Porcelain Dust

Author: Feael Silmarien

Rating: M

Genre: Drama, Romance

Disclaimer: Assassin's Creed belongs to Ubisoft, and I don't earn money with this fan fiction.

Summary: 1786: 55-year-old Shay returns to New York to aid what is left of the American Templars. Unexpectedly for himself, he ends up having an affair with the 20-year-old Assassin he is tasked to spy on. Naturally, it's only a matter of time until this odd relationship puts them both in grave danger ...

A/N: This fan fiction is set in the same fan universe as my other AC story Assassin's Creed III: Compromise. You don't need to have read the other story in order to follow this one, though. Everything you need to know will be explained. Just please don't be surprised about the mention of some characters and events that didn't happen in the canon. This story is written from Shay's perspective and he wasn't involved in the plot of Compromise, so he doesn't know any more than you.

"We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone."

- Orson Welles

Chapter 1: The Queen of New York

How many times can a man die? In any case, more than once. The first time it happened to me it was, I guess, at the age of sixteen when I was lying in some alley of New York and watched the rats sniff at the puddle of blood and vomit next to me. The world felt heavy, dull and far away, and instead of trying to move away from this sickening place I just enjoyed the peace, wondering why it didn't bother me that every part of my body was screaming in pain.

It had to be the whisky, I realized as I remembered about the bottle in my hand. With a little rise of hope I turned my gaze at it, just to get disappointed: Ah, yes, I had used it as a weapon, so it was broken and empty. I grumbled something that wasn't even words and threw that damn thing away. Sometimes life just wasn't fair.

I grumbled once again and closed my eyes as ...

"Shay!"

Whoever it was to disrupt my moment of painful peace, I hated him.

"You're alive!"

Now he was examining me, and I realized that I didn't hate him after all.

"Why are you always in such a state when I find you?"

"They asked for it," I grunted, nodding at a blood trail, a silent reminder of a head I had rammed against the wall.

"'They?' How many? You're lucky they didn't kill you!"

"How many times do I have to tell you? I make my own luck, Liam."

The story of how I became an Assassin isn't a glorious one. And the story of how I became a Templar is even worse. But for some reason they're both tied to New York. After I lost my father, infested the taverns for beer, whisky and trouble and was eventually rescued by Liam I was reborn as an Assassin, here in New York, the city where I was born and grew up. After I died in Lisbon during the earthquake and committed suicide near the Davenport Manor I was reborn, once again, in New York in order to become a Templar.

I had shared a connection with many people during that defining time of my life. Now they were all gone: Hope Jensen - dead; Kesegowaase - dead; de la Vérendrye - dead; Adéwalé - dead; George Monro - dead; Jack Weeks - dead; Christopher Gist - dead; Haytham Kenway - dead; James Cook - dead; Achilles - dead; Liam - dead. They had entered and left my life, passing it like swift shadows. It was the December of 1786, I was fifty five years old, and I had outlived them all.

I wondered what New York had in store for me this time as the snow scrunched under my feet. I hadn't been here for twenty seven years. The city had survived epidemics, fires and a revolution. It certainly had moved on without me. So was it still my New York? After all, this city and the Morrigan were the last I hadn't outlived yet.

The streets, of course, were still there, but some buildings were new. Others looked different. Some were missing. I was wondering, actually, what happened to my old home, Fort Arsenal, yet I was sure I didn't really want to know it yet. This was why I had decided to leave the Morrigan at the docks on the eastern side. I didn't want the memories to swamp me. For I was on a mission.

An important and hard mission, I supposed, remembering the warning that three Templars had lost their lives as they tried to accomplish it. It was a mission on a territory controlled by Assassins, so probably this was why it had been decided that I was a perfect candidate to try it next. I knew New York and I knew the Assassins. Or so they thought. For I had known Achilles' Brotherhood, but about Connor and his men I knew just as much as any other Templar. Yet I had never rejected a difficult task. I made my own luck, and I would do it this time as well.

When I arrived at the house of John Lamb I was told he wasn't home. They hadn't expected me so early, but they offered me to stay and have dinner while waiting. I declined the offer with thanks, as my brain produced a much better idea: Close to where I had left the Morrigan I had spotted an intriguing tavern that received quite tender looks from many sailors and dock workers whispering something about a "queen" and "Cleopatra". As a man who had never given up exploring the beauty of women I considered it my sacred duty to have a look at this temptress, and so I found myself heading back through the city until I stood in front of the signboard of the Black Horse Tavern.

To be honest, inside it wasn't very spectacular: a tavern like many others. Wooden tables, a counter, a fireplace, hungry men, pretty many of them at two o'clock, some musicians, two waitresses and a waiter. But then I saw her. There couldn't be any doubt that "Cleopatra" was supposed to be her, who came breezing around the corner, carrying three steins of beer.

She wasn't very tall, and despite being anything but fat it was hard to overlook that she didn't suffer hunger. Yet she moved with the lightness of a fairy, barefoot, walking on her tiptoes. Her hair, I noticed, wasn't just blonde, but had a tinge of red that gave it the colour of pure gold, shining in the light of the fire. Her locks were flying around as she moved, almost untamed by the hairpins that kept her mane out of her face. A plain, light blue dress covered her curvaceous stature and I suspected that her butt could easily compete with those I had seen in Havana. At least, the content of her cleavage did ...

It tickled as she pressed her nose against my neck without any warning. Having been lost in admiration, it was just now that I realized she had approached me.

"So much salt ... A new arrival from across the Atlantic, huh?" she said with a low voice as she let go of my neck and looked up at me with her greyish-blue eyes.

"Bristol," I nodded, breathing in her scent and resisting the magnetic power of her décolletage with all my might.

She smiled.

"Ever been to New York?" she asked and slightly touched my elbow, inviting me to follow.

I couldn't suppress a chuckle. "I was born here."

"Really?" She whirled around and looked at me like a sheriff at a criminal during an interrogation. "Why don't I know you?"

I didn't answer immediately, carefully examining her face, young and fresh like spring blossoms ... Eighteen? Nineteen? Early twenties?

"When I was here last time you weren't even born," I finally said.

She didn't look very impressed, giving me a cheeky grin: "Well, then you've missed all the interesting events. But don't worry, the current debates are interesting too." Then she pushed me on a chair and something tender appeared in her gaze. "So what can I bring you, handsome?"

I ordered dinner which turned out to be spaetzle, a southern German - Swabian, as she pointed out - dish that I didn't know yet, and I also asked her to bring an apple and a cup of tea. I didn't need more than that, especially after several months of poor diet. I knew from bitter experience how bad it was to eat much when the stomach wasn't used to it anymore.

While I was waiting I couldn't help but notice that for some reason I had become the center of attention. The other guests were giving me surreptitious looks, turning away their faces when I looked back. The lively chat around me got intermixed with whisper, and I heard the words "queen" and "Cleopatra" even more often than before. - And there also was the word "Valley".

The "queen" herself leaned against the counter and was the only one in the room who didn't avert her eyes from me. It was even quite the opposite: She watched me like a mountain lioness watches her prey. As if her eyes could see more than those of other humans - as if they could see through any material, through clothes. It was a gaze that made me tense up like a startled rabbit.

There couldn't be any mistake about her status here: While the two waitresses and the waiter served the guests she moved through the tavern as she pleased, and even the guests looked at her with respect. The sailors and dock workers talked to her politely, asking for another drink or portion with "excuse me" and "please". Judging by how her customers talked about her she usually wasn't rude, but today she would just shout the name of one of her subordinates and point at the man addressing her with her gaze still resting on me. The eyes of her guest would switch to me as well and then he would quickly look away.

When one of the waitresses brought my plate, she pried it out of her hands and approached me again. For a few seconds her eyes rested on my Templar ring, but then she put the plate on my table.

"I'm sorry you had to wait," she said. "We don't cook everything at once, since our guests come at different times and we don't want the last ones to have a cold meal."

"This isn't what I'm used from taverns," I admitted honestly, remembering countless rebellions of my stomach after the pigswill served in most taverns I had visited so far.

"And this is the reaction I'm used from newcomers," the "queen" said and suddenly planted her beautiful buttocks on my table. "This place is what it is only thanks to me. While my father was still alive it was just one tavern of many. But now it's the trendsetter for food quality and prices in all of New York. This development cost me only two years."

Well, this woman definitely didn't suffer from low self-esteem, I concluded, although I was sure that the looks of its "queen" were an important factor for the tavern's success, too.

"And you are ... Valley?" I asked, putting together the scraps of conversation around me.

A playful rosiness bloomed across her face as she leaned forward until she was actually lying on the table, her face close to mine.

"Exactly."

In this pose she offered me the best view at her bosom and I knew she did it on purpose. In public. In New York and not Havana.

I swallowed. Her face was so close. I looked at her smooth skin, so fair and delicate like the finest porcelain. Her bright eyes, her golden locks ... This was what angels were supposed to look like. - Only that there was no doubt about that she was everything but an angel.

I'm sure Valley read my mind, as her blush increased and she smiled.

"Eat," she said sitting up and jumping from my table. Yet before she left she decided to circle me slowly and suddenly embraced me from behind. "You'll need your strength," she whispered in my ear.

For a few moments I sat motionlessly, not sure what to think about such an offensive from a New York woman. Then I looked around and noticed that once again I was the center of attention. Was there ... fear rising in me? I looked again at Valley who didn't watch me any longer but turned her attention to the other guests whose faces immediately lightened up as if they were presented some very special gift.

Then I felt somebody touching my arm and turned my gaze at a sailor leaning over from a table next to mine.

"You're marked," he said with such a serious expression as if he was talking about some bad omen.

The clew of yellow threads called spaetzle mixed with fried onions and minced meat turned out to be one of the most delicious dishes I have eaten in my entire life. At first I found it a bit strange-looking, but when I watched the other guests consume it quite enthusiastically I finally tried and wasn't disappointed: I had absolutely no idea what those threads were made of, but I subconsciously increased my speed, swallowing one bunch of threads after another. If this wasn't a good argument to rent a room here, then something was wrong with this world.

I couldn't remember when I had felt so happy and satisfied on a walk to receive a mission last time. Delicious spaetzle, a beautiful fairy as a landlady - who needed all the luxury I could afford in theory? And even if the lioness was going to hunt me - for that butt I'd gladly be the prey!

"Master Cormac! Please excuse my absence when you first came here!" John Lamb greeted me as soon as I entered his study. He smiled, shook my hand and invited me to sit.

"I assure you, General, I've spent the time better than I could have even dreamed of," I replied, settling back and still feeling the blissfulness in my stomach.

"Then I'm relieved," Lamb smiled again. "So shall we exchange some more pleasantries or just get down to business?"

"The latter sounds good," I said with my mind still circling around rosy-cheeked Valley lying on my table.

"Alright then!" Lamb cleared his throat and straightened his back, putting on a firm expression. There couldn't be any doubt about who he used to be before he became Collector of the Port of New York: a determined Son of Liberty and commander of the Second Continental Artillery Regiment.

"I'm sure you already have the most important information about our situation: Connor, the son of Grand Master Haytham Kenway, and his Assassins are in control of almost everything and we Templars lurk in the shadows. Our major attempt to restore the Order two and a half years ago resulted in a disaster, mainly because of our own inner conflicts."

I nodded. "I was told about the hostage-taking of Connor's men and the Nathaniel Cross incident. Dozens of Templars and city guards dead and Fort Rodrigo in the Caribbean lost to the Assassins; a whole Templar fleet destroyed."

"There is more," Lamb said. "That whole affair brought Connor together with Meggie the Parrot. You probably haven't heard of her ... In the late sixties and early seventies she was an angry kid, the daughter of an Assassin of the old Brotherhood, trying to avenge her mother on her own, having business with smugglers and occasionally making money as a contract killer. Later she disguised herself as a man, joined the Continental Army and after the war she unknowingly married one of our fellow knights. And she was also a close friend to Master Nathaniel Cross." He sighed. "Long story short, she murdered her husband, helped Connor to kill her best friend, lives now in the Davenport Manor and is the mother of Connor's son. What is important, she compensates for Connor's greatest weaknesses: honesty, naivety and idealism. He might have been manipulable earlier, but now he has Meggie. It's her who has built a semi-criminal network all over the States in order to stabilize the Assassin influence. Unlike Connor, she doesn't follow a moral code and often acts against the principles of the Creed.

"Because of her we can't gain a foothold in North America again. Not if we try to establish our order the traditional way. Assassin spies are everywhere. Our new strategy is to use the Assassin information network to our advantage. And the key to this strategy is a young Assassin recruit called Walburga Frederike Fern, née Meisser. She has contact with the Assassins only since the Nathaniel Cross incident and joined the Brotherhood officially less than two years ago, but she has turned out to be a very precious ally to them: She lives here in New York and runs a very frequented tavern, so you can imagine how much information comes across her just by itself. And apart from that, she's an exceptionally pretty woman and knows how to ... handle men and loose tongues. Despite being married she probably has slept with half of the men in this city, she has good contacts with powerful officials and can make almost every man work for her. She's only twenty years old, but in less than two years she has gained incredible power and has become the center of the Assassin information network."

Hearing this, I felt my now much less happy stomach convulse. Why did I have such a bad feeling about this?

"Your task will be to tail her," the general continued mercilessly. "Find out who she talks to, how the network functions, intercept letters, sprinkle misinformation ... and most importantly, don't get caught. As you already know, your three predecessors were brutally killed after only a few days. Mistress Fern refuses to carry any weapons and fights with whatever she can find. So instead of a clean cut through the throat our last spy ended up with a tree branch rammed through his left eye. You should have seen the face of the washerwoman who found his corpse hidden behind a fence."

The sweet cloud-castle of good mood and plans collapsed like a house of cards as I faced the eternal unfairness and irony of life.

"I'm afraid it's too late to not get caught," I said, staring motionlessly out of the window. "If this Mistress Fern is also known as Valley, then she's my well-spent time during your absence."

Lamb's jaw dropped and he went all pale. "Did she figure out who you are?"

"Sure she did," I replied with a brief look at my Templar ring.

Lamb widened his eyes.

"You're a dead man."

"Not necessarily," I said as an unexpected thought came to my mind. I jumped up to my feet and walked towards the window, as if the answer was written on the skyline. "What you told me about her may be true, but she's not a femme fatale. Such women are usually good actresses, yet Valley, on the contrary, is exceptionally honest. She doesn't hide that she likes attention. She does what she wants, and her wishes are written all over her face. She can be rude to other people without meaning and even noticing it when she's focussed on something else. Just like a child. She may be a 'queen', but she's not a 'Cleopatra'."

Lamb raised an eyebrow. "What if she's just a very good actress?"

"She isn't," I said firmly. "If she were, she wouldn't have eyed me so obviously."

"She eyed you?"

"Why, yes," I smirked. "She has a good taste, actually. But she might still want to kill me."

"This sounds a bit like you have a plan," Lamb said slowly and with visible difficulties to keep up.

I felt like I was ready to go as I turned to him and smiled. "I haven't. But I might figure out one if I observe the situation for a bit longer."

"You're dead man, Shay," Lamb repeated, remaining deathly pale. "Yet still, good luck."

"I make my own luck," I said decisively as I walked out of the room.

Just what was I doing? The realization that Valley wasn't a maneater had made me more optimistic than Lamb, but she still was an Assassin, so I had to be careful when I returned to the Black Horse Tavern. Actually, I couldn't stop wondering why she hadn't tried to kill me during my first visit. After everything I had done to Achilles' Brotherhood I was sure the American Assassins wouldn't hesitate to cut my throat at the very first opportunity. Valley was a very young member, yet it was unlikely she didn't know about the Templars the Assassins hated most. So why hadn't she tried to kill me? Considering what she had done to my three predecessors she didn't seem to have any scruples carrying out her Assassin duties.

The moment I darkened the door of the Black Horse Tavern I remembered that I had been "marked". What did it mean? The sailor who had told me that seemed to know Valley's habits, and given the gazes I received once I entered the tavern for the second time almost every one of her guests knew them as well. Was it some kind of a ritual? I couldn't help but feel like I had gotten into some weird sect.

Valley's guests obviously admired her, and it was difficult to say who served whom. It was Valley who provided them with food and ale, but it was them who were as nice, polite and submissive as possible. Everyone tried not to miss an opportunity to say a compliment, some tried to engage her in a conversation and others just sighed in disappointment, giving me jealous looks. Since Valley wasn't the only pretty woman in this world, yet one of the very few who had their own cult, I figured that the relationship between her and her guests was more complicated than mere admiration of her beauty and that it would take me some time to fully understand it. Yet I had to try. I was sure her guests were unknowingly part of the Assassin information network.

This would be a long evening full of concentration and observing, so I decided to soothe it with an ale. Having a stein in my hand would be much less suspicious anyway. So I asked one of the waitresses to give me one, found a nice place by a window, leaned against the wall and followed every step of Valley's with my gaze, trying to understand her strategy.

She hadn't been in the room when I entered, and I had blended in with the other guests, so she didn't notice my presence at first. She still wore her blue dress, breezing barefoot over the wooden floor, but this time there was a plain black ribbon with a steel Assassin symbol around her neck. Her other guests didn't seem to pay much attention to it, and they actually didn't have to; because she wore it solely for me.

Why did she do it? Was it a warning? Why would she warn me? Some less rational part of my mind offered the theory that she might just try to be fair, because she had identified me as a Templar while it was obvious that I hadn't identified her as an Assassin. Or maybe she knew about my meeting with Lamb and thought that it didn't help to hide her Assassin identity any longer. Or she wanted to reassure me that she really was my enemy.

I thought about her porcelain skin that had been so close to me only a few hours ago and muttered a curse. I knew how to deal with beautiful women and I knew how to deal with Assassin women trying to kill me. But only once I had been in a situation when I had to deal with a beautiful Assassin woman trying to kill me. Or maybe she wasn't really trying to kill me. I never found out why Hope didn't just kill me when I was lying in front of her and decided to poison me with gas instead. The only thing I understood about that night was that it was one of the worst experiences in my life and that I didn't want it to repeat.

"Pity ... You had so much potential ..." And her fingers caressing my face. Maybe in another world everything would have worked out differently and I wouldn't have missed chances, wouldn't have killed those who used to be precious to me and I wouldn't be the last man alive from those times.

I noticed that I was peering into nowhere, turned my gaze back to Valley and ... this was when we locked eyes; when she noticed my presence, staring at me across the room with her beautiful eyes and her cheeks rosy like cherry blossoms. Her bosom rose and sank as she breathed deeply, yet her expression was serious and wary, and this time her eyes didn't seem to look through clothes but tried to read my mind.

As heat pulsed through my veins I realized that coming back here was the worst thing I could have done. Everything around me suddenly blurred to a rush of monotonous colours and silent humming, and something inside me burned, yearning to burst outside and take control over my mind and body.

I knew what had to be done: Without any further hesitation I left my stein on the sill and hastened towards the exit, hoping that Valley would stay away from me.

But she didn't. Just before I reached the door she appeared right in front of me, so close that I could even smell her. I stood like rooted to the spot and felt like a thirteen-year-old boy seeing a woman so close for the first time. Coming here ... bad idea ... I was on a mission ...

"You're marked," she whispered as she stood up on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around my neck. "And besides, it's cold outside."

I couldn't believe how easily I gave up on my life as I let her kiss me.

To be continued next Friday ...