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Shay felt numb. No, that's not true. He ached all over, and when finally that bear of a man got off of him, he could properly breathe again. He lay there on the floor panting heavily, eyes unfocused, not moving, not wanting to think about what just happened. He'll just… Catch his breath for now. Yes.
He flinched when he heard Liam step on that one creaky floorboard near the door. Because… That wasn't what he expected. Well, he didn't know what he expected. A hidden blade between his ribs, perhaps. Definitely not this.
There's no way the assassin came here just to… Well… Do what he did.
His breath hitched as a sudden thought hit him. Did Liam steal any documents from Shay's desk on his way out? If the assassins got his intel and naval charts, they would certainly share them with their French allies. And then not only would they know about Royal Navy movements, the Templar fleet also would be in danger, not to mention merchant ships and civilians that Templars had dealings with.
Groaning softly, he shakily tried to get up, only to nearly fall back on his face because his breeches were still around his knees. Angrily, he pulled them up, not bothering with tucking his shirt in, and realised that one of the buttons was missing.
"Wonderful," he growled quietly to himself, finally standing up and stumbling to his desk.
The papers were in disarray, but nothing seemed to be missing at first glance. One of the rolled-up maps lay on the floor; a letter he remembered holding when Liam showed up was creased and stained with spilt ink; a previously neat stack of reports wasn't so neat anymore. Did they hit the desk during their fight? He didn't remember. It didn't matter anyway. He needed to be sure his men and allies were safe.
Shay righted his overturned chair and paused. He was shaky, exhausted and aching all over, but sitting down right now would be even more painful. No, he'll stay on his feet for now.
He started tidying everything up, cataloguing the documents in his mind, when a drop of blood fell on the report he was currently holding. Right. He did get hit in the face a few times. Laying down the piece of paper and then fishing for his handkerchief, he gingerly probed his nose with the other hand. He winced. Nothing seemed to be broken, but it did hurt like hell.
The blood stopped running by the time he had everything hidden away in a locked cabinet. Nothing was missing. Why was Liam even here then? Reconnaissance? Shay's assassination?
"Well, you definitely botched that one too, you bilge-licking turd. Thanks for ruining my plans for the evening."
Wait. He did have plans for this evening…
Shay found support against the nearest wall and groaned. He forgot about dinner at the Finnegans'… There was no way he could show up in his current state; half of his face was probably one giant bruise by now. And he desperately needed a bath. He reeked of stale sweat and sex. Not to mention that something was leaking out of… No, not thinking about that. Bath. He should tell Mrs. Woods to…
He froze as sudden fear gripped his body. Liam went through the door… With a heart beating frantically in his suddenly tight chest, he hurried out of his study. The window on the far side of the corridor was open, but he needed to be certain. If that perfidious cur touched anyone from his household, Shay would find him and then keelhaul him under the biggest and most barnacle-fouled ship he could find. And then throw what remained to the sharks. He ran down the stairs toward the back of the house, two steps at a time, and nearly collided with the wall at the corner.
He barged through the kitchen door and was met with several cries of "Oh my!" and "Good Lord!" from startled women.
"Master Cormac!" Mrs. Woods, his housekeeper, stood up from her work with a horrified expression. "What happened?"
"There was an intruder in the house. Is everyone all right?" he blurted out, examining everyone present with his gaze.
"We haven't noticed anything," the cook said, still unnerved, exchanging concerned looks with others. "And John just brought in more wood. He did not seem alarmed at all—cracked a few jokes, even."
"But, Master Cormac," Mrs. Woods made a few tentative steps toward him. "Are you all right? Should I send for a doctor?"
"I…" Shay realised how dreadful he must look, with smears of dried blood under his nose, fresh bruises upon his face, dishevelled hair, clothes in disarray, and his shirt still hanging loose. "Uh, no, that— that won't be necessary. Though the bath would be appreciated."
"Of course, sir, right away. I shall inform you when it is ready."
"Thank you. I'll be in my study." Shay retreated to the corridor, gently closing kitchen door behind him. Suddenly shaky with relief, he slowly went back upstairs. So they do sometimes stay their blades from the flesh of the innocent. And… Now that he wasn't panicking anymore, he realised he was extremely lucky—oh, the irony—that no one had heard anything. His… encounter with Liam wasn't exactly quiet.
Back in his study, he closed the door and leaned on it with a heavy sigh. He needed to contemplate his next move: dinner at the Finnegans'. It was still a few hours before that; he could rest for a bit, regain some energy. But… He really wasn't in a best emotional state right now. Not good enough for a social visit, and he doubted this would improve by evening. Head hanging low, he wrapped his arms around himself in an imitation of a hug and shut his eyes, trying to stop the prickling sensation behind them. He had been looking forward to this dinner, especially because it was also one of the rare occasions that Colonel Monro was visiting New York.
Well, if he's not attending, he ought to inform the hosts about it.
Shay moved toward his desk, eyeing the chair with reluctance. He could write while standing, but the letters would be shaky at best, and he didn't want to give the impression that anything was amiss. Mind made, he gritted his teeth and sat down, flinching at the sudden burst of pain. He breathed through it for a moment, hands tightening into fists, until it became more bearable.
"You had it worse," he reminded himself quietly, reaching for an empty piece of cheap, coarse paper.
It took him several long minutes to draft the message to his liking, striking words here and there, until it contained the right amount of apologies, regrets, and a vague explanation about something urgent coming up. He rewrote the final version onto a finer sheet, then folded, sealed, and addressed it. He created another two notes—both containing additional part about not needing any help in handling the matter—and marked them for Colonel Monro and Christopher Gist respectively.
The Colonel would be at Fort George's garrison right now. His and Finnegans' missives could be carried by the cook's youngest. The boy was reliable and confident enough to insist he needed to deliver it directly to the Colonel's hands, and not leave it for some lieutenant at the fort's gates. Gist however…
Shay folded his arms and leaned back, lost in thought. His first mate disappeared in the morning on some personal errands, but promised to be back at Fort Arsenal early enough to be ready for the dinner, to which he was also invited. The message could wait for him here, then.
The problem was, Shay would rather not face the man today. His cheerful and boisterous nature was often uplifting, but sometimes it could be a bit too much.
"Running away then. Like a coward," he murmured, disgusted with himself. He had a few more hours before Gist's return, plenty of time to clean up and disappear on this supposedly urgent matter. Dejected, he turned his gaze towards the nearest window and watched a circling seagull until it moved beyond his field of view.
A polite knock on the door pulled him out of this stupor.
"Enter," he called. It was Mrs. Woods. It seems he was lost in his own head longer than he realised.
"Your bath is ready, sir. If you would like some assistance, I can send John upstairs."
"That won't be necessary. And thank you." He gathered his messages. "Please send Lucas with these two. One of them is for Colonel Monro; tell the boy to deliver it to him personally. And please give this one to Master Gist upon his return."
"Of course, sir. It will be done," she took the notes from him. "Is there anything else you require?"
"No, that will be all. Thank you." She nodded at that and left.
Shay rose slowly. By this point, most of his pain had dulled significantly, but he hadn't regained much energy.
In his bedroom, near the lit fireplace, waited—as promised—a wooden bathtub filled with steaming water. A soap and a washcloth lay prepared on a nearby stool, along with a folded towel. It was a most inviting sight, one that made the corners of his mouth turn up a bit. He started taking off his garments, glancing at himself in the dresser's mirror.
Well… He sighed, smile disappearing. No wonder the women were horrified when they saw him—he looked dreadful. He had some traces of blood under his nose and on his chin, probably smeared earlier with his handkerchief. The skin on his left cheek was cracked, the wound already scabbed. The extent of the bruises would be fully visible once he cleaned up, but even now, they didn't look good. Dishevelled hair and clothes in disarray completed the sorry picture he presented.
He remembered the Oneida clan mother gifting him some salve that—supposedly—when applied to the skin, reduced swelling and encouraged healing. It should still be on the Morrigan; he could try it on his bruised face.
He grimaced, seeing the dried-up droplets of blood on the front of his waistcoat. He hoped the stains could be washed out—he really liked the piece. Not to mention, it was a gift.
Finally naked, he eyed the breeches lying on the floor. The torn-out button could be easily replaced by a new one, but the mess on the inside… It would be both shameful and humiliating to give this to the maid for cleaning. Fortunately, life as a poor teenager gave him enough experience in removing those sorts of stains. In a way. It's the first time he'd seen this mixed with blood.
He sighed. He'll take care of this later.
He stepped into the tub and gingerly lowered himself into the water, hissing slightly and tightening his fists on the edges—both at the almost too high temperature and at the sudden burst of pain in his nether regions. After a few heartbeats, the pain subsided, and he finally started to relax. He closed his eyes and slid down a bit. Head resting on the edge, cushioned with folded linen—set there exactly for this purpose—he sat without moving for several minutes, simply enjoying the sensation of tension leaving his tired body.
"All right, time to actually get clean," he mumbled, reaching back to untie his hair. He very nearly dozed off. Ribbon safely put aside, he reached for the soap. He did not wish to rush this. Preparing a full bath took a lot of effort, so he wanted to appreciate it as much as possible.
He started with his face. The dried blood softened under the warm water, and he was able to gently rub it off. His hair was next, then the rest of his body.
He tried to concentrate only on his movements—on the drag of the soaped cloth on his skin. Because if his mind strayed into how some of his wounds had formed…
"Damnation…" he threw the rag into the water and curled in on himself, hiding his face in his hands. And now he was thinking about his still-tender earlobe—bitten; about the small bruises on his hips—from fingers that had squeezed his flesh in an iron grip; about his still-aching—
His breath was speeding up…
"Enough!" he growled to himself, standing abruptly. The bath was over. He was clean enough. With gritted teeth and heaving chest, he got out of the tub and angrily rubbed himself dry.
He needed some task he could focus on. Otherwise, his mind would spiral into hysteria.
The breeches.
He put on some fresh garments, forgoing a cloak for now. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and set to work removing the stain. He would have to hide them somewhere until they are dry; the safest place would be in the captain's cabin on the Morrigan. None of the staff would discover them there.
He would leave the rest of his dirty clothes for the maid—especially the bloodied vest. Women knew all the proper methods for removing that kind of stains, and he didn't want to accidentally ruin it by doing something incorrectly.
Shay wrung out the breeches of excess water, wrapped them in a dry shirt he took from the dresser drawer, and hid them in a leather satchel. The shirt would hopefully soak up any remaining moisture and prevent wet stains showing on the outside of the satchel. He then re-tied his still damp hair, finished dressing, and left. On his way out, he informed a maid about the clothes, and that he probably will not be back today.
The Morrigan—as usual—was moored at the private pier, just down from the main building. They weren't scheduled to sail for at least another two weeks, so only the skeleton crew remained to mind the ship; the rest went ashore, though most of them used Fort's buildings as temporary quarters anyway.
Shay spotted several sailors doing standard maintenance work on the ship. Cook and his mate—temporarily moved from the galley to a nearby building—were discussing something over an open barrel. Men not on duty occupied themselves with various tasks: mending clothes, carving wooden figurines, playing dice and other games… One was replacing a string on his fiddle.
"Good afternoon, Captain," Collins—a bosun's mate and officer of the current watch—greeted him at the gangway. He knew his captain long enough to not be alarmed by a bruised face.
"Good afternoon," Shay replied. "How's the watch going?"
"Everything's running smoothly, sir. No incidents."
"Good. I'll be in my cabin. I am not to be disturbed." He paused. "If Gist comes looking for me, tell him I'm not here," he added in a conspiratorial tone.
"Aye, sir," Collins saluted with a smirk.
He was nearly at the cabin door when he realised that if he planned to spend a long time in there, he would need some refreshments. He didn't want to go back to the manor just to order some tea and sandwiches to be brought aboard the ship. But he had some tea leaves, dried fruit and hard biscuits in there. He turned back to Collins and asked him to have some water boiled, then went inside.
It was a bit dark here. Shay took the tinderbox from his belt pouch and struck a spark to light the first candle on the desk. He transferred the flame to the other candles and then to the lanterns nearby. With that done, he took out the wet clothes and hung them on a hanger near the bed. They wouldn't be immediately visible for anyone who would come inside.
The Oneida's salve was kept in a small clay container, covered with a piece of leather and secured tightly with a cord. It was made mostly from beeswax and dried herbs; the clan mother claimed it was a fresh batch and would keep at least until spring, though the scent and strength might fade over time. Shay unsealed the jar and sniffed the yellowish-green paste. It had a pleasant herbal smell; noticeable but not overwhelming.
He fished a small mirror from the dresser drawer and applied the ointment to his bruised face. It was a bit difficult at first—the thick salve was hard to spread—but it soon softened with the warmth of his flesh. And it was barely noticeable. He expected some green colouring to be visible, but it just made his skin shiny. With that taken care of, he put everything back in it's proper place.
The tea container was nearly empty, but it was on the list with other essential provisions that would be restocked before departure. He prepared the teapot just in time for the cook to bring freshly boiled water. He thanked the man and—finally—was left alone.
He felt tension he didn't even realise he was holding slowly drain from his body. This was his true sanctuary. The only place he genuinely felt safe. His home. The gentle swaying of the deck under his feet, the creaking of the wooden planks, the sound of water breaking against the hull—it all had such a calming effect on him.
Fort Arsenal didn't really feel like that; it was just where he stayed most when when he was ashore.
Granted, it was undeniably a welcoming place, with all the nice people managing the estate an it's grounds, and definitely much more inviting than his lodgings at Davenport Homestead; those were always conditional on one being an Assassin.
Except, Shay felt a bit uncomfortable as some kind of a lord of the manor. He came from the working class, just like all the people he hired. The only orders he felt confident giving were those given as a sea captain. It was quite different from ordering a servant.
However, now that he was here, he found himself somewhat at a loss. He had no desire to read a book, and all his Templar-related affairs were up to date. He glanced around the cabin looking for inspiration.
Oh, yes, that would do.
He approached the side table with the ship model and ran a finger along her hull. She could use some improvements. He had carved a new figurehead months ago; it was still lying in a chest with other pieces he'd made. It was about time he secured it all to the model. And the task would occupy his mind for a while.
The ship, it's new parts, and some tools were brought to his desk, and all the unnecessary items were moved out of the way. He worked for some time on securing the tiny figurehead to the stem. It was truly a shame that he never gave the model it's soul until now. Though he had the original wolf-head commissioned only after regaining the Morrigan from Assassins, as the previous sculpture was heavily damaged.
Hope had promised to take care of her and he found his Phantom Queen crippled! Her hull told a story of a skirmish, crude field repairs, and being left alone at the pier for half a year—thick with barnacles, seaweed, and slime, that slowed her down noticeably. Even the sails were in poor condition.
He would never again leave her in the hands of some landlubber!
He would understand if they had simply sold her for profit, they had Chevalier's Gerfaut after all. Someone else could appreciate her then. They did nothing of the sort. They just thrown away his most valuable possession without a second thought.
Liam should know better—he spent a few years as Shay's first officer, and yes, the Morrigan was the first ship he ever served on, but he certainly gained some experience during that time. He probably didn't dare to captain the Morrigan himself—he didn't have enough knowledge for that. But not even ordering basic maintenance? Apparently, after Shay was presumed dead, they just forgot about her. Left her to deteriorate.
It would seem Liam never truly cared. As if years of friendship, all the hardships they had overcome together, meant nothing. The moment Shay was declared a traitor, Liam shot him in the back. And now that they knew he was still alive, he came here to do what? To mock him, to inflict more pain? To torment him before the eventual execution? Weren't assassinations supposed to be swift? He had never realised Liam could be that cruel.
Oh… No wonder his vision was getting blurry.
He moved to wipe the tears off his face and instantly regretted it, as his hands came back greasy with the salve. Grimacing, he wiped the mess of with a handkerchief.
He was tired of feeling sorry for himself. He just wished this day would finally end, so he could write it all off as a bad dream. Perhaps he could try to let this weariness overtake him, let it drag him down into the depths of unconsciousness.
Mind made, he undressed until he was only in his shirt, breeches, and stockings. He would be comfortable enough. And decent enough in case of an emergency.
Finally in his bed, wrapped in a blanket like a caterpillar in its cocoon, he focused on the gentle rocking of the ship. He hoped the waves would pull him into sleep before long.
He was jolted from his slumber by a sharp knock on the door.
"Captain? I know you're in there!" came the voice of his first mate.
Shay growled, pressing his face into the pillow with frustration. Of course the man knew. Shay had left all the lights still burning—like an idiot—and outside it was probably dark enough by now for them to be visible through the windows.
"Go away Gist!" he shouted, not even bothering to turn.
"Master Cormac, may I come in?"
Shay hastily sat up, all anger evaporating in an instant. Because that was Colonel Monro's voice. Did Shay wanted him here? Yes. But there was also Gist to consider…
Well, Gist could respectfully go jump into the sea.
"Please, give me a minute," He called in much more polite tone than before.
He sat there for a few heartbeats with the face hidden in his hands. Both men were perceptive enough to realise something was wrong; Shay knew he would not be able to fool them. Not with this wound going straight into his very soul.
But they also knew when not to pry…
With that thought in mind, he put his shoes on and approached the door.
Both men immediately noticed the state he was in; behind them, Collins sent him an apologetic look.
"Well then!" Gist regained his wits first. "Now that I've brought your special guest, captain, I'll see you two in the morning, eh?" He gave the Colonel a strong pat on the shoulder and left.
"It's good to see you again, Master Cormac," Colonel Monro had a worried look on his face. "Though I'd prefer if you were in better health."
"Please, come in, Colonel." Shay offered some customary refreshments, which were politely declined, and now they stood in silence, facing each other.
"It's not as bad as you may think, the face is actually where most of the damage is." He tried for a small, reassuring smile. Monro still looked concerned.
"Your housekeeper said something about an intruder. Was it an Assassin?"
Shay sighed avoiding the other's gaze and sat heavily on the bed, head hanging low with resignation.
"Master Cormac?" The alarm in the Colonel's voice was very noticeable.
"I… I don't know what his goal was…" He said with weary voice. "He didn't steal anything, he didn't try to kill me… I didn't even notice he was there until he opened his mouth to insult me. And I charged into the fight without a second thought. Like a fool," he said, with self-rebuke. "I guess I'm still not over with what he'd done."
Monro sat on his right, facing him, giving him his full attention. Which prompted Shay into more talking.
"His name is Liam O'Brien. He had my back when I was a little kid that often got into fights. He found me again after my father died and got me out of my self-destructive behaviour. He introduced me to the Assassins, personally supervised my training, and became my first mate when I got the Morrigan. And then…"
Shay closed his eyes for a moment.
"After I returned from Lisbon he sided with Achilles. When they cornered me at the cliff he was the only one pointing a gun at me. Most probably, it was him that shot me in the back." He paused. "I sometimes wonder: if I had cooled down like he told me to, and tried convincing them in the morning, would they have listened then? Because my only attempt was angry accusations and stealing. And… Well, I guess they reacted accordingly…"
He felt Monro's hand gently squeezing his arm, offering comfort.
"There is no point in dwelling on what could have been, Master Cormac. We cannot change the past, we can only learn from our mistakes."
"Well, I haven't learned much then," his voice was full of self-reproach, "as I still attacked Liam without thinking. I was overcome by anger and I lost that fight."
"But you are still alive, and therefore you can still improve. Even if that man got away."
Shay averted his gaze, ashamed. "You would not be offering comfort if you knew what happened after… You'd be disgusted actually," he murmured.
"I believe I know you well enough by now that nothing you might do would change my opinion of you."
Oh…
Shay hid his face in his hands just as the first tears fell. He didn't want the Colonel to see him like this. Gritting his teeth, he tried to uphold the remains of his dignity by not making any sound.
He heard a sigh and then the mattress dipped as Monro moved closer. Strong arms wrapped around him and he flinched as he was pulled into a tight embrace.
"Whatever happened today, whatever dark thoughts are invading your mind, know that you shall always have my support."
To hell with it… Shay gave in. Trembling, he hid his face in Monro's shoulder and his fingers curled into the man's coat. He felt a hand on the nape of his neck, holding him steady. He was truly pathetic… He didn't deserve any of this, but he was too weak to reject this act of kindness.
But he also needed to clarify some things to the Colonel. The man shouldn't be making any promises without knowing everything. Killing people was a bit different than… what happened today. This thought helped him regain enough composure after a few moments.
Shay reluctantly let go and straightened, wiping the tear tracks with his hands.
"Would you still make that vow if you knew I was a sodomite?" he blurted out before he could loose all the courage. If Monro was taken aback by this question, he didn't show it.
"Frankly, Master Cormac, if there are no vows broken, I believe what two consenting adults do in their bedroom shouldn't be other people's business."
Oh…
"…Unless this wasn't consensual," Monro looked furious now and his voice gain an edge of steel. "In that case you are right, I am utterly disgusted with O'Brien's conduct."
What?
"Is that what happened?" The concern in the Colonel's eyes was back. "You lost the fight and he forced himself on you?"
"I…" Was that what happened? It was painful and he felt horrible afterwards—physically and emotionally—but some sick part of him still enjoyed it. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see judgement from the other man.
"He tackled me to the floor and I— I must have given him some mixed signals because… Well… It was awful, but I still found pleasure in it and I…" His breath hitched.
Monro's hand was back on his arm.
"You don't have to recall all the details. And my opinion of you remains unchanged."
Shay risked a glance at his guest. "But—"
"No." Monro's voice was firm, but his eyes were full of warmth. "It is clear to me that some part of your heart still harboured feelings for him despite the betrayal," he continued in a gentler tone. "And it is understandable, given your relationship throughout the years; it might have been friendship, it might have been something else, but it was strong enough for some affection to linger."
Oh.
This may actually explain some things.
Although…
"Please, let's not discuss this anymore…" Shay's voice was weary. "I just want to forget what happened today…"
"Of course. I… I'll leave if that is what—"
"No!" He grabbed Monro's retreating hand by the wrist and immediately released it, embarrassed. "I mean… Please, I… I don't want to be alone right now…"
"I was about to offer to keep you company," Colonel's reassuring smile was back along with the hand on Shay's arm.
They rearranged themselves on the bed; Shay was once again lying under the covers, Monro—still half in his uniform, with only gear, boots and coat off— was seated next to him, leaning against the headboard. Though he had his weapons within reach—just in case of an emergency. The nights were cold this time of the year and Shay offered him a spare blanket—now spread over Colonel's legs.
Shay sighed, eyes closed, and the last traces of tension finally leaving his body. He had his forehead pressed into the outside of Monro's thigh; a hand that gently carded through his loose hair—ribbon forgotten somewhere—kept his head there, reassuring that it was all right. He concentrated on those sensations of safety and piece; Morrigan's gentle rocking, and the sounds of her wooden hull and water around it, calming him even more.
"Rest, Master Cormac, I have the watch."
And with that, Shay allowed himself to drift into the depths of peaceful slumber.