. It was nothing more than an extravagant auctioneer block, a place where she would be showcased to wealthy eligible bachelors, her hand for marriage given to the man deemed the most "suitable". When she was a young girl, she remembered imagining her posh debutant with a flowing ball gown, dotted over by swooning gentleman, the night filled with mindless chatter and flattering compliments. But those thoughts slowly dissolved away as the truth of the gala slammed into her - all those imagined compliments and dances to strange gentlemen she hardly met was all for having her as a wife. A trophy to display with the rest of their vile wealth. Slowly her fantasies of dreamily conversing with faceless gentlemen were replaced with daydreams of devoting the night to one particular young man, who she'd whimsically dance and laugh like a schoolgirl with. Of course she would still be garbed in a timeless gown, but he'd look so different from the other English suitors; subtle accents of his Native heritage evident in his appearance, either from his half ponytail, tanned skin, or Indian necklaces.

But fairytales only happened in the books she once loved so much. Happy endings didn't exist beyond the thick tomes and thin pages.

"Oh, good afternoon, Miss Hudson."

Blinking past her trounced reverie at the familiar voice, Grace forced a smile on her face - an action she was all to accustomed to doing. Quickly standing up from the bench to ensure formalities, the young woman respectfully curtsied to the four men that stood in the open doorway to the kitchen, likely on their way out of the homestead after their meeting. "I would say it is, Mister Lee. It won't be long until these springs afternoons turn into summer days."

"Yes, well, that will be unfortunate for us. I heard the almanac projected a rather harsh summer this year," the older man replied solemnly to her attempt at small talk. Eyeing the Templar, Grace wasn't surprised he showed no hints of distress at Ayden's horrible capture; she always assumed the man had ill-intent for the Native teen. The pleasantries out of the way, Charles tilted his head down in habitual etiquette to the young woman. "I wish you a good afternoon, madam."

"You as well, kind sir," Grace mechanically replied, years of societal protocol piecing the phrase together with ease. She watched the three Templars and her father turn from the kitchen doorway to the connecting foyer that led to the front door. Without realizing, her eyes snapped to Haytham, her astute gaze examining the man who was deemed their "leader", the father of her missing friend. As much as she wanted to drill him endlessly regarding Ayden's whereabouts and the dire events that led up to it, she knew she wasn't supposed to possess such knowledge. If she wanted any kind of information, she'd need to be crafty. "Oh, um, if you would beg my pardon, Mister Kenway."

Haytham paused in the foyer and slowly retracted the few steps back to the kitchen. "Yes?"

Sunken eyes and gaunt features, her neighbor looked worse for wear; his worn appearance serving as a miniscule evidence for the trying situation. But she played it off, just as she always had, and brandished her best cheerful smile at the man. "I do not mean to intrude or serve as a bother, but I was supposed to see Ayden yesterday afternoon. He was to borrow some books father received from the trades last week." She paused, hoping to see any change of demeanor that would cast a shimmer of light on the dismal event. But Haytham was as poised and collected as ever, and simply stood stoically watching her. "Well, I won't bother you with the details, but he never did arrive yesterday. Would you mind asking if he can come by tomorrow?"

It was her father that gave them away as he fidgeted on his feet, his shielded eyes hastily averting to the ground, unable to maintain the look from his blithe daughter. But Grace caught the action immediately, though her perfectly poised facade didn't break from its habitual mold.

Haytham even gave away the slightly indication for something wrong - his broad chest heaving a deep breath. "I fear Ayden is out of town for the time being. I'll be sure to pass along the message promptly at his return."

"Thank you, Mister Kenway," she politely replied, resisting the urge to scream back at the man for his fib. But she couldn't break character; she couldn't break her perfected role.

Just as the men filed further into the entryway, their faces long with unspoken worry, her father lingered in the doorway. Washed over in the same distraught as his associates, his normally soft, shining eyes looked dulled and muted, a twinge of worry and concern tugged at Grace's weak facade. Blinking back her shroud of sadness, she kept her shoulders rightfully squared, her proud head held high despite her dampened, defeated spirits.

Opening and closing his mouth a few times, Eric Hudson ignored the sounds of the front door coming ajar, his colleagues finding their way out of the dwelling. Etiquette told him to see them out, but obligation to his daughter dictated his actions otherwise. He simply couldn't shake her unearthing smile, the liveliness in her sapphire eyes that would brilliant shine with a mere mention of Haytham's son. It was no secret the two teens covertly yearned for the other, their innocent flirting and humorous giddiness serving as more of a means of entertainment for Eric and Haytham. But the years passed with amazing speed, and what was once a crude joke of eventually becoming in-laws through their children was quickly becoming a potential reality. Grace was nearly her age to be devoted to a marriage, her hand already asked by suitors twenty years her senior. But Eric kindly turned them away - she had a year until her social gala, and he would only consider granting one exception to her courtship before that time...

But even that was uncertain. As much Eric tried to desperately keep a positive attitude in front his Grand Master regarding the finding of his missing son, even he harbored sincere doubts. He never pressed for the fine details of that day in the White Mountains, the dire events eventually ending the with dismal capture of the teenaged boy, but he gathered enough that it was out of Haytham's able-bodied hands. A man of incredible talent with his weapons and wit, he didn't question Haytham's capabilities in any respect, even where his son was concerned. Eric always found their relationship rather peculiar; Ayden was a harmoniously mix of his multicultural parents, yet seemed to inherit the finer features from his father, even down to the attitude and stubbornness. A full household of children and his fair share of moody teenagers, Eric didn't want to consider the arguments that'd rack the Kenway estate, what with the unrelenting males of the household.

But he liked Ayden, even with his Native blood that many looked down upon. The tales of his brutal people were not for the lighthearted, though Eric had a trying time imagining the likes of the polite and virtuous young man carrying out such viscous acts. When the boy was in his innocent youth, he tended to showcase his mixed blood with pride, speaking volumes of his fun pastimes in the village. But the stories slowed down as he aged, until they were rare gem from the teen; Eric could only assume the harsh realities of the Natives' perception slammed into Ayden's tender mind without forewarning.

Bringing himself back to the present, Eric blinked back the trodden feelings of nostalgia as he eyed his young daughter. He hated to be the one to deliver the trying news to her, to break her blithe and elated spirits. Taking a deep breath in hopes the air would calm him, he was sorely disappointed; no respite would come to him.

"Grace..." Eric began quietly, hearing the front door to the estate resolutely shut behind him. "Something has happened..."

Making their way down the stairs silently, Achilles led Fergus and the other man, Gabriel, through the Davenport manor. Reaching the bottom level of the homestead, the sounds of voices from the encompasing rooms filled the area. With the capture of the Grand Master's son, their secretive Order buzzed with bubbling excitement and thrill; finally, a means to turn the tables in their favor. It was only three days ago that they managed to escape the mountain side with the teen, his wounds severe, and make their way back to their headquarters. As expected, news of the teen's capture spread like wild fire to the Assassins, and it didn't take long for them to slowly gravitate towards the secluded manor that served as the point of their operations.

A household full of Assassins and one Templar.

Turning into the kitchen, the aroma of thyme and rosemary filling the air, Achille glanced at the people situated around the wooden table in the middle of the room. With the manor serving as a makeshift inn for the Assassins, space was a rare commodity. His wife, Abigail, stood over the burning hearth in the corner, a large black pot in the center. Though he was sure his spouse would undoubtedly hear their conversations, he'd long ago stopped trying to protect her ears; a trustful woman, he never questioned her loyalty to him.

Snapping his eyes back to the table, Achilles nodded his head at the two Assassins. On one side of the table was Jameson, an elder Englishman in his late thirties with a pair of angry scars running down the sides of his cheek. Situated directly across from him was a young Black man, his son, Connor. Hard set eyes and a sneer that never seemed to lessen on his face, the twenty-four year old had come to make a namesake of his own amongst the Order. Sadly, though, it was not a reputation Achilles harbored a fondness for.

"Is he awake?" Jameson asked as Fergus and Gabriel joined him at the table.

Achilles immediately noticed the look of interest that passed over the man's features. "He is. But not as... cooperative as I'd hoped."

Fergus grinned. "Leave 'im wi' me. I'll git de 'ittle bird ter sing."

"Not yet, my friend. All in due time. We'll discuss when and how to question the boy once he is of better health."

Connor released a heavy, impatient sigh. "Yes, father, let us waste more of our precious resources on the half-breed brat." He ignored the astonished stare from his father. "Let's take a chapter from his own people's history - scalp him alive and send his head on a pole to his father."

Before Achilles could reprimand the young man, Gabriel beat him to it. " 'You have heard that was said, 'Love thy neighbor and hate thy enemy', but I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.' "

"Don't spew scripture at me," Connor spat back. "You may be a holy man in the Church, but you've spilled just as much blood as I have with your blades. And that kid up there doesn't deserve my prayers... he doesn't deserve anyones prayers."

Seeing movement in the corner of his gaze, Achilles shared a look of concern with his wife who turned from the hearth to glance at her son questioningly. "Connor..."

"No, father. I'm done playing nice! You think the Templars would show the same hospitality that we have?"

The Master Assassin glared at his son. "No, and that is why we are better than they are. Morals, principles, values-"

"Bah! All those are useless here. Just look around you!" Connor paused, gesturing to the now handful of Assassins that slowly stalked into the kitchen, a few more lingering in the hall and doorway. "This is our time of glory. Question the Templar brat, found out what he knows, then send his lifeless body back to Kenway!"

Fergus nodded solemnly, his head propped up in his hands. "Sorry, boss. Oi got ter agree wi' junior."

Jameson crossed his arms tightly over his chest, his brows down in thought. "That'll just make a martyr out of the boy. Revenge can be deadlier than a hidden blade, and I really don't want to consider Kenway or his men armed with that."

"So we just ignore this opportunity?" Connor pressed. "This can be a blow to Kenway!"

"Once the boy is dead we lose our advantage," Jameson replied solemnly, his sapphire eyes meeting his leader's with shared understanding. "The point is to keep the Templars where we want them - and that's exactly what we have right now. Kenway has likely sent a few of his lackies to try to trail us. Their ranks could be stretched thin - we should capitalize on it."

Fergus lifted his head up. "Yer really tink Kenway wud do al' that for wan kid?"

Achilles consider both his men's thoughts for a brief moment before nodding. "If what the boy says is true - if he really has not been initiated - there must be a reason, especially if he was speaking the truth about not getting involved in the White Mountains. I think I may share Kenway's hesitation in both regards. I recall my own struggles with letting Connor join our creed."

Jameson caught onto his leader's line of thought, nodding in agreement. "Haytham may be a sick bastard, but he's done a damn good job at protecting his son for all these years. Maybe there's an ounce of sentiment somewhere hidden in him."

"So what the hell do we do?" Connor asked, releasing an exasperated sigh.

"Use him at bait," Achilles replied, feeling the anticipating stares from the men in his Order. "Kenway has been wise to elude us, but we finally have something he wants. We'll still question the boy, but keep him alive." The dozen men gave him nods and quiet words of agreement, though Connor merely sat resolutely still. The Grand Assassin turned to his wife, and nearly smiled at her. Standing with her back to the hearth and the boiling pot of soup, her arms were crossed tightly over her bossom as she silently watched the exchange with the Order. Considering her stone-cold features, he could guess her annoyance with him. "Abigail, would you please go check the boy's dressings? I fear he may have pulled a few of his wounds."

Wiping her hands on the front of her white and blue plaid apron, the Jamaican woman nodded. "Of course." She paused, sparing a quick glance at the boiling liquid in the pot behind her. "He's probahbly hungry. I weel bring 'im food."

Ignoring the men's watchful stares on her back, she quickly laddled the thick chicken broth and few vegetables into a deep bowl, grabbing a spoon to accompany it. Without so much another word, she walked proudly past the Assassins with the steaming soup, her head held high.

Turning down the hallway, sidestepping the few men that stood in her path, Abigail silently made her way towards the staircase. She remembered all too well the night two days ago when her husband and son burst through the front door. After being married to the Grand Assassin of the covert order for a quarter of a century, she'd come to count her blessings every time they returned home, as she had to swallow the great possibility that some day they may not. But two days ago... she'd sensed something was amiss, and one glance at her men reaffirmed her intuition. Blood coated the front of their jackets and waistcoats. Worried and frantic, she remembered fervently checking them over for the wounds, yet despite her frantic hands, she couldn't find the origin.

The blood wasn't theirs.

Reaching the top of the second floor, Abigail painfully recalled how they led her out to the wagon, where they pulled back the tarp to reveal their prize. Covered with blood and unconscious, a young Native boy lay in the back of the wagon. If it weren't for his occasional painful moan, she thought the boy dead. Though Achilles begged her to see to his wounds, she demanded one thing: to know who he was.

Turning into the guest bedroom, Abigail first glanced at Elías. Sitting on a chair against the wall, the Spainard was running a small wash cloth over the barrel of his pistol, though considering the immaculate glisten on the metal, she doubted it needed tending. Then again, the man did have a pecular fondess of his twin pistols, the Assassin preferring the projectile weapons over the trademark hidden blades on his wrists. Nodding her head in reverence to the man, Elías returning the greeting, Abigail glanced at the bed.

Propped up against a mound of pillows was the Native teen. Though she'd come to look in on him before, those visits were different; she was able to care for her young patient with the ease of mind that he was unconscious. Meeting his solemn gaze for a beat, his fatigued features giving away the weakly feigned strong front, the woman eyed the thick binding that shackled him to the bed post. A barrage of cruel memories from her childhood in her homeland of Jamaica rushed to the surface of her mind, the shackle reminding her of the men enslaved in her village. She hated it... she hated that damn, debasing shackle. And silently, she hated Achilles for even putting it on the boy.

Pushing the dreaded thoughts to the side, Abigail placed the soup on the night stand and grabbed the small basket of medical supplies she left in the room from earlier. As she moved closer to the bed, she heard Elías stand up from the chair behind her as the adolescent visibily tensed. "I mean yah nah harm. I've come ta clean yu wounds."

"Easy, boy," Elías' threatening voice sounded from behind her. "If you even look at her the wrong way, I won't hesitate to put a bullet in your head."

Abigail sent the Assassin a demeaning look for a second, then turned back at her patient. His posture softening significantly, his shoulders seeming to visibly loosen, she took that as her cue and allowance to approach him. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she eyed the once white bandages wrapped around his lower abdomen, the small spots of crimson leaking through the clolths making her frown. "Looks like ya pulled ya wounds open. Lay on ya bok. I have ta clean ahn dress dem agin." He hestitated, his eyes glistening with defensiveness. He reminded her of the wild boars her village used to hunt, the fight that never seemed to die in the animal despite the odds against them. "Mi name is Abigail. I ahm trying ta help ya."

He wet his lips and eyed the woman for a few seconds before finally laying on his back, his gaze not leaving the woman's face.

"See. Dat wasn't so bad, was it?" She said with a grin. "Ya name is Ayden, right?"

Darting his stare from her face to her hands as she pulled fresh cloth bandages and bottles full of different colored liquid from the basket, he nodded his head. "Yes."

"Well, it's nice ta meet yah, even wit dees conditions." Dropping the supplies beside the boy, Abigail leaned forward towards his face, her hand extended. Both of the men tensed as she placed her soft hand on the teen's cheeks. A heat resonated from the youth's clammy skin, warming up her hand with alarming quickness. Dropping her hand from his face, she frowned. "Jus as I thought - ah fevah."

Ayden wasn't sure what to think - the woman was strange, her thick accent hard to follow. But her voice was soft, the genuine and honest intentions in her demeanor not going unnoticed by the teen. Despite the calleousness of his dire situation, he felt this woman trusting; at least more so than the others. Swallowing nervously, he stopped himself from grabbing her small wrists as she rolled the blanket back from his navel. The blankets were folded down far too low for his comfort, a good five to six inches from his navel, and any lower he'd be humiliated in his naked state. But sparing one glance at her, it seemed she didn't share such thoughts - her face thoughtful and determined, she didn't appear to even notice the intimate region she trodded on.

Considering the precision of her hands with the medical supplies, the adolescent guessed this wasn't her first time mending someone.

The woman seemed to read his thoughts. She grinned at him. "I ahm a married ooman. Nutten ta worry yourself."

Ayden broke the eye contact, a warming embarrassment on his cheeks joining his already feverish skin. "I do not need help... if you leave the supplies, I can take care of my wounds on my own."

"Wit one of ya arms bounded?" She gestured to the steel manacle clamped around his tanned wrist. "Dunt be stubborn. Now lie steel." A few seconds of silence surrounding them, Elías gingerly returned to his vacant seat, his hands on his beloved pistol.

Gently cutting away the old bandages, Abigail grimaced at the ghastly state of the boy's wounds. The edges of the sliced skin were ravaged from what she assumed was a rude awakening for the teen, his thrashing or man-handling ruining her work on the callous injury. A mixture of crimson blood and transluscent liquid dripped from the area, though she found small solace that there was no distinguishable scent. At least that.

"You said that you are married." She glanced up at the adolescent as she gently blotted the oozing horizontal slash, promptly ignoring the tense pain in his voice. "Which-which Assassin is your husband?"

She tossed the soiled cloth to the side, her hands already twisting off the top of a small bottle filled with amber hued liquid. "Achilles is mi husband." She diregarded the look of disdain that spread on his face, and shoved the bottle into his hand. "Drink dis whiskey. Yah gonna waan it."

"You-you're an Assassin too?" he asked, grabbing the bottle from her but not drinking it as instructed.

She laughed, the sound a high pitch. "Oh no, I dunt belieb in dees dings."

"In what things? In the Assassins?"

"In all of it," the woman replied, pulling a needle and thread from the basket. "Grown men refusin' ta listen ta each odda. All child's play. Dat's all dees war between de Templars and Assassins is."

His free hand grabbing one of the pieces of bandages laid out, Ayden quickly soaked it in the whiskey, emptying the contents onto the fabric. The woman watched in astonished interest as he slammed his eyes shut, preparing for the worse, and forced himself to press the saturated bandage against the wound. Speckles of lights dancing before his closed eyes, his body beginning to sweat in a sheen layer of perspiration, Ayden forced his shaking, hurt body to slow its respiration. "If you don't...don't agree with the Assassins, why did y-you marry one?"

Blinking as she eyed the peculiar action from the boy, the perfectly good whiskey wasted on his wound and causing him undue pain, Abigail took a deep breath. "Well, ya dunt get ta choose 'oo ya fall in love wit. Jus as yah dunt choose 'oo ya born to."

The wound stung incredibly, his consciousness wavering at the pains that plagued him, though Ayden didn't lessen the pressure. He released a small, nearly inaudible chuckle. "And yet, here I am."

"Wa ahr ya doin'?" She pressed, curiosity getting the better of her, as she eyed the wound covered with his hand. "Ya nah gettin' more alcohol."

"I don't want anymore," he replied tensely, slowly opening his eyes as the area around his wound finally numbed itself, the nerves exhausted from the ruthless treatment. "The-the Englishmen traded alcohol with my people... I do not know when but... we used it on our wounded."

She stared at him as though he grew a second head. "Ahn it wuked?"

"I don't know. I think so - the Elders kept doing it."

"Here. Let mah help." She placed her hand over his larger one, softly pushing it away. She wasn't sure what she expected him to do; given her close proximity, his hands so close to her, he couldn't easily snapped her neck. Considering the ruthless training she knew the each Assassin was forced to endure, their trials long and strenuous on the mind and body, she didn't doubt whether the Templars followed a similar regime - especially the son of their leader.

And yet, he gently let his hand fall, allowing her hand be the trusting force on the bandage to his wound.

Hearing him sigh heavily, she watched him lay his head back against the pillows, his blinks becoming slower. "Yah luk tired. Nah surprising - yah had ah bad hit to di head."

Ah, so that explained his dizziness and vertigo. "How long have I been unconscious?"

Abigail briefly considered the imperativeness of the question, whether Achilles would forbid the disclosure of such information. But it seemed trival enough. "Yah came two days ahgo, but you'b been coming in ahn out of consciousness."

Feeling the woman lift the bandage from his wound, the crisp air hitting the damp area immediately, Ayden nodded his head. He found the pillows behind him far more comfortable than they ought to have, his head sinking lower in their comforting bliss as he relaxed significantly. "Thank you... for doing this."

She smiled, blotting the wound dry with another piece of cloth bandage. "Dink nutten of it."

The edges of his vision were turning dark, either from his battered body or his paltry reserve of energy was finally depleting itself. He didn't even notice his eyes shut. "You are going through a lot...of trouble j-just for them to kill me eventually."

"Achilles ain't gonna kill yah," the Jamaican's voice floated into his garbled, hurting head. "He's ah good mon. Fair. If yah honest wit 'im, yah will live."

The sweet bliss of unconsciousness pulling at his weakened mind, Ayden allowed himself to be lulled into its sweet embrace. The words from the woman buzzed in his head, and as much as he wanted to naively believe them, he simply couldn't it. Danger lurked all around him in the fatal environment, caught in the crosshairs of his father's work - he should've listened to the older Kenway. And worst of all, he knew he couldn't abide by Abigail's unspoken request - to be honest with Achilles in exchange for his life and wellbeing. His father rarely spoke of his interactions with Assassins, even hesitating to touch upon their failed Creed and lacking ideals, likely waiting for him to be rightfully initiated before divulging the sensitive topic. And while that may have been fine in his father's twisted logic, it left Ayden sorely ill-equipped for expecting the covert Creed.

Allowing himself finally be dragged into the depths of proverbial darkness, the teen grudgingly accepted that until he escaped the hands of the Assassins, unconsciousness would be his only time of reprise.