Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

December 26th 1776

For a Southern state, Virginia was so terribly cold.

George mulled over his desk in his sizable plantation home Mount Vernon, passed to him after his dearest brother Lawrence and his widow passed away. Quill and paper scratching was the only noise that echoed in the study, the chattering of overseers only faintly heard below his window.

“I hear the bar in town is getting rid of stale ale for pennies, if we can get out of here”

“...can't let Master Washington hear us…”

If George had any right mind he would have flung open the windows of his study and fire both overseers for even thinking of such disloyalty, but George was nothing if not in control of his emotions, a trait that he had relied on greatly to get where he was today, and so, he continued to write.

The winds whistled outside, and for a split second, he couldn't help but understand the plight of his overseers, having to work out in the cold, of course they'd rather run off to a warm tavern with cheap alcohol. But he shook his head, thinking back to his time in the Braddock Expedition, the frigid biting cold with nothing but thin standard army issue for protection. No, they would have to serve their time just as he did.

Rubbing his throbbing temples, George placed down his quill and cast his icy blue eyes outside, gazing across his plantation. A thick fog had settled across his lands, grey skies hung gloomily overhead, a rumble of thunder threatening a cold shower soon. He could hardly even see his tobacco plants from where he was, emerald leaves coming up fuzzy in the backdrop, as if he hadn't put his spectacles on yet. The winter months have been horribly harsh this year, and it seemed the clouds carried both poor weather and a sour mood.

George could hear Martha humming in the room below, tune in time to the clacking of her needles, and it earned a quirk of a smile at his lips. He got up, thinking he earned a break from his work for once. It was certainly piling on him, the war, the brotherhood, his own finances: it all weighed heavily on his shoulders, but he knew his shoulders weren't the only one who had held such a burden. Wandering through his neatly polished study, he came to the fire, soft flames licking his boots and providing warmth to the unseasonable chill of the outside. He could not hear those overseers anymore, perhaps they had given up with their work for the time being as he had for a chance at some warmth. 

Clasping his cold hands together, he looked up at the painting donning the mantelpiece like a Catholic might pray at an altar of Mary. Dearest brother, how he wished he could have lived to see what a man George had made of himself, but that was what he was there for, to uphold his family and his country; a glorious burden passed from Lawrence to him in a manner of great trust. He closed his eyes, letting his soft eyelashes brush against his red cheek and thought back to all those years ago to his last conversation with Lawrence.

It always cheered him up in times of need. Kept him grounded in times of ecstasy. But sometimes it just helped him get through another dreary winter day.

“That garden party feels like a lifetime ago…”

July 26th 1752

“Brother, are you sure you shouldn't be in bed?”

“I am fine George!”

Lawrence pushed away George’s reaching hands, his eyes filled to the brim with worry, not entirely convinced but certainly not one to question his older brother. George sighed softly, knowing how famously stubborn he could be. Lawrence looked over at his rather pathetic puppy dog eyes and shook his head, he knew George would be restlessly fretting over him until he had something to do. The opportunity presented itself once Master Wardrop, Master Smith and Jack Weeks made themselves known, ready for the briefing regarding the hunt for the manuscripts. Lawrence turned to George, putting on his bravest face for him, that twinkle in his eye he knew soothed him faltering in his iris.

“Be a good host for my sake: go to the wine cellar and get something special for our guests.”

George beamed, happy to be of use, impressing both his brother and his powerful friends. Such an eager boy.

“I will!”

He bowed courteously to the others, his ginger curls bouncing in his queue as his cheeks grew rosy from smiling.

“Gentlemen”

And off he bounded, recalling the best wines they had on stock to present to the group, muttering to himself. Lawrence waited until George’s bright red uniform had turned the corner before letting himself cough again, the drooling weight of sickness slumped heavily on his shoulders. He stumbled into a chair, his limbs hardly able to support his failing body anymore. But that was secondary to the matter at hand. The Templar matter.

Lawrence loved George, he loved him more than anything, but his youthful face masked an ambition he couldn't possibly fulfil alone. He knew he had to take care of his little brother once he inevitably left this world.

“My brother is a bright spot in a troubled land…”

Lawrence addressed the men around him, but something made him pause. He took a moment to gauge his surroundings. Perhaps he wanted to take in the few days he had remaining. Perhaps he was wary of an assassin’s blade. Either way, he held his thoughts for a moment. The sweltering Virginian summer heat never stopped even during the late evening, the soft chirp of grasshoppers sounded in time to the merriment of the garden party. Lanterns swayed in the sweet warm breeze, illuminating the satisfied guests below mingling amongst flowers and liquor. Lawrence couldn't help but smile, as much as it pained his muscles to move. There was so much beauty left, but such beauty comes with responsibility. His smile falters ever so slightly.

The silence is too much for Wardrop to take and he brings it upon himself to drag Lawrence out of his own spiralling mind.

“Master Washington?”

His voice is distant in Lawrence’s ears, but he acknowledges it nonetheless. 

“If I may make one request before I depart from this life…”

A fit of coughing paused his train of thought, hunched over the table, the dribbles of blood coming from his spit stained his usually pristine shirt. The men exchanged sympathetic, but hardly surprised, looks.

“Promise me that you’ll… you’ll…”

More coughing. Blood poured down his chin in specks, head thundering as Lawrence struggled to even utter a sentence. He forced his drooping eyes open, only letting in a blurry image of the night sky and vines climbing up the sides of his gazebo wood as he gazed upwards, trying to position himself as to not choke on his own saliva.

The twinkling stars looked on at Lawrence with pitiful optimism. He could hear rustling behind the house, with a few curses following. He chuckled weakly, that must be George. He always struggled with the latch on the door to the wine cellar.

Lawrence had made up his mind.

“Promise me…”

Lawrence paused, just in case another coughing fit came. The other men leaned in, eyes pricked up to what their master had to say.

“Promise me you'll take care of George when I'm gone. He's so very young, and I do not know of any men of higher quality character than yourselves. A mere boy of twenty cannot navigate the world himself, as much as he believes he can”

A dry laugh lurched up his throat, but it was so scratchy he couldn't be sure if it was a laugh or a splutter.

“We will respect that sentiment sir”

Weeks interjected, and the nods of the rest of the men confirmed the wish to be accepted. Lawrence was content.

“You have my thanks gentlemen”

The rest of the evening was spent discussing the progress of decoding artifacts Lawrence had gathered from Barbados earlier last year. The backdrop of shaking leaves and friendly chatter from the party made a pleasant scene, even if the discussion was anything but light. The Templar cause was one close to Lawrence’s heart, and he would hate to depart from the world before he could see this project through. It seemed even if he didn't, it would be in good hands. Wardrop and Smith were capable men, they would know what to do. And maybe even one day…

No. That would be George’s decision. He will owe the Templars gratitude but not loyalty.

“I bid you good day gentlemen”

The men surrounding him bowed and took their leave, rejoining the party. Smith took an immediate beeline towards the punch and Wardrop took to unsuccessfully flirting with a pair of young women. Weeks slunk back into the shadows, as he was so very good at doing. Well, it couldn't all be business after all.

Lawrence let his mind rest for a while, closing his eyes and folding his arms, suppressing his chesty spasms as hard as he could, wishing nothing more than to let the evening wash over him in gentle waves, and eventually enjoy a glass of wine with his brother, once he finally made his way out of the cellar.

Unfortunately, Templars rarely get what they want.

The first thing Lawrence felt was panic when he felt a hidden blade pierce his skin, hot blood flowing onto his usually so neat clothes, and rough hands clutching his head and body. The second thing Lawrence felt was a guilty relief. The assassin had dark hair, tied back with a sturdy ribbon and eyes burning with unfettered fire, with words to match. He was young. The assassins always loved them young. Perhaps that's why he asked the Templars to care for George. He couldn't take any risks of the assassins getting to his mouldable, innocent mind first.

He spoke of foiling his plans, of serving justice, the usual jargon Achilles would spill into their empty heads. Lawrence merely coughed weakly, feeling his vision darken and fingers grow colder despite the warm air. He tried to break the poor young man from his flawed worldview, hoping in his last moments he could try and save the boy from throwing his life away before it ever started. He never felt anger towards him, he had seen so many like him slaughtered in unnecessary causes, from war to the assassin brotherhood and everything in-between. After all, he had done Lawrence a selfish kindness: a quick death instead of wasting away in a bed, each breath more difficult than the last. He closed his eyes as he sensed the young assassin lying him on the floor to dive into some bush, escaping the scene of the crime. Lawrence's only regret is that he never got to say goodbye to…

“LAWRENCE!!”

The crash of a wine bottle against the stone floor was only just recognised by the dying man. He would have reprimanded George for dropping such a good bottle of vintage if his brain wasn't shutting down. He felt himself being picked up again, held much tighter this time, and warm, wet droplets fell onto his face and clothes.

“No… no…”

All Lawrence could see was a fuzzy face, covered in freckles and framed by sweet ginger locs, with tear stained blue eyes staring right back at him. Lawrence nearly smiled.

Ah, so he did get his goodbye after all.

Such a lucky life he had lived.

August 26th 1752

“Master Washington, I first wish nothing more than to extend my condolences to you. Lawrence was a fine man and a finer leader.”

Weeks sat in the parlor of Mount Vernon, opposite of George, sipping at a cup of tea brought out for the two of them. George’s was ice cold and still full to the brim. The youthful glow that always seemed to alight each brief time Weeks had met him in the past was gone, replaced with a cold, stony atmosphere, as if there were literal walls being built up to protect George from any more hurt.

“Your condolences are appreciated, sir.”

It didn't sound like it.

Weeks pressed nonetheless.

“That last night me and your brother spoke, he asked of us a simple request: that we see you are kept in good care-”

“I do not need care. I am not a child.”

George snapped back with uncharacteristic emotion, his eyes boring holes into Weeks’. Still, the Templar held strong. He had dealt with less receptive recruits in the past, the tantrum of a grieving teenager was nothing out of his scope of ability.

“We are not proposing that kind of care. I will not sit here and force you to listen to commands… however…”

He took a sip of his tea, letting the anticipation hold in the air for just the right amount of time.

“Your brother, you see, was working on something. A project to decode a device, a pursuit in… natural philosophy, you can say…”

George’s demeanor shifted ever so slightly, showing to Weeks the childish walls he holed himself in could be broken down.

“...your brother merely asked us to make sure you faced no struggle after his passing, but this project, this cause, was near to his heart, just as you were…”

Weeks caught George biting at his lip, chewing it to force back any tears threatening to break through. He was vulnerable.

“You do not need to say yes. You can reject our offers if you wish, you are in full control here Master Washington.”

Liar.

“But the Order is gaping at the loss of your brother… and I know of no one more capable of filling his boots than you.”

George dared a quick glance at Weeks, revealing everything he was feeling in that moment with a single glance of his glassy eyes.

“If you simply wish for our financial support, your brother has given explicit instructions to care for your needs as seen fit. There are no strings attached there.”

“I do not need financial support.”

“Then I apologise for wasting your time Master Washington. My condolences, once again.”

Weeks stood up to leave, calling for a slave to grab his coat, but before he could, a cracking voice stopped him. Weeks looked back at the boy. Lip trembling, eyes filled with resolve and a stupid, impulsive look on his face.

“Wait! Wait… Mr Weeks… this project Lawrence was working on…”

Weeks curved an eyebrow, pausing his movements as if considering sitting back down again.

“...I can help. Deal with this unfinished business, like Lawrence would have wanted. Then we can talk about… whatever initiation you have planned.”

Weeks smiled. It almost unnerved George.

“A noble choice, Master Washington.”

He took his coat from the slave nonetheless, looking back at George with a renewed interest. Perhaps he could make a good Templar out of him yet.

“You will receive word from the grandmaster soon, Master Washington. We gratefully accept any help you choose to give us at this time. May this be the beginning of a… fruitful partnership.”

He grasped George’s hand in a handshake, but brought the knuckles to his lips. George had to fight all his urges not to jerk away in that instance.

“May the father of understanding guide us. May he guide you, George.”

Weeks left with a swish of his coattails and a tip of his wide brim hat, a glint in his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. George simply stood there, the pit at the bottom of his stomach only growing as he ran a shaky hand through his hair.

“Oh George… what have you done now?”

He almost heard Lawrence say.

Never the matter. The walls had already closed in on him now. Perhaps the Templars would treat him with more tender care and stability than his own family had offered so far.

George only hoped his decision was the right one. This is what Lawrence wanted, right? For George to continue on, march alongside his brethren in whatever strides were needed to keep peace and prosperity flowing?

Wasn't it?

Wasn't it?

…

December 26th 1776

George shook his head, pulling himself out of the summer hazes of youth and firmly grounding himself back into the present. The biting cold of the present. One last gaze at Lawrence's portrait was enough to satisfy his nostalgia for the time being and he returned to his desk, the plush seat providing ample support as he returned to his work. 

Gripping his quill, he continued to pen his letter, the focus returning to his brow as he reminded himself where he came from, what he was doing. The letter he was replying to sat nearly folded beside him, amongst the many other letters he got from admirers, friends, family and other members of the order. A strange sensation came over him as he felt his Templar cross necklace hang ever so slightly heavier against his neck. His eyes flicked towards the letter again, and moving calloused hands against the smooth oak wood of his desk, he unfolded the parchment.

Dear Master Washington.

George read in his head.

I have received word from Master Lee of the state of the rebels. The winter has not been kind to them.

George snorted a laugh. It hadn't been kind to him either.

He suspects some of the more dedicated soldiers are planning a surprise attack. The kind of attack you make when you are backed completely against the wall. The sign of animals in fight or flight.

Crossing the Potomac on the day after Christmas celebrations. Disorganised and desperate. But one can not help but appreciate the blind faith in such a cause. I hardly believed someone like General Knox to advocate for such a poorly planned attack, but beggars can't be choosers. And no one is more on their knees begging than the Continental Army.

A smile quirked up on George’s mouth. As much as it pained to see his country suffering at the hands of war, a sliver of his pride is happy he had the foresight to avoid such a disaster as the continental army had become, especially since he has been offered the position when he served Congress. George found his skills much more at use from the true side. The Templar side. But he would not let himself get wrapped up in thoughts of self praise, and continued to read.

Achilles' new heir continues to be a thorn in our side. He is proving more of a challenge than previously thought. Please arrange a time to discuss this when most convenient for you. And perhaps by then, we will also know of the outcome of the attack. Maybe we are too quick to judge, and a Christmas miracle will grace the freedom blinded hopefuls.

May the father of understanding guide us.

Grand Master Haytham Kenway.

George began to scribble back onto his paper, a response to ensure a date of meeting. It was always lovely when the grandmaster graced his presence in George’s home. Perhaps he could tempt him to Virginia, take a break from the inhospitable winters of the North. If there was one thing George was grateful for, it was that he was stationed here and not Massachusetts. He has seen what being a farmer in Massachusetts has done to a man, just look at the state of that short, snappy Adams fellow he’s had the displeasure of hearing about often in the papers.

As George melted his seal wax over a half burned candle for his letter, a young messenger came to his door, wearing the Templar cross. He bowed to his superior and handed a note from Charles Lee, scurrying from view as to not let information not meant for his knowledge pass through to him unexpectedly. George opened the letter in curiosity. The messenger boy looked incredibly harried, as if he had rode full speed without stopping for hours straight. George had requested frequent updates from Lee regarding the state of the continental army (George still kept his keen interest in military matters after all) and the letters scrawled in desperate handwriting made George’s stomach twist in the strangest way.

Plan failed. The army is massacred.

Not even a signature. He only had the boy’s word that it was from Lee. 

George sighed, and called for the messenger before he could leave, sending him with his letter to the Grandmaster and a healthy tip to ensure swiftness. The messenger wasted no time, rushing down the stairs and zipping away from the grounds on his incredibly exhausted looking horse. George gripped Lee’s letter in his hand. He only prayed Lee made it out in one piece, at least he did not waste time primping up a professional letter discussing his potential demise. The only sense of comfort now was the Templar cross once sealing the paper. No, the grandmaster would not let his second in command go into such a risky situation without a contingency plan. Lee was a smart man. He would show up eventually.

Lawrence’s eyes stared right at him.

He shook any feelings of doubt crawling up his skin and left the crumpled sheet on the desk for later. After all, he had the grandmaster visiting soon, and he would not wish to seem impolite in front of Haytham Kenway of all people. Finally escaping the confines of his office, George stepped into the hallway to tell Martha of the news that an important guest was to arrive, and it was imperative the house looks spotless. 

Dear brother, the violence shall not be in vain.

Chapter Text

June 15th 1775

“Such circumstances have never fallen to my lap before Master Kenway.”

George brought the cup to his lips, taking a modest sip of tea.

“You understand my deep love for my home. You understood Master Lee’s, at least”

Haytham sat on the other side of the room, gaze giving nothing away. Tensions were rising high in the country, the shouts on the streets called for liberty, representation.

Freedom.

The situation was of utmost interest to the Order.

The call for equal representation in Parliament had only grown stronger in the passing decades, taxes upon taxes thrust upon an unwilling populous, George being one of them. He wasn’t especially pleased with his tobacco being sold at such absurd prices for the benefit of the King, but he would never do something brash like open rebellion. The English were reasonable creatures, Haytham more than proved that, and there was no such need for extravagant violence. He joined the newly formed Continental Congress, alongside long time (unwittingly, of course) helper of the Templars Benjamin Franklin in the hopes that his finances would see better futures if they could approach the British Crown with cool heads and polite sociability.

They did not.

The King (which some have taken to calling him ‘mad king George’, Haytham preferred not to call him that and George had to agree. Having the same name as the King meant the term felt unreasonably personal at times) rejected each proposal of reform, declaring the colonies in outright rebellion and ordering the army in Massachusetts to take action against the rebels. The blatant disregard for the wellbeing of the people and economy outraged George. The rebels may have disrupted the order of things but the Government, instead of doing right and seeking authoritative, stable action merely indulged in the violence of the mob. And now, a military was needed to counteract the British threat. The shrill John Adams, against the not-so-subtle disagreement of his unlikeable assassin-aligned cousin Samuel, wished for George in all his militaristic glory to take on the mantle of the Commander-In-Chief of the continental army. George was nominated, and it seemed very likely he would receive the role if he so chose to accept. 

That led up to now, where George was sitting in the parlour of dear friend Benjamin Franklin’s home in Philadelphia, discussing the situation at hand with grandmaster Haytham Kenway and how to proceed. Franklin was away at the time and was generous enough to lend his residence to friends. “Any friends of Shay are friends of mine!” Franklin first said when George revealed his own acquaintance with Shay. However, despite their shared creed under the Templars, he can’t say he was ever close to the man. Matter of fact, Shay seemed to actively avoid George when he could help it. George always found it strange, he can’t recall ever doing anything to the man.

He can’t even recall ever looking into Shay’s eyes before.

Never the matter. Shay was away in France for the time being, he believed. Maybe someday they would warm up to one another as George had warmed up to Franklin. It wasn’t Shay’s approval he was seeking anyway.

Haytham broke the silence.

“Master Washington, you know as much as I have come to respect and rely on Master Lee, in the end he is a man of his own convictions, I could not have stopped his joining the continental army if I had tried.”

His steely gaze settled on George’s. Despite George being a man of unbreachable conduct and confidence, he will admit at times the only thing that brings cracks to his façade is Haytham’s wintry stare. He suppressed the urge to swallow a dry throat.

“If you believe in this cause, and you want to disrupt and fight the British army in the name of your tobacco plants, feel free.”

You could draw blood with the sharpness of his words.

“I already have men in all ranks of the continental and British army for intelligence and influence on either side of the conflict. Your joining would be neither a detriment nor an advantage to the Templars, and weighs entirely on your own political consciousness.”

He paused to take a sip of tea, setting it down elegantly on the saucer. How kind of Franklin it was to let us use his china. Tea had been especially hard to come by since the assassin’s meddling on the Boston harbours.

“What will it be then?”

There was no beating about the bush this time. The question was crisp in execution and clear in its intent. Haytham wanted to know now, and it wouldn’t be revealed whether or not he approved until after the deed was done. For a moment, George felt like a boy again, reprimanded by his mother and making him decide his own punishment, withholding any affection until the decision had been made. The steadying feeling his patriotism tended to give him seemed swept beneath his feet, as he was torn between his country and Haytham’s approval. Of the Templar’s approval. Was his deep seated wish to see his country thrive best seen through his army service or his service to the Templar cause? Could the two come together? Lee had managed to do so, but George feared it was only because of Haytham’s reliance on him that he was able to get away with such brash acts like joining rebellion. Offering olive branches to the British in order to settle political disputes was one thing, it was another entirely to lay down your loyalty and life to a cause so thin as tax dissatisfaction. Those in Europe were calling the colonists crazy. Foolish, foolish souls driven to violence by the congress who were whispering promises of freedom into their disgruntled ears. 

George didn’t want that. He never wanted that. He never wished to send these boys to their deaths and much as he didn’t wish to see them be sent to their deaths at his own hand in the French and Indian War. He couldn’t face that guilt again, especially when how deeply in vain the cause is. Hopeful farmers with pitchforks weren’t going to topple the British army, and it is of no concern to Haytham whether or not a Templar holds the top spot in the army. Lee had a chance at it anyway, but Haytham never truly shirked his assassin upbringing by insisting a degree of lurking in the shadows was always necessary to conducting Templar business swiftly and safely.

Perhaps it was for the best for the country. He wouldn’t wish to have his hands covered in blood as he pulled the corpses of his countrymen through fruitless rebellion and overblown promises.

Perhaps it was best for the Templars. One of the important masters was already on the field, it would be senseless to put two out there in the wake of danger.

Perhaps it was best for George. His selfish heart did not want the weight of such responsibility anymore.

“... I will announce my rejection of the nomination tomorrow.”

A flash of what seemed like relief passed through Haytham’s eyes. The clock on the wall was ticking far too loudly for his liking, and the walls felt like they were closing in with every stuttered word. Both men were eager to go home.

“I see, good day Master Washington.”

Before he found it in himself to leave however, Haytham paused, his coat half on as he spun to face George.

“I’ll ask Master Lee to send you frequent updates, if it would soothe your soul.”

“Yes grandmaster, it would most.”

Haytham acknowledged the request and stood up. He tipped his tricorn hat, a wrinkling of the skin by his eyes and lips as he left with a friendly farewell. Well, as friendly as Haytham was capable of. All of a sudden, George let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding and let the room expand alongside his lungs. An empty feeling settled in his chest cavity, as if he had avoided some kind of fate. The eyes of Franklin’s portrait stared back at him, a mischievous smile played on his lips as his eyes gleamed with an oxymoron of worldly wisdom and ignorant bliss to the situation happening right under his nose. George let out an amused huff. Despite his rejection of the rebellion, perhaps he could still play a role in the revolution. That little spark of hope made his emptiness feel that little less enveloping, and he left the residence with a smaller burden than when he entered it.

June 16th 1775

“This country and its causes are no less noble and good to my heart and mind as before this nomination. However, as kind as this opportunity is, and I hold only the utmost respect for the character of the men who put my name forward for scrutiny…”

George glanced over at John Adams, perched in his little table for Massachusetts. Sometimes George wasn’t as honest as he was cracked up to be.

“...but I cannot accept such an honour when I know other men with more skills, vigour and education than I would hold the position with far more glory than I could ever hope to achieve.”

George laid out his excuse wrapped in a package of humility, his humbleness earning some approving nods in the sea of wigged heads.

“Therefore, I would rather you consider another man for the role. I suggest a dear friend of mine, Mr Lee, or perhaps young Mr Knox for your consideration. Both men have proved their patriotism and dedication to the cause far more than I have, and as such I would see it greatly fitting if either one of them were given the role you have so kindly offered me.”

His Templar cross necklace hung heavier and heavier against his neck.

“I bid you gentlemen good day.”

The rejection speech was met with polite applause and immediate deliberation on which man would actually accept the role. Feeling his presence was no longer needed, George left the congress, hoping maybe some solitary time would help satisfy his nagging conscience, however he was cornered by Lee himself. George expected some words of thanks were in order for his recommendation (as rare as Lee’s gratitude ever was) but was shocked to be pulled aside with an iron grip, a grim look shadowing Lee’s face. He dragged the pair of them into a dusty corner of the statehouse, the rumble of bureaucratic happenings could be heard from the chamber ahead.

“Master Lee? What-”

“Washington. You rejected the offer.”

His eyes were dark. A whirlwind of emotions were pushed to the bottom of his stomach as George responded.

“Yes. I suggested you or that boy Knox in my absence.”

“Why?”

“I…”

George hesitated for only a moment before responding. He didn’t entirely know himself. Selfishness? Fear? Loyalty? Logic? Nothing quite fit his line of thought.

“My talents lie elsewhere. Grandmaster Kenway agrees.”

Lee’s eyes narrowed, the tension was steadily rising. George just wanted his peace.

“I need you there, Washington. The colonial army could have been entirely under our control if you took it.”

“The grandmaster said there was no need to expend more than we already have.”

George responded, refusing to be spoken to like this. His voice grew frosty and demeanour uninviting. He rarely liked to use his height to his advantage, but since he spectacularly trumped Lee, he found it difficult not to look down at him. But that did not deter Lee’s mouth, in fact, it quite enabled it further.

“Fine. You’ve made your wish, and so has the grandmaster, I hope your endless time back home will be as fulfilling as it is pointless.”

Lee let go of George and stormed off. George never liked being on the receiving end of Lee’s tantrums, but it felt like a rite of passage for an elder master to have gotten on the wrong side of Lee at least once. He considered it a gift of seniority if nothing else.

But he was wrong to assume that Lee’s words had no effect. George prided himself in his selflessness, in his dedication to the causes he set himself towards, but a part of him can’t  help but feel he betrayed a cause he felt strongly for. The mumbling of the men he had grown accustomed to during this whole strife for representation only wormed their way deeper into his heart. George wanted no part in the destruction war had on his country and its people, but what is worse? Participating in the destruction or standing aside and letting it bulldoze across the once peaceful prairies? There was only so much one man could do, he would remind himself, but every second spent in this heated coffin of a statehouse drew more and more breath out of George. He sped as quickly as his manners would allow to the exit, a gulpful of stale Philadelphia air filled his lungs as he gasped for breath outside. His heart spasmed in his chest, sweat growing icy against his skin and head feeling like it was being crushed by a rock. Not wishing to scare any passers-by, he dove behind the building, huddling into himself like a scared child. George had no idea why this was getting to his very core so painfully, yet it was there anyway, and there felt like no escape.

Pointless…

Pointless…

If he wasn’t a man of the army, if he wasn’t serving the country, what was he?

What was he?

George hung his head low, specks of white powder used to hide his ginger hair fell across his shoulders as he ran a shaky hand through his hair. With all this rustling, his necklace dangled unceremoniously under his shirt. Pushing aside social conventions, he reached into his shirt, doubly checking to make sure no one could see him slumped in the muddy ground against the grimy red brick building, and took out his Templar cross. He focused his eyes, already becoming misty with extremely unwanted tears, and held himself a bit straighter. Yes. That's what he was.

A Templar.

Fiddling with his necklace in his fingers, he felt himself be grounded bit by bit, the smooth metal and pointed edges pulling his senses from the brink of hysteria. The dreaded weight of history’s eyes on him slowly closed, no longer was his fate with the revolution, which he had reluctantly accepted as the world escalated around him. His fate was with the Templars only. It's what he wanted.

It's what Lawrence wanted.

And so, he let the criticisms of Lee and the shocked faces of Congress slide off of him. Dusting himself off and drying his own tears, he faced his new fate beyond him. That unexplainable feeling that he denied a keystone of his own legacy vanished at the proposition of making his own legacy, his own path with the Templar rite. After all, this rebellion still had much use to the brotherhood, and as such, so did it have use to George. Lee would navigate the battlefield of war and George would navigate the battlefield of bureaucracy. Not quite as bloody, but just as dangerous. May the revolution lead to a new age of order.

May the father of understanding guide us.

Chapter Text

September 26th 1752

George felt he had been sitting wallowing in his own pity long enough, and found himself focused on his military commission once he had sufficiently dried his tears.

A kind man by the name of Robert Dinwiddie gave George a rather lovely position as a major, mostly an office role, leaving ample time to squeeze in his newfound Templar duties.

Weeks made good on his promise, frequently meeting and exchanging letters, giving George leads on these, what he had come to learn, ‘precursor artifacts’. Despite Weeks unnerving George in the beginning, he had come to rely on his somewhat unstable presence and constant stream of work and advice. For such a strange man, he seemed to provide ample comfort for the grieving boy. They often went on missions in pairs, Weeks may have only been a year older than George, but he acted like a mentor in many ways. Weeks taught him of the order and its rites, he taught him of their mission and the ways to accomplish it, but most of all, he trained him. 

Their time spent together sneaking, climbing and dodging was originally much too shady for George’s liking. There was no honour in the methods of thieves after all, but he soon changed his tune as he realised they weren’t methods of deception, yet methods of protection. Sneaking from the enemy when wounded was logical, not cowardly, to live to fight another day. Climbing the rocks of cliff faces and the stories of Mount Vernon strengthened the boy more than he ever had before, and before long he could nearly catch up to Weeks in a race to scale his plantation home. Dodging attacks during conditioning was altogether much more pleasant than getting hit in the face multiple times and simply forcing yourself to brush it off. All these skills proved useful in the hunt for these so-called artifacts, much of the time being spent navigating through woods and caves, concealing oneself from the native peoples of the land lest you invoke their wrath for trampling over their sacred grounds in the name of graverobbing. Through these many life-threatening missions, George felt himself grow closer with Weeks, and by extension, to the goals of the Templars themselves. The idea of an organisation, a family , to be part of grew evermore appealing, and the more time he worked on their projects, the more he was tempted to accept the path of initiation into the Templars that Weeks had proposed last month.

The man who finally tipped the scales was none other than Colonel George Monro.

“ Huff… This will be the time! I swear to it!”

George panted as he grasped onto a window ledge, hauling himself up the front of his house with increasing speed each time. Right beside him was Jack Weeks, a cocky smile spread on his face as he hardly broke a sweat leaping from one grasp to another.

“Hm, you know I don’t go easy on boys just because they’re young and beautiful, better step up the pace Washington”

He teased as he swiftly overtook George, hardly acknowledging his offended ‘ hey!’ behind him and lounged casually against the red title of Mount Vernon’s roof. Not too far behind was George, pulling himself in a gasp for air before he flopped himself beside Weeks, shoving him playfully after he laughed at the misplaced confidence of his words beforehand. George had been getting better at climbing, although it seemed his talents lied better in scoping the land for threats and treasure. That time as a surveyor must’ve come in handy. George kicked his legs over the edge of the rooftop, his eyes trailing the open scenery of his land, the upright positions of the trees and the soft curves of the hills provided a gentle backdrop to his new life. He could hear Weeks sighing in pleasure too, the golden hour of sunset radiating sweetly against his skin, tendrils of light spilling across the fields, bathing the world in a gorgeous glow. George smiled at Weeks’ reaction, such moments of peace that flashed across his features were rare, and almost were exclusively held when he looked upon things of great beauty: like a sunset, a hard-earned artifact, or George when he finally perfected the move Weeks had been teaching him. Nothing soothed George more than knowing others around him were happy too.

“You show incredible promise Washington”

Weeks broke the silence, turning to face George. Despite only being in training for a month, he had picked up their routine with ruthless efficiency, and Weeks couldn’t help being impressed. A young, rich boy rarely adapts to such physical demand so quickly; George not only handled it, but embraced it. 

“How do you feel about your work? What you’ve done so far?”

“It’s been hard, but rewarding sir. The Order and yourself especially have been kind and understanding of my progress.”

Weeks nodded thoughtfully, but with a knowing smile that gave away his intentions ever so slightly.

“That attitude hasn’t just caught my attention. There’s someone eager to meet you.”

“Who might that be?”

Just as George questions who he’s caught the eye of, he spots a brown steed carrying a man in the redcoat colours up his road. The man seemed senior in his years, yet built with an impressive leanness and muscle which indicates he could easily match a younger man in a fight. For a moment, he thought it might have been Dinwiddie, paying a call on business to assign a new post for George, but the strange man admittedly had nothing in common with his army superior except his red uniform. George became increasingly curious as Weeks’ smile only grew, and he rolled his eyes as they scaled back down the walls again, just in time to meet his new guest. The older redcoat reared his horse back, and landed onto the ground with a resounding thump. Here, George could get a proper look at the man before him. Tall, if not as tall as George himself, with a whole head of white hair, powdered as the fashion dictates, and with curls at the side distinguishing him as  a gentleman. Despite his commanding presence, he had an aura of kindness about his face, each wrinkle etched in by time revealing a colourful and exciting past. All of a sudden, for a strange reason, George craved the approval of the man before him, and reached out to shake his hand. The man responded with a comforting reciprocation.

“Colonel George Monro, at your service, forgive me for intruding so suddenly, Mr Weeks said you may not mind, but as I could see, you were both engaged in… what, some kind of training activity?”

Monro turned to Weeks, shaking his head in good nature as he jokingly reprimanded him.

“Why on earth would Major Washington feel the need to scale buildings, Weeks? Honestly, are you training him to join the Templars or the Assassins?”

That name made George’s jaw lock ever so slightly tighter, his eyes hardening. He had learned fairly soon after agreeing to Weeks’ proposition that it was an assassin who had killed Lawrence. The murder was senseless, he was already one foot in the coffin as he was killed, the only reason they could derive from it was that the assassins merely wished to use his death as a mode of sowing chaos amongst the ranks of the Templars. Little did they suspect George’s co-operation so soon, and eventually, the assassins would get what was coming to them for their flagrant disregard for human life.

Of course, George kept his silent threats of revenge within his head, but that didn’t stop little signs of emotion spilling through onto his face. He hadn’t quite perfected the art of suppressed feelings just yet, and Monro sensed this, tipping his head to the side ever so slightly, offering a look of sympathy. 

“I’ve heard plenty about your training from Mr Weeks here, Major Washington, he tells me you’re coming along far quicker than expected.”

George felt a flush against his neck at the compliment, letting the smallest of satisfied smiles quirk against his mouth. Monro continued his flattery.

“I had to see it for myself, of course, but I would also like to extend an… offer.”

Monro reached out to touch George’s red uniform, hesitating as if to ask ‘may I?’ before touching the silver detailing that lavished his trim.

“I understand your matters in the army and your matters with the Order have since been separate, but how would you like to kill two birds with one stone?”

George let Monro touch his uniform, calloused hands running across the dyed wool, as if he was appraising George like an item at the pawn shop. George shifted in his boots at the weight of judgement being placed on his shoulders, uncomfortable at the scrutiny he was being placed under; a small part of him worried that he would disappoint the Colonel. However, the approving quirk of his lips seemed to indicate the worry was unfounded.

“Your superior, Lieutenant Dinwiddie, is a good friend of mine, if not of the Order, and he has had many fine things to say about your work for him as of late. I have proposed that you continue your duties posted by the Ohio River Valley, where not only the army but the Order could use your help.”

“What do you need of me sir?”

“And polite too, what a honourable young man”

Monro’s laugh was sweet and addicting like honey, George wished he could drown in his approving words.

“The Ohio River Valley is being fortified by the French, courtesy of the assassin’s help. There are supposed clues to precursor artifacts in the region, and we cannot let the assassins or the French have the upper hand, I’m sure you can agree.”

Monro paused, and finally drew his hand away from George’s shoulder after it had lingered there just a touch too long. George found himself longing for it as soon as it left.

“Loyalty, Major Washington, is imperative, to both the British army and the Templar Order, surely you of all people can appreciate that sentiment. I understand if you wish to keep your matters with the order and army separate, then we can forget this conversation ever happened, but if it would so please you, Mr Weeks and I would be honoured to continue your training alongside your military work in Ohio. Two birds, one stone.”

Not just Monro, but Weeks would be following along too? George nodded vigorously at the proposal, not only would this boost his standing in the army, but in the Templars too. He also had a sneaking suspicion this placement was an excuse for a more ranking member of the Templars to analyse his work, judge his dedication, and induct him into the order proper as seen fit. His cheeks bloomed red at the proposition of proving himself to his seniors, and confirmed his feelings with a toothy grin.

“Yes sir, I would be most honoured at the position sir, if you will have me. When will I be leaving?”

Monro chuckled at his enthusiasm, his rich blend of Scottish, Irish and English dialect sending shivers down George’s spine.

“Eager, I see. That's good, we need dedication such as yours in our ranks. If you are so interested, we can make arrangements as soon as tomorrow.”

George smiled. Truly smiled, probably for the first time since Lawrence died. He had a new home now after all, and a new family to bring honour to.

“Then we ride at dawn, sir.”

September 29th 1753

The posting in Ohio had proven to be fruitful.

That night after the offer had been extended to George, he hurriedly placed his affairs in order, packing his military necessities and ensuring Mount Vernon would be in the good hands of his mother, sister-in-law and the overseers. He hardly slept that night, he was sick with nerves, but the sunrise of the next day arrived mercifully quick, and George greeted Monro and Weeks on horseback, ready for the long, arduous journey from Virginia to Ohio. They stopped for breaks, and the whole journey took just under a week. A little slow, but Monro needed to deal with orders from his superiors in the army and Weeks… well, Weeks insisted he had business that could not be put off. George was wise enough not to ask.

After the arrival at camp, George found it pleasantly easy to settle into his new role. The camp welcomed the men with an expanse of muddied grounds, shouts of training soldiers and the whistling of off-white tents in the wind. The air smelt fresh, wild, virgin and ready to be explored. A sense of excitement filled George, and exchanging a smile between himself, Monro and Weeks, they trotted their horses to the stables and set up their new lives here.

Weeks was not a part of the British army, and held no obligation to stay at camp, a freedom  which he flagrantly abused. He would come and go without so much as a goodbye to George, sometimes with the seductive shadows of the night concealing him. It stung ever so slightly, but George eventually got used to the older man’s quirks and noncommittal nature. After all, Monro more than made up for that in spades.

Monro was not essentially his superior army-wise, he still answered to Dinwiddie after all, and he wasn’t initiated into the Order just yet, but that did not stop George from showing the man just how much he respected him. As entertaining it was to train with Weeks, Monro pushed his discipline to the limits, truly showing himself as a man who had dedicated his whole life in service of his country and of his honour. After an entertaining session rushing through the untamed frontier forests with Weeks, climbing and swinging from tree to tree, he often found it best for his character to return to Monro, with explicit orders and rigid routine to make sure George did not get too comfortable with the smoke and mirrors of trickery. Monro made a point of keeping a nearly suffocatingly close eye on George, constantly evaluating his skills from shooting to sword fighting to socialising to writing. Monro insisted there was more to the name of a Templar than graverobbing ancient civilisations, and that upholding the name of the order in polite society was imperative, even if the name and actions of the order were rarely divulged. The Templars did not just accept any ruffian into their ranks, and as such, George could not stoop below their standards if he expected to be accepted. Lucky for George, if there was one thing he was good at, it was worming his way into polite society.

“Your form is off Washington”

Monro critiqued George’s foot stance as the two of them clashed their swords together, the scrape of metal piercing throughout the field. George shuffled on his feet, only narrowly dodging a swing from Monro as he widened his stance to defend his position.

Unfortunately, such sudden movements made him trip on his own boots, letting Monro easily cut in and land a blow. In a struggle to parry, George lost his balance and fell face first into the mud with an almighty squelch. Damn, he had just got his uniform cleaned too.

“You’re distracted”

Monro phrased it like a statement, but the question prying from the surface wanted to know what was wrong.

“Sorry sir, Weeks kept me up late last night”

It wasn’t entirely incorrect. They were having a camouflage training session, requiring the inky blackness of night to feel its full effects. Weeks chased George all throughout the bushes, bobbing in and out of view, well into the wee hours. George, for the most part, was found much quicker by Weeks than he could find him back. George blamed it on his lobsterback uniform, but Weeks jokingly blamed it on his fire flame of a hair colour. Not very fair, George insisted, if Weeks got to have dark hair and a darker set of clothes to escape into when in hiding, while George only got the brightest flames adorning his body to make do with. Weeks insisted they’d find a way to work around his clothes, if not his hair, someday.

But that wasn’t the reason for his wandering mind. George had gotten used to his nightlong adventures with Weeks, and had adapted to much less sleep because of it, this time it was due to a proposition given to him by Dinwiddie. He had been impressed with George’s work in Ohio so far, and wanted to appoint him a role as envoy to the French for land acquisition. The honour was huge, and if Dinwiddie so chose to give him it, it could imply a promotion if everything ran smoothly. The only problem was, his work here for the Templars was far from done. Not even close. A year of operations had been excellent in the view of training, George taking down plenty of assassins, thwarting their plans, but in terms of decent leads to precursor sites, Ohio had come up dry. Monro seemed not to mind, it was clear this was a pattern of failure he had hardened his heart to, but the sensitive soul of youth George still held took offense at his lacking wall of achievement, and his eyes began to wander elsewhere for glory. In his impatient mind, that meant Dinwiddie’s offer felt more appealing than ever. But a pit wouldn’t stop nagging at the idea of betrayal. Betrayal to Weeks and Monro, to the Templars, who had provided him with purpose. But George was still young and stupid, and that shining city on a hill was not going to pillage itself.

Monro grasped George by the scruff and pulled him back onto his feet, brushing off excess dry dirt from his epaulettes. Monro always said it was ok to wear his civilian clothing for Templar matters, but George wouldn’t wish to be spotted dressed down in front of his superiors, no matter where from.

“You’re quite the terrible liar you know. Now tell me, what troubles you?”

George sighed. His mother said much the same to him during his childhood. He sheathed his sword and forced himself to face his own greedy ambition, even if he had a sheepish face about it the whole time.

“Dinwiddie has suggested I be sent as special envoy to claim land from the French.”

“And when would you be leaving camp?”

“Next month, if all goes to plan”

Monro pursed his lips for a fraction of a second. George felt a cold pit envelop his senses.

“...is this to do with the Indian involvement too? The Iroquois?”

The dry lump in his throat only grew heavier. He longed for Monro’s usual kindness more than ever.

“Yes sir. They can provide information on French stations and the army has it in their interests to begin friendly relations with them.”

“I see.”

His coldness was harsher than a New England winter. George held firm, but could barely bring himself to look into Monro’s eyes. The tension in his heart was stretching him thin, and all he wanted was the slink away like Weeks did in these situations. But George couldn’t do that, his hair and clothes were too red, and so he was stuck in a box like Schrodinger's approval.

“Walk with me Washington”

Monro didn’t give George a second to reply, and grasped him by the hand, looping their arms together as they paced through the daily happenings of the fort. Soldiers were marching, others chatting in the mess tent as thick smoke from the cook’s fire billowed into the sky. Somewhere, the drummer boy was practicing his timing.

“Are you satisfied with the work you have done here? For the Templars?”

George opened his mouth to give an excuse, to skirt around the question, but Monro bore his eyes into him like a hungry wolf. That man could read George’s mind like the Sunday paper, and he knew it was no use lying to him.

“No sir. I am not.”

“Good.”

George snapped his head to face Monro, eyes wide like saucers. Good?!

“I sense your confusion, but all in good time. Breakthroughs for precursor sites here have been unfulfilling, and I see this opportunity means much to you, the next stepping stone in your career in the military, it would seem. I was much the same when I was given the opportunity to sail to the new world, instead of being stuck in the confines of the emerald isle for the rest of my life.”

Monro squeezed George’s arm, and George felt that cold pit defrost ever so slightly, although the chill remained.

“It would be of great interest for your own person as well as the interests of the Templars if you were given that envoyship Washington. I’ve been told by Master Johnson of… secrets kept by the Iroquois.”

George tilts his head to the side like a puppy. Monro suppresses an amused smile.

“Master Johnson makes a point of his connections with the Indians, always insisting on the imperativeness of their co-operation if we are to hold advantage not just over the French but over the assassins. Perhaps he was indulging in my loyalties by sweetening the argument against the French, but if it worked on me, I am sure you will understand it as well.”

“What will you have me do then sir?”

A warm spark in his eye.

“Your progress here under my eye has been most interesting. The other masters of the colonial rite agree. I spoke to Dinwiddie to encourage this opportunity, and thankfully you have been just as dedicated to your performance to the army as to the order. He agreed with little need for convincing. Complete this journey with distinction, and you may find an official induction into the order as well as a promotion.”

The frost had melted. George was accepted into his new family.

Chapter Text

January 1st 1777

“Master Lee made it out alive, but many others cannot say the same.”

George had been successful in his temptation, and strung Haytham all the way down to Virginia in just a few short days. However, he had arrived late in the day, and the sun sunk deep into the horizon, royal purples and peasant blues swallowing the sky and dotting it with bright spots of stars in its wake. The nights have been stretching longer and longer, and its extending reach has only dampened the already sombre mood of the two men. The pair of them felt no need to sit in the parlour, not when the topic at hand left little room in the head to dedicate to sitting still, and so they retreated into Mount Vernon’s garden. George looked wistfully at his plantation mansion, at the curves and ledges he’d grab at during his youth, scaling and laughing with Weeks. He still does jump from one hold to another, when it's late and Martha has fallen asleep and the overseer has ditched his post for the tavern. But those moments are best left to the private inner of the soul. He would never ask his grandmaster for such a frivolous detour, no matter how much his heart craved to be light again.

The scrawled letter received from Lee had etched its way into all of George's thoughts the moment he got it. He blamed himself, almost. If only he had done what Lee said, and taken that position in the army, he would have never ordered such a risky move. Lee would not have to be scurrying away from Hessian forces like a rabbit in hunting season. General Knox may have been a promising young man, but the fatal flaw of youth still clung to him as an unwanted stench he was desperately trying to scrub himself of. To prove himself. George couldn't bring himself to hate him for his foolishness. Sometimes the only thing that cleanses you of the stench of youth is a baptism in blood.

God knows George experienced his drowning baptism long ago. He did not need to be received into adulthood twice.

“Do we know where he is now? Lee, of course, but also the army. What is their position?”

Haytham strode forward, the crunch of snow beneath his heavy black boots, the only thing blacker being his mood.

“I've done my best to keep in contact with Lee, but the army is scattered, at best. His letters are frequent, if inconsistent.”

Haytham kicks a pebble, watching it as it bounces its way up the path. It's clear he wanted to kick harder, but he was not one to break his coolness in front of his peers. George respected this.

“He does not know how many men were lost in the fighting, let alone how many of our men. But some of those I've been speaking to have suddenly halted their correspondence, and I can only assume…”

Haytham trailed off, letting the silence speak for him. George chose the same, and instead let the situation stew in their minds, the troubles clinging to them like orphan children. The crunch of frozen dew below their feet echoed in the deep valley, a soundtrack to their regret.

Him and Haytham had grown close since George rose to the title of master Templar. They were much too similar in some ways, to the point they would frustrate each other with their similarity, and would need a breath of fresh opinion to calm the waters. But nonetheless, their friendship persisted.

Haytham was cool headed. He was a man of conviction, efficiency and when needed, ruthlessness. But he also cared, much to his own dissatisfaction with himself, leading to a horrible sense of shame permeating any kind words he had to say, any shred of vulnerability cloaked in the disguise of good manners. George had known the man long enough to see when these feelings slipped through the cracks of his façade, the shining of his eyes looking a little too wet, the upper lip seeming stiffer than usual. The features were dim in the winter moonlight, but they were there. He was an observant man, George, and credited his ability to read a person and social situations to his far reaching prospects in life. He noticed the heaviness of Haytham’s words, and let the thickness drip through the night sky like molasses. He knew if he tried to push for a greater emotional entrustment, he would only clam up further. George simply waited. 

“...I have a new lead for you”

The pressure of silence was too much for Haytham to bear. He would lament his men soon, but for now, business.

“I have heard rumours of a powerful precursor artifact arriving on American soil from British soldiers. Despite my own efforts, I have yet to pinpoint exactly where this artifact is. All I know is that it is an apple of Eden.”

“And how do you propose I seek this apple out?”

“Well that's your job Washington, I'd hope you'd have head enough on your shoulders to figure something out.”

Haytham snapped back, his words cutting. George did not flinch, this was not the first time he had been on the receiving end of a blade. He saw a brief flash of regret in Haytham’s countenance after the outburst, but George knew his pride was too much to admit it.

“Apologies Grandmaster, I will see to it that my contacts are on the lookout.”

“Good.”

The conversation ended abruptly, only the whistling of wind in trees responding to the questions left unanswered. The wind mostly passed through George, but it was clear it was affecting Haytham greatly, shivering under his dark cloak. George would’ve thought he'd have better resistance to the cold, living in the north, but perhaps it wasn't about that.

Never the matter, they were circling the edge of his estate anyway, and they were coming back to the mansion soon. Martha had a fire stoked and warm cider prepared, it would be a welcome embrace from the surrounding freeze. 

Surprisingly enough, Haytham broke the peaceful air. George was content enough with letting the guilt fester and rot in his bones, but it seems Haytham needed an outlet, if only a small one.

“I am not confident in the abilities of the continental army. I so wish I didn't place so many good men in it.”

George nodded solemnly. Should there be anyone who knew of the crushing loss of loving and losing his men, it was George.

“I have heard talk of the French sending some soldiers over to them, perhaps they can be suitable replacements. Boys rebelling against their fathers in search of glory and status.”

George swallowed. One man cannot carry glory and honour by himself, if it does not bring glory to the family, it will only crush the boy wielding it. And he will be too stupid to stop it.

“Perhaps fresh blood will be needed, after all, if the British are allowed their German soldiers, can’t the colonies have their French? It seems only fair.”

Haytham was rambling now, senselessly weaving and bobbing through conversation topics like tactics, philosophy and loss. In times like this the best method was to stand back and let Haytham get it out of his system. George would have his time to decompress, but not here, not when honour was at stake.

They arrived at the home at last, and Haytham realised his mistake, excusing himself before Martha even had an opportunity to offer him a mug. George did not take it personally, if you took everything Haytham did personally you would have enough complaints to fill an encyclopedia. George simply sat himself by the fire, sinking into the red velvet of his armchair and let the flames lick at his frozen cheeks, pulling the rosiness up from just beneath the surface. The cider warmed the rest of his body, the sour apples reaching the tips of his toes to the crook of his nose, flushing his body with heat. The living room was lavishly decorated and cozy as a mansion could get, books piled by the hundreds in cases of dark mahogany, fire-burned iron encased the roaring flames within the hearth. George loved the comfort it provided him, but his soul yearned for another.

He kissed Martha goodnight, promising to join her upstairs after the fire had been stoked out, and took himself outside. The air hit him even harder than before, the chill finding its way back into his skin as he let it seep deep into his bones once more. His lands were lost to him, not just because of the dark cover of night, but also due to his own failing eyesight as he grew older. George ran his fingers against the white wood of Mount Vernon, feeling the paint crack beneath his touch. Once he gripped that familiar ledge, he took a breath, and let himself go.

His hands struck true as he scaled the building, fingertips reaching into the panelling, chips falling off with each unnecessarily rough grasp. He wasn’t as fast as he once was. He was now in his mid 40s, not that eager young boy jumping about like a red rabbit with Weeks anymore. Nevertheless, climbing still found a way to soothe his soul, to set it free if only for a moment. His practiced hands knew the best route upwards, muscle memory kicking in as his arms flexed in-between each grab. The wind blew against his back, and nearly knocked his hat from his head, but yet he continued up till he reached those comfortable red tiles that decorated his roof like jewels. The roof was crystallising the damp sheen, icicles pointed their fingers to the ground, and frost creeped its way like vines all the way up to his thighs. George hoisted himself to the edge, letting his feet dangle yet not daring to kick them. He laughed in bitter irony, perhaps he would blend in better into the redness of his roof if he kept his ginger hair and lobsterback uniform. Never the matter, he seemed to always be out in the open as much as he didn't wish to be there. Maybe Weeks was right.

George stayed up there for a while, simply staring off into the distance he couldn't see. The blackness of the night was comforting to him, and if he sat on his roof, he'd be even closer to the all enveloping darkness of the night sky. One day, George promised himself, he would be able to slink into the shadows at his will, and stay there. Find his peace in the crevices of the world without circumstance constantly pulling him out of there. Maybe one day.

He was expecting another update from Lee soon. He half expected a messenger boy to tumble his way down the road now, but such hope was dangerous to hold on, especially at night. George resigned himself to his fate and stood up to retire to his bed, careful not to slip. He saw his usual bundle of hay by the edge of the roof, rustling in the breeze. Standing on his toes, George let the fear pass through him as if it were wind, shut his bright eyes, and exhaled on the jump. Despite his advancing age, he could still boast an athletic ability far more than many men, even the young ones. The wind whistled like an eagle's cry in his ears as he tumbled forward in a somersault and landed straight into the hay bale below, cushioning his fall. Feeling much more refreshed after his own solitary decompression, George made his way back inside, putting out the last of the fire with water and dressing into a clean nightgown to join Martha in bed, who was already fast asleep. In the other room, he heard restless shuffling from Haytham, clearly unable to sleep. Neither could George that night, but it was hardly his place to intrude on the other man’s troubles.

The next morning the messenger boy arrived with the letter from Lee. George thanked the heavens that could not cover George well enough with its shadows that it had managed to do so with Lee.

Haytham seemed much happier the next walk about the estate.

July 31st 1777

“Order! Order!!”

The halls of the continental Congress were packed with French teenagers, the eager boys Haytham mentioned those months ago, squished together like pigs for the slaughter. George sat at his table for Virginia, rapping fingers against the wood to drown out the excited chatter in strangled French. Hancock was desperately shouting for conduct amongst the chaos, waving his gavel like a madman. Eventually, the worst of the raucous died down, and the room was addressed.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, you will receive your roles in due time, but please settle!”

The boys ceased their chatter and looked over at Hancock, a touch of impatience in his eyes, with a blank look. Good God, did they not even bother to learn a lick of English before abandoning their homes for revolution?

“The Congress will deliberate on your appropriate assignments, please wait for your name… your…”

Noticing the sea of dumb horses looking back at him, Hancock sighed, chewing his nail.

“And these are our saviours of the revolution?”

He murmured under his breath, praying no one else heard. He leant over to the caretaker.

“Find every representative in this room who can speak even a speck of French and get them to sort it out.”

The caretaker took his words to heart, and began to herd up every man with a sliver of decent education to speak with the hapless teens. George, thankfully, was not one of them. His lack of schooling, always a point of embarrassment for him, seemed to have saved him from the toil of bureaucratic organisation. 

George had kept his post in the continental congress, at the request of Haytham, to keep an eye on the government proceedings on the patriots side. The British rite had more than enough insiders in the house of commons, so Haytham worried little about the information coming from there, however it did lead to George becoming quite indispensable, and carrelled into being at every meeting of Congress, no matter how endlessly dull the topic at hand was.

Or how noisy, in today's case.

Expecting the caretaker and his colleagues to be a while, George entertained himself with the paper, flicking through pages and pages of defeat after defeat for the continental army. Since the disaster at Trenton, the army has barely been able to get back on its feet. The French crown refused any meaningful help if the situation was so in vain, it was nothing more to them than a petty venture to expend resources against the British. It's probably why the men hounding them at this moment were here instead of real troops, the scraps to give to dogs, cannon fodder, at best. The sweaty business of the room suffocated George, who only dug his nose deeper in the news to avoid any unneeded conversation. The sweltering heat of July did the situation no favours either, choking him with his own necktie. Perhaps once they were all eventually court martialed for treason, George could convince the British rite to save him from the noose with a few well placed letters of recommendation from Haytham, and he’d never have to visit this filthy, hot statehouse again.

Nestled so far into his own ignorance, George didn't even notice himself being snuck up upon by one of the swarths of young men, a hand reaching out to tap his shoulder most unbecomingly. George grunted in frustration, not even bothering to turn to face him. He did not wish to lose his temper in front of a stranger, and if he could just be left in peace it would be leagues easier to maintain composure.

“Apologies, I do not speak French”

He dismissed him with a wave of his hand, hopefully it being enough to deter his new pest.

It was not.

“Please, ah, Monsieur, I… I speak, ah, littzle bit of English. Can you not… uhm… help, moi?”

George sighed, placing on his usual mask of politeness and turned in his seat. He was met face to face with one of the French teens, and teen he was. He couldn't have been older than twenty, a soft baby face with rosy red cheeks, long pointed nose and the widest chocolate eyes absolutely drowning in hope. His light brown hair was tugged back in a messy queue, obviously still getting used to doing his own hair after a childhood of his mother doing it for him. He stood arms clasped behind his back, a look of delighted confusion on his face as he and his comrades struggled to make sense of the older representatives’ poor attempts at communication. He was dressed in a relatively fine suit, but clearly not as fine as he is used to. Aristocrats’ boy, George assumed. He had an air of ignorance about him George had only ever seen surrounding the sons of rich plantation owners, shielded from the world until they bite off more than their prissy little mouths can chew and end up with poison on their lips. George decided it best to at least point the boy in a helpful direction, lest he cling to him the rest of the session as hapless children tend to do.

“Might I know your name first?”

He started neutrally. No room for love nor distaste. He would not allow such choice for either himself or the stranger.

“Ah! Of courze, I apologize to you Monsieur. My name iz Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier de La Fayette, Marquis de La Fayette…”

George stared at him blankly.

“If it is… uhm… more easy for Monsieur, I am Lafayette…”

He straggled out a cough from his throat, hot red blush encasing his face, making his cheeks even more childlike than they already were. George let an amused smile grow against his features, if only at the boy’s expense.

“Mr Lafayette, a pleasure. Mr Washington.”

He extended his hand, and Gilbert paused only a moment before grasping it tight in response, shaking vigorously.

“Now, tell me Mr Lafayette, what do you need?”

George asked. Gilbert’s eyes lit up in response, happy to have at least gotten through appropriate introductions without falling flat on his face. His English still wasn't too good after all, and he meant no offence. George pondered if he could even offend a fly, and this child wanted a post in the army?

“Ah, uhm, I- I can not understand Monsieur Hancock… I can zee he is, uhm, speaking a lot, and very very loudly…”

George couldn't help but chuckle.

“...but me and… uhm, how do you say… Mon Amis can not understand… can you explain better Monsieur?”

George rolled his eyes, but they seemed to do so without malice. He felt the child’s innocence chip at his stony exterior ever so slightly, and so he got up, striding towards Hancock with purpose, Gilbert trailing behind him like a lost kitten, expression hopeful for answers. George spoke to Hancock, and helped arrange the growing pile of confusion as Gilbert wrung his white hands behind George’s back. The newspaper was left abandoned by his table, and the boys fell in line much faster than Hancock could have made them do so. George couldn't help but feel a flickering of pride in his chest. Despite being out of the military for some time now, he knew how to command a battalion. Perhaps the war could make decent soldiers out of these schoolkids yet. Gilbert grasped his arm behind him, and to George’s own surprise, he didn't bat him away.

“Merci, ah, thank you, Monsieur Washington.”

His smile was genuine, honey-sweet, simply begging for George’s approval. George smiled, and extended a nod that gave him what he wanted in spades.

By the end of the session, Gilbert was offered the position of major-general. Symbolic, mostly. He’d hopefully end up working with Lee, giving George plenty of excuses to ask about his wellbeing. He'd receive his baptism soon after all, and George wasn't so cruel as to let him be baptised alone.

August 26th 1777

“I do believe you'll find this young gentleman to your liking. It pleases me greatly to see not just the army but members of Congress like yourself showing a keen interest in their development into commanders.”

George read from a letter from Franklin. Franklin, after all, was the one who encouraged Gilbert across the sea. Perhaps Shay was the one who convinced him to send the easily mouldable into their laps.

“I understand you may feel some frustration at their unseasoned nature, but in the case of the Marquis, all he needs to let himself flourish is a bit of training. I am glad capable men such as yourself are taking on such a burden so selflessly, especially considering you have no responsibility within the army at all.

The Marquis will be of excellent use to whichever cause he applies himself to. I trust you that you will guide him to the correct one to lay his life before. Just be gentle in your actions and he is sure to follow you to the end of the world.”

...

“Huff… Monsieur Washington! Please!”

Gilbert cried out for understanding, but it fell on George’s deaf ears and he raced through the grounds of his plantation. Gilbert wished to be trained, and so, train him George shall. What better way to begin training than some physical exercise? Which could be easily accomplished through running laps about his land.

Since meeting Gilbert during the day of commission, George had begrudgingly admitted the child was growing on him quite quickly. His partiality towards Gilbert grew only stronger each day he spent with him. Lee teased him for it when George first inquired on the boy’s health, and Martha teased him even harsher when he first brought him up in conversation. Something about him brought up a sense of protectiveness in George; he had never found helplessness appealing, it wasn't the same sense one would get from saving a baby chick blown from its nest in the wind. No, Gilbert had something different. Potential, yes, but eagerness, beyond all else. He was eager, he was desperate; a sponge to soak up all of George’s words and ideas. George had asked on a few occasions why in asking for advice, he approached him and not his commander Lee. Gilbert at first skirted the question, but admitted eventually that Lee scared him a little, and George has been nothing but gracious to him since his arrival. George laughed at this. Lee scared him a little too sometimes. But as George dragged him to another lap of the land, Gilbert was regretting choosing him over Lee ever so slightly.

“Come now Mr Lafayette! You are young! Surely you can maintain stamina at this pace!”

George laughed, looking back. At least Gilbert’s English has improved since arriving, fast learner that one. But seeing how he heaved each breath like a dying animal, George thought maybe to take his pace down a notch and took it to a light jog, letting Gilbert catch up. He dragged his legs across the floor, kicking up dust in his wake as he tugged at his increasingly tightening collar.

“Monsieur! Augh… might… we… try something… else?”

He wheezed, and as they turned a corner to the back of the mansion, George had an idea. Stopping abruptly, almost toppling Gilbert from his balance, George pointed to the tip of his roof.

“How do you feel about your upper body strength sir?”

Gilbert, thankful for even stopping, heaved in a gulpful of air.

“Hah… anything… anything other than this Monsieur Washington…”

 “You see those ledges there?”

He guided his line of sight back down the wall of the house, hand floating between each windowsill.

“Oui Monsieur”

With only a cheeky smile he hadn't expressed since his youth, George flung himself to the first windowsill and began to climb upwards with impressive speed. Gilbert’s eyes went wide, and George hardly heard his cries from below with the ferocious wind billowing through his ears. 

“Monsieur! Monsieur! Sir! Mizter Washington!”

Gilbert shouted out, until his mentor had pulled himself up to the first roof. Realising there was little getting out of this, Gilbert gingerly raised his hand to the first ledge, heart jumping in his throat as the wood felt… less than stable.

But looking up at George’s expectant eyes he was not one to make a coward of himself in front of his superiors. He may make himself a fool, however, but that was neither here nor there, and so, steeling himself with whatever courage and breath he had left, he heaved himself up to the first rung, digging nails into the wet panelling like a frightened cat. His arm extended outwards, pulling himself up another landing, if not slipping in his boots first. The touch was unpleasant, and his muscles ached, but he made his way up, slowly, surely. The vision of George staring down at him like a proud Zeus to his Ganymedes fuelled his passion to please, heat and sweat coming from each pore, and he lurched his body weight up each and every ledge.

“Monsieur!”

He cried, and just faintly before the cool wind, Gilbert heard a reply.

“One more push, Mr Lafayette”

Squeezing his eyes shut, mouth dry and head thundering, Gilbert made that one last reach upwards, hoping to strike true. 

He did not.

His sweaty palm failed him, slipping against the smooth tiles and sending Gilbert into vertigo, the world narrowing around him to nothing more than George’s face and the knowledge of his own fatal mistake. It all happened so fast, and his cheeks ran cold for the first time. Heart skipping a beat, it took him a moment to even recognise he was falling.

“Gilbert!”

George bellowed, a crescent of fear crashing into him, dropping his heart into his stomach. He doesn't even remember reaching out to grab him, his darkly cold hands grabbing his warm ones like they were his last connection to the earth, and dragging him upwards to the roof. Gilbert gasped, scrambling for even footing as he made his way to George’s side, clinging to his suit so hard it might rip. George did nothing to stop this.

Gilbert buried himself into George’s chest in response, whispering sighs of thank yous and repressing barely audible sobs. George seized at the contact to begin with, the unfamiliar sensation flushing his frozen core, but he hesitantly wrapped arms around the boy, holding it for just a moment before pushing him off. Gilbert looked up with fear and respect in his eyes, laced with the deepest loyalty George had ever seen. He clapped a hand onto Gilbert’s shoulder and smiled.

“What do you know of the Knights Templar, Mr Lafayette?”

Chapter Text

November 15th 1753

“Weeks, how did you become a Templar?”

After George had accepted the honour of acting as envoy, the pressure to perform increased tenfold. The honour of himself, his family and the army were on his shoulders, and although the burden was heavy, the hefty weight was pleasantly soothing. The burden had chosen him.

But the burden of duty didn't just fall on him. George had accepted the offer as envoy once given to him by Dinwiddie in October, and the journey through the frontier hadn't been easy, but George knew exactly what he was doing this for. Monro was unable to accompany him on his journey, he was a master after all, an important man, and was needed on more urgent business elsewhere. It stirred some jealousy within George in the beginning, but it was quickly blown away with fawning as Weeks came along instead. It made George bloom warmly in his chest with pride; Weeks had no loyalty to the army, yet he was there by George’s side guiding him through his journey, and even aiding his men when needed. He was a kind man, deep down, George thought. Simple circumstances pushed him to the frugality he is used to, and he had precious little time to indulge in the luxury of generosity. Luckily for George, it seems he had made enough of an impression to be rewarded with such brief encounters of selflessness. 

Weeks had became somewhat like a brother to George, and while no man could ever replace Lawrence (this sting was still sharp in his soul), Weeks had handled his role with utmost care and consideration, passing on his previous mentoral role to Monro. But there was a part of George that couldn't quite shake that Weeks didn't fit in the role of brother, no matter how he tried to fit it, like he was destined to be something else for him. This was shown most clearly through George’s impenetrable faith in Weeks. Despite his less than trustworthy background, he was by his side, on horseback, into the unknown territory where a band of Frenchmen or native warriors could spring at any moment and slaughter the lot of them. That was the loyalty, George thought, that wasn't born of merely similar goals, it was born through similar character. George trusted few as much as Weeks.

“I’ve already told you this story, Washington.”

Weeks replied in his usual matter of fact tone, a tone that had come to reassure George instead of put him off, but George isn't one to back down too easily. He spurred his horse closer to Weeks’, and nearly nudged his shoulder.

“Ah yes, your vague past and faceless troubles. A very fulfilling explanation.”

“Sometimes the less you know the better you’re off.”

Weeks rolled his eyes. He knew he wasn't going to get out of this, but he was going to make George work for the information.

“Sometimes it's best not to reveal your secrets too soon, you never know how it can be used against you”

Weeks smiled in the way George knew he was teasing, but that didn't stop him from scoffing.

“Too soon? Sir, I have known you for a year, and I don't even know your parent’s names!”

He pouted, and Weeks couldn't help but laugh. His horse whinnies beneath him as they move onto rougher soil, the leaves rippling above their heads and dappling them with sunlight. The gentle flow of a stream could be heard below, and the chatter of his men behind him was amicable. If the looming threat of their mission were not hanging over their steps, George would have called the place beautiful.

“And how will knowing my parent’s names help with your understanding of my character?”

Weeks taunted back, fingers fiddling with the reigns of his steed.

“A man is only as tall as the shoulders he stands on”

“Do they have to be the parent's shoulders, however?”

“With your silver tongue I'm not sure why you haven't gone into philosophy yet!”

“Give me a quill and a week and I'll put Thomas Hobbes to shame”

George felt himself relax into the banter, laughing as Weeks ran circles around him in words. He would get an explanation out of him yet.

“Fine. I will let go of questions of your parentage if you just tell me about your induction into the Templars.”

Weeks rolled his eyes, but gave in, an amused smile playing at the edges. The foliages shadowed his face partially, obscuring his eyes from George’s view. Even then, George knew they held a wistful soul in them, as much as Weeks insists otherwise.

“You drive a hard bargain Washington. Fine. You know Christopher Gist?”

George nodded. Gist had met them halfway through the journey, and now accompanied them both through the expedition. His expertise of the land was second to none, and George was embarrassed to admit that he owed the man his life twice over now. First from the eager bullet of a native American, unhappy at George’s flagrant trespassing, the second, George was paying far too little attention to his movements on a raft and had to be pulled out from the freezing cold river by Gist like a pathetic kitten. From the pause in conversation, George heard Gist laugh from the back of the line, making conversation with the others George had picked up for his ragtag gang of merry men.

“Hah. The man who saved me from certain doom twice? How could I forget?”

“Well it seems he is in the habit of saving stupid boys from themselves. I was a poor child, a thief, in the beginning. I've told you this, or if not, I'm sure you're not dense enough to let the circumstances of my skills wash over your red head.”

George chuckled, brushing a strand of ginger curls from his forehead and tucking it back into his tricorn. Weeks nearly reached out to brush it away himself, but believed his focus best being on riding his horse.

“Then Gist found me. It was a cold day, I believe. But every day is cold in New York.”

George had to beg to disagree.

“I was wandering through the streets of Albany, little more than a courthouse and a few farms where I was, pinching pockets for whatever could feed me that night”

Weeks could feel the disappointed stare of George burning into his back. He knew George hated hearing about his less than legal activities; a pang of guilt plucked in his chest.

“...the market was unusually busy that day, people were hollering to be heard for their goods, and the slightly built twelve year old I was could weave and dodge between the livestock and vegetable barrels like it was a straight and narrow track. Most of my poor victims were virtuous farmers, unawares of their misfortune until many moments after the fact. 

“Behind the apple vendor's stall I saw a well to do looking man, much better off than the other persons who normally populated these townages. He had sandy blond hair, a tailored suit and an air of confidence about him that drew me in. His countenance was not aristocratic, that haughtiness wasn't present, but of success. I assumed he might have been a surveyor or merchant. Either way, he had what I wanted: money.”

George couldn't help but feel a wave of sympathy, as well as familiarity. He remembered feeling much similar.

“Thinking to take my chance on a richer payout, I snuck up behind him and slipped my hand into his pocket, hoping for a watch or a coin or something like. Instead, I was met with the tightest red grip against my wrist, yanking me with little care for my frail body, and making me face my victim.”

Despite the rather unfortunate circumstances being described, Weeks had a nostalgic look on his face, exasperated by the hazy light of the afternoon sun beaming on his smile. 

“That was Christopher Gist, I still cannot believe I was foolish enough to try and pickpocket a Templar. With the anger in his eyes, I truly believed he was going to throw me to the auction block the second he had a chance”

His laugh was rich and dark like treacle, coating his words with sugar and rose. George bristled.

“Gist was a kind man, lucky for me, and took me under his tutelage, thinking I had potential. Whatever he saw in me that day, I have yet to figure out. A sunken eye orphan boy who hadn't eaten in a day hardly constitutes a worthy employee, and yet, he hired me to run errands for him. I wasn't used to honest work, but the concept grew on me. Never fully abandoned the shadows however, much too useful.

“I was his little apprentice for quite a while, until I was introduced by him to Colonel Monro. I was a scrawny teenager, hardly comfortable in my own skin, and completely in awe of his presence. He was kind to me in a way I hadn't come to expect for a military man. Gist’s good words made me his assistant, and we grew close. He entrusted me with the secrets of the order, he taught me our creed and our fight, brought me all over the place searching for precursor artifacts, much like yourself really.”

George felt a flush up his neck. Weeks hadn't spoken this long uninterrupted ever, he was not one to dump his story so callously. George felt the heat swell up his pride, grateful Weeks found him worthy as a listener of his story.

“Once Gist was offered into the order, I came along too, it was only fair. That was a couple years ago now, but I still remember the ceremony clearly. I can't tell you what happened but…”

He flashed a cheeky smile.

“Perhaps you’ll find out for yourself before long”

George laughed along, hopeful, cheery, warm. Up ahead, George spotted a more open clearing within the forest, a smoother path and the sun still high in the sky. It would seem they'd be able to reach their target distance soon, perhaps they would even set up camp a little earlier, and indulge in some downtime. 

George got his men to stop, setting up camp in the open space, and settled in for the night. As they set up the tents and hitched the horses, Weeks and George set their efforts on making a toasty fire for the evening. The sun dipped into the horizon for the evening, a shining violet bled into oranges and crimson by the valley, and eventually lighting the stars along the way. 

Camp was filled with the white noise of camaraderie, chatter between soldiers about nothing in particular sounded in-between army songs old and new from the tents, men playing shadow puppets against the tarp as they expunged tales of heroics and womanising and destruction. Leaves shattered beneath heavy military footwear, and the smell of dirty rations being boiled in a pot reached far corners of the camp, intermingling with the damp, foggy air, leaving a sheen of dew against each man’s red nose. 

George sat against the crumbling bark of his log seat, a crackling fire caressing his blushed cheeks, keeping him safe from the increasingly cooling nights as winter caught up with them. The other side of the fire sat Weeks, prodding at the flames with a stick to keep the comfort coming. George peered over his brow at him, a smile playing about his lips. The fire lit up half of Weeks’ face, but the other half remained elusive, restrained to the darkness of the night. Weeks caught him staring, and raised a playful eyebrow, as if to ask what was so interesting. George felt his ears turn hot and looked away, instead choosing to be hypnotised by the ever changing flame before him. Weeks shook his head good naturedly, a similar smile threatening to spill forward, and broke the silence before that impossibly drunk private began to sing (poorly) again.

“We should be in Logstown soon. I've spotted some of Tanacharison's men hunting around these parts, we shouldn't be more than a day away.”

“It will be nice to be in an actual town, not that I do not appreciate the nomadic lifestyle, I just like a sturdy roof more than a fabric one.”

George retorted, daring a glance back up at his companion. He had put his glasses back on, and the fire danced in the reflection.

“My father told me stories when I was younger, Weeks, of my great grandfather John Washington…”

If Weeks was allowed to reminisce during the day, then George was allowed to do so at night.

“...He was the first of my family to arrive on these fair shores of the new world from the old. We were told all kinds of stories of his travels and his land and his rivalries. My younger brothers loved the stories of his troubles with Captain Prescott, a true antagonist for the tales my father spun for us before the hearth.”

Weeks furrowed his brows, unsure of where this was going, but he didn't dare interrupt. If he had given George all that information before, it's best if he had his own blackmail to use when needed.

“But my favourite was his encounters with the Indians of his land. The Susquehannock, I believe. My father made the stories feel so real, as if I could close and open my eyes and find Colonel John Washington before my eyes, shaking hands and spilling blood.

“Some of his fellow townsmen had been killed by the Susquehannock, an exchange gone wrong that led down unnecessary paths. My great grandfather was not one to back in the face of violence… ah, he always said that's where Lawrence got it from… and so, he hunted down the best warriors of their tribe to make an example of them. It took patience and dedication, one took over three days to fully track, but Colonel Washington was victorious, bringing his spoils back to his countrymen and his enemies. They were terrified, fearing worse retaliation, the rest relented in the face of him, and gave him a title.”

Weeks’ ears perked up.

“A… title?”

He pressed for further information.

“Ah, yes, a title, as a reminder to others who he was and what he did. His name was ‘Conotocaurius’. It meant devourer of villages, burner of towns. My father changed the words each time, but the sentiment remained.”

“Sounds rather dark to be telling your children. Their kin was a destroyer of villages.”

George felt a scratching of uncomfortable doubt in the bottom of his thoughts, souring his mood. Weeks continued.

“...but Conotocaurius is quite the title. Perhaps you will get something like it when you arrive in Logstown. Just please don't try and burn down the whole village, at least not until we leave it.”

The doubt was crushed out like a weak ember. He should have never second guessed Weeks.

“Well, I can assure you that this Conotocaurius will not rush headfirst into violence. As I said, I’d rather keep a solid roof over our heads over anything else for as long as I can help it.”

They chuckled between each other, and let the conversation lull. The last of the lanterns were blown out as the hours ticked by, surrounding the forest with a night sky packed with stars. As the fire dimmed down, George let out an almighty yawn, eyelids heavy and shoulder sagging, he hugged Weeks good night and retired to his shared tent with Weeks, knowing he would arrive eventually.

Just as he was about to flutter his eyes shut, he heard the faintest rustling behind him. Weeks had arrived for his rest. George was surprised, normally Weeks liked to stay up through the night, doing God knows what. But it seems he wished to stay with George that time, sleep with him; watch him. George found his curiosity suppressed by his tiredness and fell into a deep sleep.

Perhaps the Templars needed a Conotocaurius one day. George only hoped he could live up to the family name.

May 27th 1754

The forest was deathly quiet.

George was on yet another expedition with Weeks, barely getting a month or so to breath for the Winter before getting back on the road. Resting in Williamsburg on December 25th with his men, not even Monro had the time to ask upon his previous journey and wish him luck for his next. Instead, all he had to show for his work was a rushed one paged letter from Monro with empty thanks and futile apologies. George was frustrated. It was much the same with the army as with the Templars, his last expedition was met with great distinction, despite his inability to fully complete the task of removing the French enforcements, he suffered no major losses and negotiated a great deal out of Tanacharison; a wealth of intel and support. Yet despite these victories, despite his report being published with success in London, the British army had yet to give him an official position of power within its ranks instead of the honorary position of Lieutenant Colonel of the Virginia militia Dinwiddie had given him. It's as if they wish to take credit for his win with no intention of paying it back! 

The Templars were no more help. George expected to be inducted straight away after his first expedition, he had done what Monro and Johnson wanted after all, speaking with the native Americans had proved fruitful. He and Weeks scouted much of the land during the night, making connections to locals for Johnson and noting down potential leads and stories that could narrow down any important sites. George had earned their respect, to the point even he was being referred to as Conotocaurius like his great grandfather. Was it respect? Was it fear? Who cares! He got what was asked of him and more, and yet here he was, five months into the new year of 1754 with nothing to show for it but another expedition to grind against. He was practically thrown onto his horse to speed up the process. Not a congratulations or expression of gratefulness to be seen. Once George was finished with this, he had a few choice words for his British superiors and the Templars. Perhaps he’ll just get all his frustration out on Monro, two birds one stone.

This second expedition he had found himself on was not much more interesting than the first, but without the giddy anticipation of reward. It was a slog, George wasn't lying when he said he prefers solid roofs. The journey was mucky and slow, nature itself fighting against George to bar him from his goals, covering his uniform in brambles and poison ivy in an effort to slow him and his men down. Go back! George could hear them say, pricking his soft skin with their thorns. Give up! There is no glory for you to find here, boy! But George listened to no such things. He didn't get this far by simply listening to others telling him to give up.

George sat in his tent. Flanked by Weeks and Gist, the group of them had become quite the three musketeers. Although George greatly admired Gist and his impressive knowledge from years of surveying, George remained ever closer with Weeks. Their presence almost soothed George, it has taken them a few goes at proving themselves before they were brought into the ranks of the Templars. Alas, his impatient ambition continued to dominate his mind and blacken his compassion. If he did not see any interesting progress as Weeks had promised all those months ago, he would simply have to search for it elsewhere.

The three men sat in George's tent, maps strewn across the floor haphazardly as they discussed army and Templar business interwoven like streams. Gist had been given word of a French party in the area, and since the area was parallel to a potential precursor sites, there was little doubt the assassins were there too.

“They’ve tried to send summons to me, ordering my men from the area. I would be more willing if they did not so flagrantly dismiss my own summons before.”

George ranted to himself. Weeks was worried that George was growing cold in his countenance, not even the warm light of the fire outside seemed to light up his eyes anymore. He was at the receiving end of George’s frustration regarding his lack of progress many times, venting over and over. At least this time, Weeks had Gist to take some of the blow too.

George pointed to a pin in the map, where Gist placed the estimated location of the French camp.

“That's the position Johnson told us about, right? It's near the lead the assassins have been pursuing recently, sending out their green lapdog Cormac. The one who killed Smith.”

George bristled at his name. Shay Cormac had killed Smith to steal their precursor box, the one thing guiding George in his search. Shay seemed to be a frequent enough topic of conversation between Weeks and Gist, but they always seemed to clam up once George approached them with similar complaints. Perhaps he was a topic of inducted Templars. George would find out eventually.

“Those damned assassins aren't wasting any time using the box for their own means. They must be using the French to cover their tracks and search out sites.”

George continued, slamming a fist to the desk. He wrung his white, icy fist into the wood, attempting to release some of his rage. His fuse had grown shorter and shorter the longer he was denied his due glory, which is probably why he was so quick to ask Gist,

“I need you to go down there, take any men you need, and kill whatever assassins dare show their faces here”

Gist sighed. A young boy with a heart set on vengeful glory, a tale as old as time.

“Of course, Lieutenant. I’ll gather the men and make sure to focus on the orange uniforms.”

Gist nodded and walked out the tent, shouting orders that grew fainter under the scrabble of footsteps trying to get into formation. The cool evening wind blew against the tent, sending goosebumps up George’s skin. He still wasn't quite used to the cold weather of the north, even if the summer months were approaching George longed still for the Virginian heat that encased him during the summer. Weeks came up behind George, reaching to place a hand on his shoulder before retracting it at the last second. 

“Washington, you've given orders to kill. This can be an act of war.”

Weeks may have been ruthless when the time called for it, but he was not sloppy. He knew the consequences of such an act, and with the fragile terms Britain and France were already on, trying to attack the assassins through the French, especially as George was associated with the British army, could be considered a spark to light the fuse. George waved his hand dismissively.

“We can't let the assassins believe they can hide behind a guise of diplomatic immunity. As long as they feel they are safe, they will continue to disrupt us from behind their so-called protectors.”

George huffed. Weeks was still unsure, but could certainly see where he was coming from. The assassins had been getting cocky, with the death of Lawrence and of Smith by the same hand, master Templars were being picked off like flies. Weeks, Monro and Gist had all agreed to keep the name of Lawrence’s assassin from George. His rage was more usefully pointed at the assassins as a whole than one in particular. A boy’s revenge always lacked direction and execution. At least the Templar’s could direct George’s raw rage into more productive channels. But it feels as if even with the mouldableness of his revenge, George’s methods could still be too loud for the Templar’s tastes. This was certainly one of those times.

“Won't Gist and his men draw too much attention? You know Master Monro insists on diplomatic methods before anything”

“Master Monro isn't my superior. Not in the army at least, and I'm not a part of the order proper yet. Out here, in the Ohio wilderness, I am in charge of negotiations. And if the French decide to reject my peaceful summons the first time, I shall not be so merciful. The French have to pay for this as much as the assassins do, there is no innocent party in this.”

The words dripped from George’s tongue like icicles, his pale skin reflected the whiteness of snow, as he turned over his shoulder to face Weeks. Weeks knew how much George’s ambition was eating him up, how much he was desperate for approval, for victory, for reward. He was willing to do most anything for his addiction, but he would have his baptism soon, and be brought away from his addiction to sombre reality. Weeks raised his hands up in surrender, shrugging his shoulders.

“You're the commander Washington. I can't be interfering with military matters as a private citizen. What you do is your decision.”

George’s confidence faltered for just a second, a flash of doubt in his eyes, but before he could second guess his hasty decision, a messenger came into their tent, not even bothering to announce his presence first. George snapped his neck to face the intruder, eye bags growing by the day under his usually bright and youthful face. The messenger spoke through heavy breath.

“Message, Lieutenant, from Tanacharison.”

George’s eyes went wide, body tense as he wondered whatever his ally could want at this time of night.

“A French encampment, he says he's found the location.”

The messenger continued, but George simply snatched the letter from his hand and ushered him out with mumbled strained pleasantries. He faced Weeks, a dark expression hiding his eyes.

“I can't rely on Gist to find them quickly enough, they could know we’re here, they could be planning their own attack. I have to deal with this myself, swiftly and silently. I'm meeting with Tanacharison, are you joining me Weeks?”

George looked at Weeks expectantly, as if daring him to say no. Weeks sighed silently, putting on his glasses and fastening up his greatcoat. If the boy insisted on creating trouble, the least he could do was drag him out of it by the collar when it all turned upside down.

“I’ll ready the horses, you ready the men. We ride.”

The briefest feeling of relief came over George, and his lips nearly twitched into a smile until he realised what was at stake here. If this French encampment did indeed contain assassins, high ranking assassins, it could lead George straight to the precursor box that was lost. If George recovered the box so unapologetically stolen from the Templars, there was no way he wouldn't be inducted and rewarded appropriately. He would finally have his place in his family, he would know where he stood, and climb the ladder from there. He can already see the look on Monro’s face. ‘I thought this was lost alongside Smith! Well done Mr Washington, the Templar creed lives to fight another day thanks to your sacrifice, I will write the British rite and insist on your induction straight away!’

If only it could be that simple.

George marched from the tent and barked orders at his men, gathering a smaller bunch than Gist did, but still plenty enough to do the job. The lot of them were all saddled up and before they knew it, George was pounding through the woods at breakneck speed to the location Tanacharison told him, hooves beating behind him as they raced towards their glory. The ride took all night, but George did not stop for the soon to be rising sun, growing ever more comfortable in the shadows. Weeks rode just a bit behind him, not close enough to speak but enough for George to know he was there. The separation was painful. 

Through focused eyes, George spotted Tanacharison and a small band of men up ahead, and shouted at his men to slow down. George got down from his horse, and the half-king greeted him with a sombre look.

“My men were out scouting, and came across a camp flying the Bourbon colours.”

Tanacharison started. He wasn't as tall as George, but he was much wiser, and dominated the situation with great ease. George’s glory-hunting cockiness always seemed to simmer down in the presence of the wiser and older.

“We must act now, Lieutenant Washington. What is your plan of action?”

George pondered Tanacharsion’s words in his mind, picking apart each possibility. Diplomacy had failed them, George had front row seats to that misfortune. Marching up to the door and threatening them would give assassins ample time to escape the area, he was not a fool.

“Don’t be hasty now, where are they located first?”

Tanacharison bristled at the blatant belittling, but washed it from his pride and brought George from the group, telling the soldiers to stay behind, placing Weeks in charge. Tanacharison was an excellent stalker, learning to hunt since birth, and far outweighed George’s meager training of a year, so he had no qualms with climbing into trees as if they were stairs and jumping from branch to branch. George did his best to keep up, but as Tanacharison perched on the final tree, draped among the leaves as a shadow and eyes boring into the scene before him, it was clear he was far more out of breath than Tanacharison was, and that bruised his ego ever so slightly.

Despite the semi-friendly competition, there was work to do. Tanacharison extended a pointed finger towards a small dot in the valley, smoke rising from the camp’s fire and makeshift boundaries blocking out any potential intruders. George looked onwards, spotting a few figures of orange amongst the sea of blue. His grip tightened. Despite it being May, the weather was still unagreeable, and he could feel the first smatterings of a rain shower roll frigid down his neck. Tanacharison broke the silent hatred of George’s thoughts.

“At the bottom of the valley, we may have an advantage if we ambush. Not all of them are awake yet.”

Tanacharison continued to lay out a plan, pointing out weak points of the camp from his eagle eyed view. His knowledge shone through, illuminating George with ideas of how he could adapt them to his revenge. 

“Lieutenant Washington?”

George snapped out of his daydream and looked on at Tanacharison dumbly. Tanacharison sighed, rolling his eyes slightly and repeated his question.

“Are your men ready to attack?”

George gaped his mouth like a fish before responding.

“Yes. I’ll tell them to ready their muskets.”

Tanacharison bowed his head in understanding, mind whirring at a million miles a minute yet remaining completely calm as he bounded through the foliage back to his men. George hesitated before following him, his eyes daring a glance back at the camp, maybe able to catch a glance of the precursor box. He knew he was much too far away to spot it reasonably, but that last strand of confidence he needed with its assured presence began to chip away at his certainty. He shook himself from his stupor and followed Tanacharison through the trees. He had made his bed, and for the better or the worse, there would be a few less assassins in the world if he had anything to do with it.

George climbed from the tree and landed with a resounding thump on the floor, wasting no time and with Tanacharison, divided their men up and sent them to their positions. George’s heart was racing the whole time, the possibility of victory so close he could taste its sweet rewards on his tongue. The idea of finally achieving something worthy of approval flushed through his body and lit the flame in his stomach. Mounted on his horse, he stood at the top of the valley while Tanacharsion crouched into position with his men. George nodded to him. He nodded back. His grip tightened on the reigns, cold sweat across his focused brow. Below him, he saw one of his men shuffle in the bushes. In front of him, he saw a young drummer boy in blue in camp. George’s heart nearly softened, until he walked to speak with a man in orange. An assassin. His heart was stone. It was time. Tanacharison gave the signal.

George rode.

The fighting was chaotic, George barely let a thought pass through his mind before he banished his sword to kill the first man he saw. Or boy. He couldn't tell. From his advantage on a horse, he cut down Frenchmen and assassins as if they were ribbons in the wind. George tried to avoid the blue uniforms if he could, eyes narrowing on the orange. His soldiers were doing much the same, surrounding half dressed and half asleep French with bayonets and screams. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Tanacharison speeding from target to target with his tomahawk, taking on an impressive fight solo. George grunted as his crimson slicked sword pulled out of yet another assassin victim, the sheen of the blade dripping with hot blood. Despite taking out most of the assassins, the man he wished to see most, Cormac, was nowhere to be found. And neither was that damned box.

Breaking away from the violence clouding his vision, George skitted his horse for the briefest moment, and looked about camp. He could spot Jumonville, the French commander who has the gall to order summons to George, scrambling to his tent with an assassin protecting him. Aha! That's who Cormac must’ve given the box to for safe keeping. Sending Jumonville out to do the assassin’s dirty work. Pathetic. George huffed and climbed from his horse, pushing past the fighting with rigid determination. Blood spilled on his cheeks and uniform. He didn’t care. He stormed his way into Jumonville’s tent, unsheathing his sword with an unholy scraping of metal. The bloodied tip pushed its way against Jumonville’s throat, who threw his hands up in surrender. The assassin attempted to save his puppet, but George was not stupid. He took his preloaded revolver and shot him square in between the eyes. Jumonville was speechless.

“Where is the box.”

“Je… Je vous demande pardon?”

“I asked, where is the box? Where are they making you keep it?”

George demanded through gritted teeth, pushing the blade further into the man’s throat. The smallest trickles began to flow down his neck, and his adam’s apple bobbed frantically as he strangled out a response, desperate and frightened. The sounds of fighting outside the tent were dying down ever so slightly. They were so close.

“Monsieur… s’il vous plaît… I… I do nozt understand…”

He blubbered through tears, making the broken English even harder to understand. Or sympathise for. He twisted the sword further into his neck.

“You have on the count of five to show me where you're keeping the box. Five.”

A press into tough skin, a cry for mercy.

“Four.”

His hands clasped in prayer.

“Three.”

He tries showing George money, camp plans, and surveyor's maps. None of them what George wanted.

“Two.”

Jumonville was at a loss. There was nothing for him now.

“One.”

With the count finished, George slit the man’s throat with unfettered precision. Jumonville grasped at his chest, eyes becoming cloudy as he sank to his knees, blood pooling all over the floor in steady flows. George stared down at him, his heartstrings not moving an inch. Jumonville denied him his glory, and he paid with his life. He housed assassins, he would pay with his life. There was nothing worthy the man could do that would untarnish his name. It was for the best.

“Washington?”

George’s ears were so pumped full of adrenaline he hardly heard that the fighting had stopped outside. His heart beat rapidly in his chest as he whipped around to face Weeks, pointing the blade at his chest. Weeks raised his hands in surrender, taking off his glasses to assure George it was him. He hesitated ever so slightly before lowering the sword, and placing it back onto his waist.

“Did Jumonville have the box?”

He questioned, folding his glasses into his pocket as he spotted the rapidly cooling body of Jumonville behind him. He tutted pitifully.

“No. He didn't.”

Weeks pursed his lips.

“Did you kill him?”

George opened his mouth to admit to the crime, but swiftly shut it. The death of a commander was an act of war most certainly. But he knew Weeks. He trusted him. He loved him.

“Yes. But that will be off the record. From now on, Tanacharison killed him.”

The kernel of conscience left in George reared its complaints in his mind. Throwing Tanacharison, the man who had helped him so much through these expeditions and with the British army, under the bus felt cruel. Evil. But despite all the work Tanacharison did with him, he did nothing for him. George’s collaboration with the man and his people had not furthered his prospects as he so desired. It was a shame, but it was time for the man to be rid of if he was to be of no use anymore. George washed the guilt from his hands.

Weeks, however, did not.

“I understand keeping a low profile regarding our hunt, but Tanacharison will be greatly harmed by this. There is no sense in betraying our ally who has done nothing but good for us-”

“Tanacharison took the blade to Jumonville's neck. That is what I'll be telling Dinwiddie and what I'll be telling Monro. I dare you to disobey my commands.”

Weeks’ gaze hardened. This was not the George he knew. To hell with his ambition, until he shaped up his act, he would be getting no support, no praise, from him. He placed his glasses back on.

“Of course, Lieutenant.”

He slunk out of the tent. Weeks’ absence pierced George like a blade. Oh God, what was he willing to lose to be a Conotocaurius? What had he lost already?

After the massacre, the French and Indian War began officially not too long after the fact. Despite his inability to recover the box, George’s unfettered ruthlessness to the assassins, not letting a single go with their life, impressed Monro and evidently, finally secured himself a date for an official induction into the order once the new leader from England, Haytham Kenway, arrived. The victory felt hollow in his cold cavity, but he accepted graciously nonetheless. Maybe he would get to see Weeks again at the ceremony, he hadn't heard from him since the massacre.

One month later, Logstown was burned to the ground.

Chapter Text

October 31st 1777

Gilbert was coming along nicely, George thought.

With the permission of Haytham, George went on to introduce the clueless boy into the Templar fight. While Lee took on the role of honing his military skills, George often came to camp or invited Gilbert to Mount Vernon to sharpen the boy’s mind and body to the Templar’s likening. Gilbert was an eager student, soaking up the creed like a hungry cat. His adoration for George never wavered, and only continued to grow as they spent more time together. Martha also grew to love the boy, with his frequent visits she taught him the etiquette of English sensibilities and refined his rapidly improving English. All in all, Gilbert was becoming George’s perfect little soldier.

Such a shame he was wasted on such a pointless war.

Luckily enough, if the boy managed to survive the patriot’s war, he could become a soldier of a most glorious fight: the Templar fight. He had already experienced a near death experience in the Battle of Brandywine last month, getting shot in the leg (which he now used as an excuse to no longer train by running laps around the manor) nearly spelled the end of him. But he acted most honourably in the face of battle, and gave ample excuse for Lee to leverage his position higher in the army. George agreed, happy his makeshift protege was moving up in the world. Gilbert was just happy to be rewarded.

George, however, still did not trust the young man with all the details. After all, his loyalties were still, officially, to the French crown. He may have volunteered for the American cause, but that hardly constituted full Templar dedication. George eased him in, despite the boy’s apparent eagerness to move along. He appreciated it, and understood his frustration, but the Templars are not ones to rush into things. They do not perpetuate chaotic rule. They do not condone the cravings of boyish ambition, and once George managed to sand down the roughened edges, he believed that impulsiveness would go too. Despite Gilbert’s tendency to get overexcited, he was never, ever disloyal. He did not strike out on his own accord, pushed by greedy, attention seeking motives. He had thrown himself into needlessly risky situations, but he never did it without orders to do so. Lee was a bad influence, George thought.

It was another slog of a day at Congress. George was back in Philadelphia now Congress had reconvened. Even if George refused the mantle of commander of the continental armies all that time ago, Congress was still eager to exploit his military prowess, and placed him on many war committees, the newest being the board of war. Even though some insisted the board be for non-members of Congress to act as a mediator between the army and government, George was pushed into the board as a ‘representative’ of Congressional needs. As if Congress didn’t have any needs it couldn’t embezzle itself. At least he wasn’t forced to head the board, that was Horatio Gates’ problem. The shining light of the committee is the consistent flow of information of all army aspects coming into his hands first before Congress got its grubby fingers on it. Haytham was delighted at the prospect. It also served as ample excuse to visit Gilbert and Lee, keeping tabs on all Templar matters and making them the forefront of the Congressional wartime priorities. He would often tease Lee about the outcome: no matter how hard he tried he somehow found his way back into military matters. “You got worked up over such a small matter, we still have our hold over the continental army!” Lee was never happy when George rubbed the matter into his face, but it was worth it when from the corner of his eye, he could spot Gilbert trying to hold back his laughter. 

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to laugh about in the winter of 1777.

Once George left the old state house, he got into his carriage and sent himself off to Bethlehem, where Gilbert was recovering from his wound. He had been sounding optimistic in his letters, and Lee was insisting he would be fit for battle soon. Yet not fit enough for laps around the estate? He would have to beat the laziness out of him someday. Aristocrat boy’s curse. The bumpy cobblestone of Philadelphia shook George unpleasantly in his seat, he was glad to be out of the wretched city and to a more pleasant country town soon. This day had been positively miserable by all accounts, the freezing weather, the shouting of work and now a long journey to rural Pennsylvania. The only light at the end of the tunnel was the opportunity to catch up with Gilbert again.

As the crowded buildings and shouting farmers melded into expansive prairie farmland, George felt himself breath again. His mind clearer, he brought it on himself to finally read the letter Haytham sent to him. Duties of a congressman leave little time for personal correspondence. He took off his leather gloves, the only things warming up his frigid fingertips, and brandished a knife with practiced ease. The envelope was opened with precision and George began to read.

“ Dearest Master Washington,

Church’s betrayal will soon be rectified.”

George paused. He felt his stomach go a bit queasy as he thought of what Haytham had to say for himself. He would never doubt his capabilities, but he hadn’t heard much from him recently. He hoped he wasn’t in any trouble.

“I understand you may be hesitant to accept my course of action to obtain justice, but I must fall upon my position as your superior to ensure you do not try to interfere with my choice. The war is growing ever more desperate, and Church’s betrayal of both the continental cause and our Templar goals are indicative of it.”

George’s eyes narrowed at the naming of Benjamin Church’s actions. A loyal Templar for as long as he was, throwing away his conscience the moment he felt his life be even a bit unstable in the hands of those he surrounded himself with, patriots and Templars alike. George was a patient man, but if he ever came across the traitor, he would slit his throat with a rusty knife.

“I believed he may have escaped by sea, with the help of the British. Ships are in short supply nowadays, both for the British and the patriots, so I have had little luck chasing him down unless I feel up to a week long ground journey. Which I don’t.”

Maybe there was a little to laugh about in the winter of 1777.

“But I have acquired a possible ship to help in our pursuit. The ship’s captain does not like us, and especially does not like me. He is a close partner of General Knox, and has been working with the Continental cause in the pursuit of freedom. He’s been quite the headache for the likes of Biddle on the sea, and devolved our late Johnson and Pitcairn’s plans for peace. I fear you already figured out who he is with my hints, but I am not one to beat around the bush. I have forged a temporary alliance with Connor and the assassins to ensure the death of Church. An assassin is bad, but at least they are upfront about their attacks on our creed. Bravery, or stupidity, is in the eye of the beholder. I will be setting off sail soon to capture Church and deliver on my promise. I do not want you, Lee or anyone else chasing after me. I am placing you in charge in my stead, because I know you will provide stable care without me. I trust you will not argue with me over this for the good of the Order. I will keep you updated through letters when possible. I hope to see you in person soon.

May the father of understanding guide us.

Grandmaster Haytham Kenway”

George was disappointed, but not surprised. Haytham was one to exploit any path necessary for the job to be done, and if that included allying with Connor and Achilles, the men who had made George’s search for the apple a living hell since their appearance, then he would do it. He was honoured that Haytham trusted him enough to replace him, but with everything else on his shoulders, it felt more like another thing on the pile. The letter made of paper weighed like stone on his heart, and as the countryside passed by his window, he wrapped himself up in his cloak to warm up his shivering body. As he grew older, he mellowed his burning hatred for assassins, but just because it was more easily repressed did not mean it wasn’t there. He hated the idea of the man he respected so deeply serving alongside the likes of Connor.

He could tell he was the next target of his hidden blades. Connor may be childish but he's not stupid, he knew what George was up to. The trail of Johnson and Pitcairn, all these men who secured power for the Templars were killed, despite allegiances of whatever side of the war. George was not safe just because Connor so happened to align himself with the patriots. He found his mind wandering, as he pondered the inevitable attempt on his life, to Gilbert. His eyes glazed over as he looked at the passing prairies, knotting his eyebrows in worry. Did Connor know about Gilbert? Even though he wasn’t planning on dying by Connor’s hand, he couldn’t completely write off the possibility. He was nowhere near ready enough to fend for himself if George was killed. Who would take him in? Lee? Lee can barely be trusted to take care of his own skin, let alone one of a boy! Haytham? Well, as demonstrated by the fact he simply up and left to sojourn with his estranged son, he isn’t the most reliable man either. No, George must continue his fight for a better cause. He would fight for the Templars, as he always had, but now, his Templar world was just that bit bigger with Gilbert in it. The cold within him still spread throughout the country with the cruel winter, but for the first time in a long time, he had hopes for spring.

As the wheels bumped and shuffled him about more in his carriage, he could tell the ground had been swapped from soft country dirt to hard town stone. The glass of his window was crystalised with ice, and his visible breath didn’t help his already poor eyesight either, but he could tell he wasn’t far from where Gilbert was laying low. It wouldn’t be long until Gilbert was ready to come back to the field, but he insisted on seeing George while the journey was short. George had to agree, as much as he loved seeing Gilbert at Valley Forge, the road there was always unpleasant, and this early, cruel snow only blocked his path further. 

The carriage finally came to a stop just as light flakes of snow softly dropped from the sky. George huddled close into his wool coat and kicked open the door, jumping out and ensuring no little snowflakes would crawl down the back of his neck. Frost crunched satisfyingly under his step as he thanked the carriage driver and hurried towards Gilbert’s residence for swift relief of the cold. The town of Bethlehem was much more pleasant in its countenance than Philadelphia, however, the cool-grey clouds hanging over his head threatened him with a much worse shower than Philadelphia ever could. George sighed and merely crooked his hat further onto his head and pressed on. He had faced worse while adventuring in the woods of Ohio, he could make it through a mild snowstorm in a peaceful town of well meaning Christians.

Arriving at the address, he was faced with a rather inconspicuous wooden door outside a modest home. He barely rapped his knuckles thrice before a pudgy old woman with a sunshine bright smile greeted him at the door with an alighted demeanour.

“Oh, Mr Washington! Come, come in sir! Let me take your cloak”

George shuffled in and handed the heavy fabric to the woman, the scent of firewood and the whistle of a soup pot helped warm him up just as much as the actual hearth. The old woman was flushed, red tomatoes for cheeks after clearly being hunched over the fire for a while now. Who George assumed to be her husband cared for a few soldiers scattered about the main living area, bandaged up crudely but tightly. He paid no interest to George’s arrival, as much as his wife tried to attract his attention; his mind was focused on the young boy in front of him, badly in need of some stitches by his eye. The woman continued her excited chatter even when the husband was locked in on his patients, and hung George’s coat up neatly. She placed a hand on his shoulder (only barely though, he was rather tall and she barely came up to his elbow) and gasped.

“Goodness me, you’re as cold as Massachusetts! Warm up sir, is it Mr Lafayette whom you’re after? He’s told me all about your impending visit… he normally reads the paper right about now, one moment…”

Her chest puffed out and before George could ask her to not make a fuss, she yelled at the top of her lungs.

“MR LAFAYETTE! MR WASHINGTON HAS CALLED ON YOU!”

George cringed at the sudden volume, and saw the woman’s husband out of the corner of his eye jump a little, but certainly not enough to distract him from his work. George heard soft shuffling from the room above, rustling of a newspaper followed by quick footsteps of hastily put on military boots. Gilbert burst into a grin when he saw George waiting there, still freezing cold but his eyes looking a little warmer. George met Gilbert’s hand in a firm handshake, laughing in his treacle rich voice as he greeted his protege. He had his usual sparkle in his smile, brimming with resolve. Not only that, he was standing rather painlessly on his own two feet again. It relieved George of one of his insurmountable burdens to see Gilbert up and running again.

“Mizter Washington! Ah, how wonderful it is to see you!”

“And you too Mr Lafayette, you too”

Gilbert’s English seemed to have improved massively since taking time to recover here. It seemed if you were forced to spend day and night with only English speakers for a month, without a camp translator or fellow French volunteers for respite, it would shape up sharpish, especially if your healthy recovery relied on it. George clapped the younger man on the back, shaking him a little, and turned to the old woman.

“Thank you ma’am for your hospitality, if you won’t mind, we will retire to Mr Lafayette’s quarters for the time being? I’m afraid our discussion is quite sensitive and-”

“Oh my, not a spot of trouble at all my dear! Go on now, I know you military types love your secrets!”

Giving the pair of them her blessing with a rosy grin, George nodded in thanks and followed Gilbert up the rickety wooden steps to the next floor. The sturdy stone walls held firm against the growing blizzard outside. He had a room booked in the local inn, but as far as Bethlehem inns went, they weren’t so reliable if the New Testament is to be believed. He wondered if he could convince the old woman and her doctor husband to board for the night. She seemed to take a liking to him but it appeared she took a liking for everyone and everything.

“Its very wonderful to see you again sir, Lee has visited a few times but ah! He is not as good company as you are, sir, do not tell him I said that…”

George chuckled as they reached the top of the stairwell. His quarters were small but private, only a curtain dividing himself and the others. It was only them upstairs, so it wouldn't be much trouble. George sat himself on the edge of Gilbert’s bed, stuffed generously with straw and what feathers could be gathered. Gilbert plopped himself next to him, before turning and rummaging for a crumpled bit of paper hidden under his pillow. He opened it up and showed it to George. George’s smile only widened.

“Mizter Lee told me to give zis to you. It has not been easy to keep it safe, the Madame of this house is nosy, nosy!”

“Mr Lafayette, have you read this?”

Gilbert’s eyes widened, almost hurt by the accusation.

“Non, sir! Not at all, I was under strict instructions from ze order not to open it!”

“Good man. Your trust will be well rewarded”

George opened up the old letter and slid it over to Gilbert. The paper detailed a map by Lee (crudely drawn, as to be expected) of the New York frontier and suspected people who had hold of the golden apple. His leads had led him to the Oneida people. They had been Templar contacts for a while now, occasionally acting as a useful provider for Johnson when he was alive, but they had never fully been loyal. The paper here was planning to change that.

“How do you feel about perhaps… proving yourself to the Order. Officially”

Gilbert’s eyes widened with hopeful curiosity.

“Congress is considering sending a force to invade Canada. A stupid decision, but it gives an opportunity. I can recommend you to lead the force upwards, and you will meet with the Oneida. There you will convince them out of any information they're withholding from us regarding the apple. Return successfully, and I will inform my desire to the grandmaster immediately of your induction.”

Gilbert pursed his lips in order not to let out a squeal of excitement. George had mentioned to him only on a few occasions of the apple. It was highly secretive, for the eyes and ears of the Order only. Gilbert lowered his tone to a shaky whisper as to not let his pride overtake him.

“Anything I can provide for the grandmaster and you Mizter Washington, I do zo with joy”

George’s eyes softened at the gleam in Gilbert’s iris, always so dedicated, so willing to throw himself to death for the cause. Perhaps there was a reason he came up to George that day in the halls of Congress. George opened up another slip of paper from his jacket, thankful it wasn't soaked by the snow, and opened it up to reveal intricate and beautiful diagrams of the apple. The drawing alone was enough to draw Gilbert’s wandering heart. He couldn't imagine the power of its pull when he would actually be in its presence, which Gilbert hoped he would be very, very soon.

“This is what the apple of Eden looks like, this contains all you need to know to identify and describe it. Now, I do not expect you to find it, Lord knows I've been searching high and low this whole damned war for it, but the allegiances of the Oneida for us is more than enough to regard your mission as a success.”

“Zank you sir, I will not let you down”

He whispered, a soft shake to his words as he realised the gravity of the situation. This was his moment. Perhaps if he did well here, his standing in the Templars and in the army would rise. He took the paper and neatly folded it into his front pocket away from prying eyes. His eyes shifted. Something else was brewing in there. A new feeling he hadn’t felt before. It wasn’t ambition, excitement or greed. It was something greater than himself. And he couldn’t wait to unlock it.

“Grandmaster Kenway is away at the moment.”

Snapping Gilbert out of his haze, George addressed the actual technicalities of the upcoming mission. Gilbert sat up pin straight, the fog glazing his eyes dispersed in a flash at the words of his beloved mentor.

“So instead of writing to him of your progress, you will write to me. I am acting Grandmaster in his stead. I may not have the authority to induct you myself, but I will make sure that those who do will receive apt recommendation from myself”

Gilbert felt a wave of cocky pride wash over him, but George stopped that feeling with an icy addition. 

“But do not mistake my affection for complacency. You still have much to prove, and if your training laps around my estate was anything, much hinges on your ability to prove yourself as a capable Templar by this task. Fail to meet expectations and you’ll have to wait for the next opportunity when Grandmaster Kenway comes back”

Gilbert shivered.

“I understand sir.”

George’s cold demeanour melted for a second as he smiled, clapping Gilbert on the back.

“Good boy. Do not let me put you off, I have every faith in your talents. Only Grandmaster Kenway remains unconvinced. I have even written to Master Cormac back in your homeland for a letter of recommendation, Master Cormac has his own unique sway over the Grandmaster. As long as you perform with distinction, there will be no objections to your joining.”

George stood up and rubbed his hands together, blowing hot air between his palms. Despite being inside for the best part of an hour, he always felt a little bit cold. Maybe it was his necklace, freezing metal was never pleasant against soft flesh. 

“Now then Mr Lafayette, do you think I could convince the madam of the house for a board for the night? I do not think the situation outside has improved at all”

Gilbert felt his shoulders lighten, and his spirit spark. He led himself to the top of the stairwell and listened downwards. Even from up here, the woman could be heard speaking at a much greater than conversational level to some of the soldiers.

“Oh I do not think it will be a great challenge. She is fond of everyone”

“You don’t say?”

That night, as the storm went from a harsh beating to a tempered falling of thick snow, George settled himself by a makeshift roll next to Gilbert’s bed. Gilbert insisted on giving his bed to George, but George refused. His many nights camping with Weeks had prepared his  back well to the hardened earth. It wasn’t even earth, it was a cosy, well heated home in a lovely village. As far as floors go, George didn’t mind this one.

George quickly fell asleep as the candles were blown out, but Gilbert wasn’t so lucky. He found himself staring at the ceiling, each attempt at rest unfruitful. Careful not to wake George below him (who was a terrible snorer, by the way), he stared at the gentle snowflakes making their way from the sky to his line of vision. Snowflakes were beautiful until your face touched them, then all you got was a wet cheek and cold shivers. Yet something drew Gilbert to them. Something ethereal. His eyes glowed a glassy gawk, admiring the snowfall from the comfort of his own bed. He pressed his nose to the pane. It was cool to the touch, but hardly enough to deter the restless boy. He knew he was trying to distract himself; he wanted peace of mind that couldn’t be found on this continent.

His warm brown eyes shifted back to George. His breaths were shallow while asleep, surely from his history as a military man. The room was dark except for the reflection of the snow, so George was mostly obscured for Gilbert, but it didn’t make the situation feel any less odd. He had never seen his mentor in such a compromising position before. He kept a knife under his bed for protection. He could kill him. If he wanted.

Good thing he didn’t.

Gilbert ridden himself of such unwanted thoughts and brought himself back to his bed. Perhaps his mind was weighed with something else. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but it still gave little away for vision. He heard a soft crinkle from under his pillow. Ah, that's what's been keeping him from his slumber. He slid a soft hand under the thin pillow and grabbed the paper George had handed him earlier that day. Despite shadows in all corners of the room enveloping his eyes, the picture of the apple seemed crystal clear. Almost… glowing. Like the snow. Gilbert stared for longer than he could justify. The intricate detailing of the exterior, the geometric precision using mathematical concepts he couldn’t dream of in a thousand years. And yet still, this was merely a copy, an imperfect imitation by a human hand. Gilbert thought he could not be held accountable for his actions in the presence of the real artefact. This object, this glorious macguffin, would be his ticket to his new family.

He knew it.

It had to be.

As he laid his head to rest, his eyes finally closed, he felt the wind whistle and picked up outside. The snowstorm had begun again, and the snowflakes raced like bullets against the window glass. He shivered at their presence, but not enough to disturb his gradual fall into unconsciousness. His fingers grazed the goosebumps cropping all over his arm. Fair hairs stood on its end.

Was his skin always this cold?

February 17th 1778

What a sad, sad sight…

Gilbert thought to himself. The hooves of his steed pressed gingerly into the snow beneath him, the wind whipping against his sturdy military coat. He peered down at the poor excuses for soldiers in front of him; hungry, cold and only fit to fight a kitten. Washington warned him the invasion was poorly thought out, but this was another level. He had arrived in Albany only for a few hours, meeting with the likes of Benedict Arnold and others, but each new interaction crushed his soul a little more. Gilbert hitched himself from his horse, boots landing with a crunch against the ice slicked snow. Facing the man nearest to him, he got a better look at the damage. His skin was a sickly yellow, like bile. His cheeks were the sunken deep valleys, and his eyes were the dark waters within. Blue veins choked the warmth from his lips and fingers, travelling like rapids up to the top of his head, where they were lost in woods of unbrushed hair. He was quite the contrast to Gilbert, who maintained a pristine exterior even throughout the demanding winter. He would not forget his mother’s demands after all. Or the demands of Mrs Washington.

“Zank you, gentleman, you are great patriots. You are coming out today for a good cause. You will be rewarzed for your duty”

Gilbert reached out his hand to shake the hands of each man lined up, no matter how much they looked ready to drop dead on the spot, Gilbert needed to take a page from George’s book. He thought back to that day in Congress. George didn't even speak French, yet his fellow countrymen fell in line the moment he opened his mouth. That kind of pull, to make anyone be drawn to your sheer power and authority, was something to be endlessly envious of. And Gilbert absolutely was. Perhaps this was his chance to show he wasn't just born into power, but made for it.

The man before him reciprocated his handshake, his grip weak but present. What really struck Gilbert however, was how his fingers were actually far less cold than its appearance may deceive itself as. In fact, Gilbert felt that his hands, encased in a snug pair of fitted gloves, were far colder than the malnourished soldier before him. Gilbert’s eyes widened, and nearly jerked his hand away, but toughed through the shock to force a wry smile to his new subordinate. His eyes gave nothing away to either affection or interest for the boy before him. Gilbert would be offended if he didn't have the approval of many more men next to him to earn too. Perhaps some would be more forgiving than others.

Gilbert greeted them all, one by one. A smile and a nod went a long way to boost morale. Each man looked more haggard than the last, and Gilbert understood exactly why Washington thought this invasion was going to be a failure. Luckily enough, it had its purpose. Maybe not for the patriot cause, but it certainly had cause for Gilbert. The patriots can burden an expense for a greater cause. Gilbert still felt in his heart justice could prevail in the patriot’s favour, he was an idealist like that, but the noble demands of the Templars would not go uncompleted.

I can only pray these men live long enough to reach the end of Albany's city borders…

Finished with the drabness of pleasantries and excited to get going with the adventure he was promised, Gilbert threw himself back onto his horse and marched his frozen army into the unforgiving woods of Utica. Before he left, he sent off two letters. One for his superiors in the army, maintaining his wish to press forward to Canada and all such disarming language. The second letter was for George. Of course, it was sent through the Order’s official messenger boys, and it contained all of the progress thus far to the acting Grandmaster. Gilbert poured his heart onto the sheet of paper, bleeding sentimentality out of the pen and into the words. He spoke of his excitement of the journey ahead, he spoke of his worry that his men would die in the forests, he spoke of the bone chilling fear of death; that he may be taken by the bullet of the British or by the tomahawk of an Oneida, who decided they were uninterested in bargaining with a boy like him. He held his tongue in the presence of his superiors however. He would not stray from a path so lovingly created for him. So he finished with a hopeful note of their current location, sealed the letter shut, and watched as the messenger boy beat away on his horse back to Philadelphia, where George would be waiting for word with bated breath and a hollow heart.

The journey was not kind.

Gilbert felt a weariness grow in his heart as he trudged through the endless scenery of washed out trees. The snow had taken a few of his men already, the ones with the clothes a bit thinner than the rest. When the bodies were still warm (as warm as a man who died of frostbite could be) the others would strip him of all his clothes in the hopes they could pad out their own lives a bit longer. Even Gilbert in his far more expensive threads felt the threat of the constant snow against his skin. He grew colder and colder every day, and the meager fires they were able to fix up at camp couldn't even dent the marrow deep freeze that dug into his body. His only respite was his letters. He sent many more than needed, mostly to George, detailing his progress. Every shadow against the wind and rustle in the night, George knew of. Gilbert worried his fearful infatuation would shine through, but George responded to each letter with a patience that must be admired. One of Gilbert’s more paranoid letters was scrawled like chicken scratchings raving about the loss of his men. He was unsure he could live with such good blood on his hands. By the end of the letter he was embarrassed at his words, but not wanting to waste paper and ink, he sent it off anyway, with a P.S. apologising for the savage emotion of the letter. George wrote back with regards, soothing each of the boy’s worries. He wrote as a P.S. too, letting the light of humour through the dark winter, stating the worst letter on his doorstep from Gilbert was better than the most meticulous from Lee, whose handwriting is less decipherable than hieroglyphics. Gilbert kept that letter next to his heart for days and days after it. He only removed it to a safer place when it grew cold and wet from the incessant snow.

The day he saw the smoke and longhouses on the horizon, he could have shed tears if his pride had let him. It was a cool February, bright and clear. Icicles shone from the branches and leaves shone with the daylight dew, pale sun rising and warming the hopes of Gilbert and his men. His horse, weak and exhausted, dragged Gilbert up towards that shining village on a hill. Gilbert had already decided he was going to write to Congress soon and declare his invasion a failure. He thought he had suffered enough for their blind ambition, and planned to put a stop to it so he could do his work, his real work, and get the position he so dearly craved. 

However, as Gilbert entered the outskirts of the town, he felt a little uneasy. It was deserted. He could feel the tension lying thick in the air. He feared the worst, that somehow the British got here first and had massacred them all. But yet not a speck of blood. Gilbert jumped from his skinny steed, and let his feet set down on the untouched earth. He did not call out for anyone, he wasn't that stupid.

“Make your weapons ready men. Even if you ‘ave no gunpowzer, keep your bayonet in frontz of you”

He ordered, and the soldiers duly complied. Their shaking grip held firm against the void of silence. Gilbert decided to take himself first into the unknown, eyes peering across the dead village. The only sounds were his own footsteps and the twittering of birds, sounding out like a bugle call. The rare clear morning gave way to the eerie stillness, nothing was obscured yet nothing seemed to show either. Gilbert felt in his neck he was being watched. That piercing nervous reflex only grew stronger as he reached one of the larger longhouses at the end of his vision, tall and proud and left undamaged. If there was some kind of European destruction, there were always heavy handed reminders of its wake. No, this was something else. Something much more sinister for the life of Gilbert. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a fire pit. His curiosity burned a hole in his reason, and he walked over, each step feeling like a seal to his fate. He hunched over the charcoal. He knelt to the cold ground. Hand in the pit. Wood to fingers.

It was warm.

“We have your men.”

He addressed Gilbert in a language he didn't recognise. He hadn't even heard his men scream, if they even had a chance to. Gilbert whipped his head around, only to see himself towered over by a tall, unimpressed Oneida man. He cowered on his knees, looking up at the warrior. He was much older than Gilbert, possibly in his 50s, and his face was etched with wrinkles of experience and time. His skin was a warm copper that stood out greatly against the blues and greys of the winter sky. By his wrist, Gilbert swallowed as he noticed a gaping bullet wound scar, still yet to fully heal. What scared him even more however, was the well polished and fully loaded musket in the hand just below. Gilbert could hear his men struggling in the arms of Oneida warriors just behind their leader, but he dared not look away from the man’s face lest he swiftly end Gilbert's short, unfulfilled life. He closed his eyes.

“What do you want of us?”

He spoke again, in English this time. Gilbert shot his eyes open again and bore his chest to the other man, a warm sight for cold eyes. He did his best to recite without stuttering as George had taught him.

“I am Gilbert Lafayette, of ze Continental Army. Me and my men were sent on an invazion of Canaza, ‘owever our efforts are fruitless. We know ze Indians here ‘ave supported us before. We plead ‘umbly for your kindnez again”

His accent, although thick, seemed to get through to the Oneida warrior. The grip on his gun loosened, and offered a hand up from his position. Gilbert greedily took it, but it made little change to their height difference. Gilbert was still at least 5 inches shorter than him. He still wasn't out of the woods yet.

“Gilbert. My name is Tewahangarahken. Or, should it be easier with your untrained tongue, Han Yerry.”

“M-mizter Yerry. I am in no position to be making demandz, but please tell your men to let go of my men. They are ‘ungry and cold. They do notz t’reaten you. Nor do I”

Gilbert had left all his gear on his horse anyway. There was his ever present knife in his sleeve, but as George taught him, words cut deeper wounds than knives. Anything achievable by force must first be attempted with words. Wounds from words are more easily soothed. Gilbert pleaded with glassy eyes. Little behind them.

Han Yerry nodded, and snapped his fingers. His warriors let go of Gilbert’s soldiers and many of them fall to the ground. Some of them even fainted. The warriors exchanged knowing looks, and picked them up one by one, aiding their battered bodies into the nearby larger longhouse. Gilbert peered over Han Yerry’s shoulder to see where they were going, but his sharp voice yanked his attention straight back to the Oneida leader.

“We will keep you as friends for the night. Your men seem very ill. But my hunting party spotted you from many lengths away days ago. You are not very good at hiding.”

Gilbert let blush encase his cheeks and neck, shuffling in spot as his faults were aired out by the far more experienced man than himself. He stammered an excuse.

“We… we ‘ad no intention of missing your attenzion, Mizter Yerry. For my soldiers ‘ave came for Canaza, but I come for a different purpose.”

Han Yerry cocked his head, intrigued. Ensuring he was out of earshot of his men, Gilbert rustled in his pocket for the diagram of the apple, the paper burning warm against his skin. He recited that phrase, the one he had heard so many times but still was unsure of its true meaning. Perhaps Han Yerry, resting on older and wiser shoulders, would know better.

“May ze fazher of understanding guide us.”

He announced no louder than a whisper. Something shifted in Han Yerry’s expression, from barely contained contempt twisting into an amused grin. He slapped a hand onto Gilbert’s shoulder, making him yelp, and chuckled, each Haught dripping with condescending vitriol.

“Ah, you Templars. First you reach me through the regulars. Now you reach me through the Patriots. And yet my answer does not change. I am sorry you came so far… how was it…”

His grin grew a little wider, relishing in how Gilbert squirmed as he rose air quotes

“Mizter Lafayette”

Gilbert winced as he felt his ego shatter.

“...but the apple you seek is not here. George is a stubborn man, isn’t he?”

“Mizter Washington i-is a great man!”

“Oh my apologies, I meant, ‘ Mizter Washington’ ”

Gilbert wished for nothing more than to cut the man open for his slander. For he knew he was doing it simply to rile up his youthful anger. He would chew it up and spit it back into his face and Gilbert would leave empty handed, failing the Congress and George. Gilbert felt boiling tears prick by the edge of his eyes, tongue choking his throat. He couldn’t give up here. George was a stubborn man but Gilbert was a stubborn boy. Deep breath in. The cold would crystalise his tears.

“Miz… mmmm… MIS-ter Yerry.”

He emphasised. Almost spat. Han Yerry was nearly impressed.

“I came to represent two factions today, zir. You may pick which one you wizh to speak to. But whether you want to make a deal with ze Templars or ze Patriots, we come seeking your support. I zimply ‘ave more power as a Templar”

Han Yerry’s eyes softened. Perhaps out of pity. He could hear the rustling of introductions from the longhouse, and desperately wished to get out of the cold. He would take one last jab, just to truly test the mettle of the boy before him. Were they just sending the scraps left over, in hopes of tempting them out of neutrality? Or was there something else for them?

“If your men are anything to behold, you have as much power as that Congress of yours, held together by spittle and ideals. The Patriots are weak and the Templars are annoying. What side of this can I come up with to paint you in a flattering light then Gilbert?”

Gilbert stiffened his upper lip and refused to come down. The well of fear of George’s disapproval kept his head cool.

“An annoying and weak man is also a persistent and persevering one. I like to sink of myself as both.”

Han Yerry’s eyes sparkled with something like admiration. For such a young boy, his hot headedness was well in check. George must have trained this lapdog well. He wouldn't wish to be the one to deliver the bad news of the child’s death by frostbite, and so pushed his back insistently towards the longhouse with the rest so they could warm up indoors.

“Annoying, persistent, you certainly are. Come now, join us. Break bread. Your journey must've been hard. We may speak more tomorrow. Either as a Patriot or as a Templar, I shall decide which is less inconvenient. Bless us with your company, Mizter Lafayette. ”

Despite mocking his accent this whole time, it felt imbued with familial warmth the last time. Gilbert couldn't bring himself to be mad. Although it was jarring seeing Han Yerry take such a sharp turn in affections towards him, Gilbert was not about to pass it up while he was there. He scampered behind the older man, feeling small but victorious after the conversation. The burst of heat that came from the longhouse was enough to wash clean the sins of the snow just moments before. A hearty fire was already built up in the middle, his men conversed with the Oneida warriors and the citizens, bonding over the struggle of winter and a bowl of much craved corn soup. The balmy atmosphere touched heavy against Gilbert’s skin, leaving a sheen of sweat he hadn't felt for many months. He turned to Han Yerry, whose eyes sparkled with good nature. Gilbert felt his shoulders relax a touch. The Templars wouldn't deal with the likes of thieves and backstabbers… right? Han Yerry was a man to be trusted, otherwise George would have not trusted to send him into his lap. 

As he followed into the centre of the room to sit and take a bowl of soup, Han Yerry began with the favourite words of all self aggrandising children:

“So tell me your story Gilbert”

And so the evening slipped away through the warm sands of time.

…

The next morning shone through with new hope. Needing to earn their keep, and wishing to press his agenda, Gilbert offered his services to hunt with Han Yerry in the early hours. Gilbert trotted behind Han Yerry’s stride, a bow sitting like a foreign object in his hand. He looked over at his hesitant companion, eyes like daggers amongst the unsuspecting wilderness before themselves. He dove into a bush, somehow doing so without rustling a single leaf, while Gilbert followed, somehow rustling every leaf on his way down. Gilbert was not one to beat about the bush however (no pun intended) and began his pitch hard and strong.

“Which man will you rezpond to at zis moment? Gilbert the Templar or Gilbert the Patriot?”

Han Yerry huffed in amusement, a sly smile growing against his features. Cogs whirred in his brain and Gilbert knew he was planning to wind him up in every way he knew how.

“Oh, I’m not sure, I woke up in a good mood today. I’ll indulge Gilbert the Templar for the time being. Gilbert the Patriot would be much too depressing on this glorious day!”

His hands flew wide open, emphasising the wide forest before him, beams of sunlight washes the frozen wasteland below, where the remaining bunnies hopped across the ice. Gilbert rolled his eyes, refusing to be wound up for this man. He saw now how Grandmaster Kenway was not the man to negotiate with him. He held his borrowed bow tenderly in his hands, walking alongside him as he moved through the brush as if it were an open plain. Gilbert struggled to keep up, but refused to let the signs of his breathing fail him in front of Han Yerry.

“Ah… hah… you are quite ze admirable hunter, Mizter Yerry. You must enjoy early rizes zen?”

“Nothing better to wake up the mind and body than early tasks. Wasn’t that something one of your Patriots preached? Doctor Franklin, wasn’t it?”

Despite Han Yerry’s formidable speed, Gilbert surprised himself by being able to keep up. All those laps around Mount Vernon really did help in the end. He let himself smile for the first time in days. The prize was in sight.

“Ah, Doczor Franklin! ‘E was the one to recommend myself to ze congress in ze first place! You read ‘is work?”

“Franklin, yes I’ve had the pleasure of learning some of his philosophies…”

Han Yerry mused as he slowed his pace, silent footsteps dodging every leaf and stick. His mischievous eyes worn with wrinkles peered upwards at the foliage. The majority of trees were still bare, ravaged by the winter’s cold, but as he looked further he saw the smallest buds appear on the ends of branches. Specks of green dotted amongst the tips, as if waiting for the time to strike. But not yet, it was still much too cold.

His run devolved into a jog, and eventually stood still before a grand eastern cottonwood tree, towering over the pair of them in its bareness. Gilbert stood behind him, narrowing his eyes to figure out exactly what Han Yerry was looking at. He turned to Gilbert with an unreadable expression, but a knowing light within his eyes.

“Do you see those branches there?”

His hand rose up to the tree, guiding Gilbert’s line of sight as it trailed past its many branches. He felt the shiver of deja vu up his spine.

“...Yes zir.”

Han Yerry didn’t even afford him the luxury of a grin before throwing himself up the tree, thundering upwards at breakneck speed. Gilbert gasped, yelling out to him.

“Mizter Yerry! Wait, we ‘ave not discussed anyzing yet!”

“Oh, so very sorry Mizter Lafayette, I cannot hear you from up here, please, do an old man a favour and come closer!”

His laugh was sharp and distant, growing weaker as it was carried further away with the cold winter wind. Gilbert realised what this was all about. He wasn’t about to negotiate with an aristocrat’s boy with no respect for him. Gilbert could only imagine how many of those kinds Han Yerry had encountered over the years, how was he any different? Well, this was his chance to prove he was. He wasn’t so refined, especially after the injury to his leg, but he did think his climbing was a little better than before. Taking a breath, and watching the steam blow frigid into the air, Gilbert made the first reach and grasped the branch. His movements weren’t quick, nimble, or even all that well thought out, but they certainly pulled him from one ledge to the next. He imagined George at the top, as he always was while climbing onto the roof, staring down at him, a proud smile stretching on his usually frozen features. This image pulled him upwards. Flakes of snow flew against his cheeks and blinded his eyes. His vision went blurry, and for a hopeful flame of a second, Han Yerry’s figure above him merged with his imagination, and George really was there.

“Come on Gilbert! Only a few more feet upwards!”

The ringing in his ears seemed to morph into George’s voice, blood rushing throughout his face and lungs greedy for air. He didn’t even realise he had grasped the last branch and heaved himself to the top until the voice of Han Yerry stopped feeling like a daydream and pierced his foggy mind.

“I didn’t think you’d actually reach the summit. I’m impressed.”

The wind stopped howling, the world stopped spinning for just a moment as Gilbert processed exactly where he was. The voice of George faded and the face of Han Yerry came into focus. Gilbert swallowed a dry throat. He spoke with the shake of exhaustion throughout his lungs, eyes meeting his challenger. His iris sparkled with a satisfied curiosity, now replaced with an interest. This was it, he was finally, finally listening to him. Gilbert had to take advantage of this.

“Ze Templar cause ‘as afforded me many opportunities to train my body and zoul.”

“You’re still a bit slow, not as many opportunities as you have hoped then Gilbert?”

“My leg was shattered atop my ‘orse last autumn. I thank ze father of understanding for even ze ability to walk today.”

Gilbert spat. His voice was like an icicle, piercing the conversation dead. He saw Han Yerry sip in a bit of air into his lungs, scanning the boy with intense judgement. His eyes narrowed, and treaded his words a bit more cautiously.

“You told me last night of your misfortune at the battle of Brandywine.”

“I met wiz Stirling’s men an’ found his troops in retreat. Ze British had surrounded us, it waz ‘opeless. I ‘had to ‘help my men back to protect zem from any further injury. I waz a target on my horse, it’s truly surprising I didn’t die that day.”

Han Yerry opened his mouth to respond, but quickly closed it again. His eyes dragged themselves across Gilbert’s body, settling on his leg. It twitched in pain as they sat uncomfortably at the top of the tree. He hadn’t even noticed that, he was walking so well on it. His pudgy stomach still suggested an air of aristocracy, but his ears were just a bit more open. He was willing to listen, and Gilbert pounced on that like a starved animal.

“Grandmaster Kenway has requested your help many times, why do you still refuse him?”

“You really don’t know what those Templars are about, do you Mr Lafayette?”

All of Han Yerry’s playful tone froze in the winter wind. He looked at Gilbert with a kind of pathetic pity that made his skin crawl. His brow grew hard, shielding his eyes from the bright sun attempting to shine into his eyes. He would not be treated as a charity case, genuine or mockingly.

“I know zey are about peace, about maintaining ze best for people. Zey protect, not out fear, but out of order. A strong foundation is what Patriots need to dispel this country from ze wishes of a mad King. Mad King George cannot continue to reign in his anarchy.”

“How about your George? Is he not even a little mad, agreeing to send you up to freeze to death at the orders of the Templars?”

“YOU WILL NOT-!”

Gilbert took a deep breath and shut his eyes. Han Yerry did not flinch at his childish outburst.

“Mizter Washington, he is not mad, and neither are ze Templars. As for me, I have not frozen yet, but I will if you decide to continue denying me my glory. It is blood on your ‘ands if you cannot agree to set aside your games for ze needs of stability in our country.”

Han Yerry couldn’t help but chuckle. It only hardened Gilbert’s heart further.

“This is not our country Gilbert. It isn’t mine, it isn’t even yours.”

He kept his gaze fixed on Gilbert, but he did not squirm this time. It was rather cold up here, high in the trees. He must be frozen in place.

“What does the Templar cause care if this rebellion lives or dies? What do you care?”

The words were pointed yet sincere. Gilbert had to tread carefully if Han Yerry was to give him what he wanted, what the Templars wanted.

Was there a difference anymore?

“I care because zis rebellion is ze only chance for ze Templars to start new, wash sins of Europe on this clean slate. No more will ze pettiness of princes dictate the order of ze land. Order will dictate order of ze land. And for ze rebellion? You cannot make an omelette without cracking a few eggs.”

Han Yerry huffed, an amused smile quirked at his lips. What a perfect Templar answer, perhaps there was a reason he was sent to him. He wasn’t just foreign cannon fodder, it seems.

Perhaps George actually did care for the boy. It's not like he hasn’t noticed Gilbert carry about that soggy, torn letter by his heart like the Bible. Gilbert clearly cared for him. Did George really send one of the only people he cared about to fumble around blindly in the woods in search of the apple? He wasn’t desperate, he would have sent himself if he was desperate. No, this was something else. This was potential. He had faith, a dangerous thing to hold. Faith in Gilbert and faith in Han Yerry to see his side. Both the Templar and Patriot side. He could feel his resolve slipping. For he was sympathetic to the cause of the Patriots. Hell, his life was on the line for them last summer. Gilbert seemed to inhabit the idealistic zeal of the Patriot cause, and despite his cool words, it lit a fire of resolve for Han Yerry. Perhaps the Templars could be a worthy ally, if they have already offered so much of themselves for the Patriots.

“You speak words of a statesman but your heart betrays otherwise. All you Templars feel the need to hide your feelings under layers of frost, there is no shame in passion. I can feel the passion radiating from that letter in your chest, Gilbert.”

Han Yerry spoke sincerely, straightforwardly for the first time since they met. Gilbert instinctively covered his torso protectively, but relented and pulled out the paper. Tucked in between the diagrams of the apple and maps of the forest, was a letter from George. Gilbert sheepishly opened it up. He hesitated, brown eyes flickering between the letter and the expectant stare of Han Yerry. Gilbert placed a shaky hand in his, and offered his life’s work to him. He swallowed a dry throat.

“You used the Templar documents to protect a letter from your mentor?”

Gilbert nodded, a wash of guilt passing through him as his intentions were laid bare. He refused to show his eyes, clearly burning by now. He was ashamed his ambition was not his only drive. He bet it was George’s.

“...I don’t have the apple. You know that, and I’m sure Mister Washington knows that too.”

Han Yerry read the letter Gilbert had handed to him. It was as a father would write to his child, soothing him of nightmares and things that go bump in the night. It was entirely pathetic to place this in importance over diagrams that detail artefacts of mass destruction. It’s all he needed to know.

“The apple is not with me. But I know where to find it. It arrived on these shores in the hopes it could be aided in the war, but it vanished by the time it reached the docks. Three men were executed for losing the apple. They thought they sold it.”

Gilbert shivered on the spot. Such cold, calculating tyranny.

“But the apple has not been sold, merely lost. I believe it has hidden itself. It latches onto its owner, like a parasite. Drains him of his humanity, returns his wiring to his most base, slave like state. The man the apple has decided to steal will not be easy to find. A man without humanity is a man without features, without a face. Find the trail of missing soldiers, and you will find your apple, boy. Is sacrificing the humanity worth it?”

“M… My humanity is a small sacrifice for ze preservation of all humanity’s order.”

“I wasn’t talking about just yours.”

The letter from George to Gilbert fluttered in his hand. It threatened to fly off, but Gilbert knew it would stay.

“I am willing to send some food and men to your camp in Valley Forge. I have not lost faith in your cause. I will even aid you Templars in your search in return for aid against invaders. I am not being fooled by the likes of Johnson again.”

Gilbert merely nodded in jagged motions, willing to agree to anything after his soul had been laid bare for the second time in front of this man. He barely strangled a response.

“Oui… yes… of course, I zank you for your allyship…”

Han Yerry gave Gilbert his papers back, which he snatched away maybe a little too forcefully, but he did not climb back down just yet.

“Mizter Yerry… you will ride with me back to Valley Forge, non?”

Han Yerry laughed, readying himself to climb back down.

“I supposed after your injury, you wouldn’t ever want to ride back on a horse ever again.”

“One bullet cannot halt a lifetime of pushing forward, Mizter Yerry.”

“Very true, Kayewla.”

“Kay…?”

“It means fearsome horseman.”

“Do not mock me with ironic nicknames!”

Han Yerry smiled. Gilbert couldn’t find it within himself anymore to reciprocate.

“We will see how ironic the nickname will come to be when we have arrived at Valley Forge.”

The journey to Valley Forge after the agreement was made was nothing more than a blur for Gilbert. He had heard attempts by Han Yerry to engage conversation, but he was shut out. He had spoken what he needed to. Every time he tried to speak, he had his heart ripped open and insides examined. He would not give him such an opportunity again. 

It was long, and slow, and more men died, as to be expected. Gilbert spent his evenings writing to Congress and George, catching Han Yerry looking over his shoulders multiple times as he wrote. The days were bright but the nights were a type of pitch black that had been scrubbed away in the European skyline. Gilbert grew to appreciate the winter, appreciate the cold as he walked through the carnage left behind. Snow strewn across all surfaces, lakes standing still at the orders of a dropping temperature. Wind whistled like a piper, calling Gilbert towards his duty. He hoped the Templars would accept his efforts.

Han Yerry continued to call him Kayewla, causing the shiver of annoyance to trance within his mind.

Another night had come on the trail to Valley Forge. They weren’t far now, passing into Pennsylvania only yesterday. Gilbert found himself huddled over his last few sheets of paper, penning a letter to George. He spoke of his victory, and asked if there was any word back from Haytham regarding his induction. His quill stilled as he thought of ending it there, but realised there were more pressing matters on his mind. He then penned a short but fierce paragraph complaining of Han Yerry’s nickname for him, Kayewla. He spoke of how it mocked his horsemanship and his injury at the battle of Brandywine. He felt better after writing it, especially since he knew Han Yerry was not peering over his shoulder to read it. After it was sent off, he felt an unusual lilt in his step the next morning, ready to finally reach Valley Forge and feed the frozen corpses that populated the camp.

They were heralded as Gods when they arrived. A sea of blue hands and faces greeted them, grasping at the uncooked corn for any hopes of something in their mouths. Polly Cooper, a woman who had come along with the warriors to aid in the feeding, pushed away men twice her size yet half her weight. She knew the uncooked corn would have made them sick, but they didn’t. Gilbert thought there might be a lesson there.

Once the food was prepared and the sun shone low in the hills, Gilbert received a letter. He was shocked, not expecting a reply so soon, but hungrily took the paper when presented. He slunk away from the light of the group, where tearful soldiers ate and sang together; warm melodies and joyful thanks. He found himself in his dark, damp tent by the edge of the camp, where only the flicker of the candle’s flame lit up his vision to read. Gilbert read and read and found his heart swelling with pride. George could turn an insult to a compliment, and a torturous mission into a glorious crusade. He could even turn burning fire into snow. And he turned Gilbert into a Templar.

"Dearest Kayewla.

I have heard word back from the Grandmaster. He has returned with Church finished, and Connor has returned into being our enemy. Nothing truly changes between the Assassins and the Templars after all.

He is most impressed with your negotiation skills with the Oneida. Not even Johnson was able to pry much from them, the Grandmaster and myself are more than convinced of your abilities. Your ability to afford food and aid to the starving men of Valley Forge has overshadowed any failures you might have gained by being unable to penetrate Canada. Everyone in Congress is brimming with hopeful resolve. You are the boy wonder, the French hero, Gilbert. I couldn’t be more proud. 

They are speaking of a promotion for you in Congress, or at least a medal of honour for your work. Lee would be happy to write a letter of recommendation to the Congress of your bravery, and I am of course thrilled to act as your representative in the Congress. You are the talk of Philadelphia.

Grandmaster Kenway is happy to induct you into the Colonial rite, as am I. You have shown the true values of the Templars on this mission. You have been swift, silent and efficient. I believe you will go far in the rite; I have every faith you will act for the good of order and peace. Perhaps if you are ever able to return to France, Master Cormac would benefit highly from a fine ally like yourself. Do not leave Valley Forge yet however. I will meet you there personally to tell you of your induction’s date. And to congratulate you in person, of course. It gets stuffy in the streets after a while, I need to stretch my legs in the countryside.

I see you’re displeased about your new name, Kayewla. I will tell you of a story I told a dear friend of mine many years ago; my own mentor. My grandfather was an Indian killer. He was feared by them for his actions towards their tribes. He burned down their towns and sowed fear into their hearts. For this, they named him Conotocaurius. Burner of villages. It was a show of respect but also of hatred. A warning to all others, his strength was to be admired but his soul was wretched. They gave me that same name during the French-Indian War. Han Yerry is not mocking you, but he is not singing your praises either. Take that as you will. Wear your name as a medal of honour upon your breast, or cast it aside and in turn, cast our allies. For you are a fearsome horseman, just like I knew you could be. Strike fear into hearts and they will reward you with love. Take my words as your own, my Kayewla.

May the father of understanding guide us,

Conotocaurius."