To My Most Beloved Shay,
Much has changed since I received your last letter from September. The November wind brings in a frightful chill, carrying all the bitter cold the north can harbor that could rattle a person to the bone. It is a painful reminder to me, for you are not here with me to warm our bed. However, to think upon your face fills me with a joy that chases away all but the thickest of ice away from my heart. May the sun shine bright enough to melt snow, the day you are to return to port!
I do hope that you are faring well. I have heard nightmarish tales of how wicked the frozen seas can truly be, and while I have the strictest faith in you to succeed in your endeavors, I must confess my fears all the same. But, not all is dark, my love, for I too have a wondrous joy to share! By the blessings of The Holy Father, we have been given the gift of a child. While I must admit in my dreams for a girl, I will put my faith in their safety and health above all else. I have begun to consider already, to elect with your approval, Mr. & Mrs. Finnegan as the fated God-Parents, for they have been such pleasant company in the time since I have foretold them of this news.
May you return ever swiftly to my arms,
Your Most Loving Abigail.
That was what her letter had said. Shay had read it innumerable times, over and over again within the hour, his smile and disbelief growing with each iteration. This was by far the greatest news he'd ever received, and one he had been all but ready to share loud and proud to the world-- Until he by chance also read over the other letter he'd received. From Cassidy Finnegan herself, and dated only one week later than the first, it turned his foolish grin into a confused frown. In a hurried plea for him to return, the second script expressed deep concerns over the care and health of his wife. Something was amiss in New York, something he planned to find out.
“Mister Gist,” He inquired, shielding the anxious ripple from his throat “How long would you suppose it will take us yet to return home?”
“A day yet, if the wind kicks up in our favor.”
Shay's eyes drifted up, towards the Morrigan's low, deflated sails.
Two days had gone by, with little to no sleep to replenish his tired mind. It wouldn't do him any good to arrive at port half-dead by way of exhaustion, but the tumultuous fears of what-if and what-may had clouded his conscious. The crew had sensed something was off, but he could not yet say why. The simple fact that he didn't have the slightest clue as to what was going on struck him harder than anything else possible. It left his mind to wander, and wander it did; to Achilles and his Assassins, to Hope and Liam, to Lisbon. There had always been a risk in this kind of work that endangered family and friend alike, but the gravity of it had never sunk in with him until now. Now all he could think about was of that which lay ashore on land, rather than the precious cargo he carried beneath deck.
The cargo... He cursed his breath, accented mumblings leaving his tongue. It was the very reason Shay had even gone out to sea in the first place, trying desperately to track down any clue he had on the Precursor box. He couldn't simply return from his venture and not bring what he'd found to Grand Master Kenway, for he knew Haytham well enough to try and evade his fury. He could have left it with Gist to bring, but that would have left too many questions and swayed the honor of his Templar oath. No, Shay had to pull himself together long enough for this, before he could attend to anything else. It was what he swore on, honest words he held to. If only those vows didn't conflict with those he took of another.
“I'm pleased to see you've brought us back something, Shay.” Master Kenway remarked, the hint of a genuine smile showing upon his face.
“An early Christmas gift, no doubt,” Gist chimed. Shay remained silent.
Master Kenway knelt down, taking a concise observation at his delivery.
It was a bespectacled man, fair of skin, with a face and hands burnt by sun and wind, and a body that managed to be both thin and fat at the same time. His blond hair had been stripped of most of its color, part by age, and part by sea. His sour expression painted a picture of rebellion, but his shabby clothing and overgrown hair pleaded for remedy. Master Kenway could certainly work with this.
“Praytell, what is your name?” Kenway asked.
The man only spat at the floor from his seat, unenthusiastic to speak at all to those who held him captive. Gist had his mouth open and ready to spill all the details, but Kenway held up a hand to silence his motion.
“Shay,” He mused, “Of what importance is this gentleman?”
“A linguist, sir. One Chevalier had personally come into contact with.”
“A linguist,” Kenway repeated, mulling over the words like fine wine.
A silence fell upon them as the Grand Master rose to his feet, hands resting authoritatively behind his back. For a moment, he paced, circling around the trio before he finally came to his conclusion. “I shall see to it that he is cleaned, given good food and a warm bed. After his long journey, I can only assume he might want a good rest. We shall see what can be found about Chevalier afterwards.”
It would have been a great relief, under normal circumstances, to know they had not wasted their time on this matter. In fact, Shay would have been quite pleased with himself over something like this, collecting one more piece of the puzzle and withholding from pointless bloodshed, but today nothing would bring him any greater reassurance than to hold Abigail against his chest. All he had to do was wait, and he loathed every second of it.
The meeting had concluded after further discussion of their plans, divulging details about whom they captured, what the trip had cost them, and other odd bits of chatter. Shay had struggled to keep himself attentive, and while he managed to sail through the conversation, he knew he couldn't hold from bursting out the door much longer. The second his lungs were engulfed with the chilled late November air, he ran. Harder, faster, with a speed he couldn't recall having used before, surely surpassing his frantic sprints from a city of ruins. The landscape of New York City was a bitter blur, every new block of shops and homes just another obstacle for him to climb.
His throat burned with fire when his feet finally hit the first frozen steps of Fort Arsenal. It had been some minutes after three that he had left the Grand Master's home, and the sun had barely swayed from its angle in the sky. It had probably taken him twenty minutes in time, but those were simply twenty too many. The adrenaline that beat through his body came to a sudden halt upon the very sight of the estate. An unsettling stillness resided over the grounds, with nothing but the billow of smoke rolling out of one chimney to tell him anyone might be home. This wasn't right, nothing here was right. Cautious, Shay let himself in.
The fort has been his home for several years now. He'd become comfortable within its walls, relaxed and at ease with the idea of being able to return to it after long months out on the water, but never before had he felt this way while wandering its halls. A heavy weight hung in the air, putting further pressure on his shoulders every second he remained. The atmosphere sucked the very breath out of his lungs, replacing it with a thick, frigid fog. Even his body seized in betrayal, screaming out his intrusion. And yet, he couldn't leave, not until he finally found her.
“Abigail?” He called, a faint echo bouncing back to taunt. The parlor was barren, its fire long since smothered into coals. The familiar ticking of time had fallen away, the clock upon the mantle had been stopped, the hands perpetually stuck at 7:36. Curtains had been drawn, filtering the late afternoon sun into an unearthly glow. Thin lips glued together, forcing down the lump in his throat. Bitterness pooled in his tongue as he called out again, moving around the house with practiced steps. “Abby, love?” Something shifted upstairs.
Shay wasted no time bolting for the stairs, footsteps heavy with a force that made even the strong and sturdy fort to tremble. The sound had come from the bedroom, their bedroom. Was she there, or had a rat come to take her place? Air rattled from his lungs as he stood outside the mahogany stained door, trying to force himself into an air of calm. It would do him no good to rush in, much as the need burned in his brain. For now, he need only to breathe, to shoulder off the fear ever further invading his peace of mind, so that he could regain some semblance of clarity. In, out, his chest slowed, the rise and fall falling in line with the tidal waves outside. Yes, that's it, now carefully, close in on your target...
The door had turned silently, giving only the faintest of squeaks as he entered. Emerald curtains were drawn with a firmer grasp, masking the room in nightfall, if not for the fire that burned valiantly in its hearth. Here too, the clock had been stopped, its time frozen at the same hour and minute as those downstairs. The flames wavered and cracked, casting long and dim shadows along the walls and furniture. His eyes wandered... Their bed had been made a mess, sheets and blankets wrangled together in a single mass, patched together with dried, aged blood. His heart pounded, diving down into his stomach at the very sight. Garments of all varieties had been strewn around the room, from some of his own shirts, to his wife's Sunday best, draped upon the back of the chairs before the fire. It was there that he finally saw her.
Curled up in a bundle of cloth, most notably one of his own jackets, sat Abigail Cormac. Her gaze was empty, only giving the mildest attention to the flames rolling away before her. She hadn't even noticed Shay come in until he towered over her. Deep teal wells gazed up at him, red and purple bags sagging under pale white skin. She stared at him, unwitting and mindless for a solid second before harsh realization struck her. She paled, face painted with absolute fear, as she abruptly rose to her feet. Before he could even make another move, she panicked. Head whipping matted strands of rusted brown, Abigail paced backwards, bumping into one of the side-tables cluttered with dishes.
“No,” her voice trembled, echoing the shakes in her hands “Not now. Please not now!”
“Love, relax, it's me--” But she hadn't given him the time to listen, her hands already turning the doorknob to leave.
Why, he wondered. Why was she so terrified of him? Why had the house been changed like it was ready for a funeral? The clocks, curtains, he'd even spied a mirror covered up with cloth; Shay was no fool to the signs of death. These very acts were performed for the passing of his own mother and father years ago, but Abigail was still very much alive. Had one of the staff perished? He would have certainly received some kind of correspondence if that were the case. Had something, or rather, someone else instilled this fear into her? Shay had worked hard to keep her conscious clear and innocent of his plight, of everything between the Assassins and Templars. It wasn't that he believed her incapable of understanding the truth, for he knew better than anyone that she was sharp as a whip, but he did not wish to burden her with it as heavily as he was. However now it was becoming increasingly apparent that, for her own safety, he may have no other choice but to divulge this information to her; not if someone had already tried to feed her lies about his cause.
His hands caught onto hers with haste, grappling between a firm squeeze and a soft hold. Hadn't she any clue about how he felt? How dearly he missed her every time he left port, how he wanted nothing more than to love her until the end of his days? To have her change so drastically towards him hurt more than any bullet. She tried to squirm from his grasp, struggling fruitlessly to escape, to run, but his arms had already circled around her shoulders. Her small quakes continued, voice a raspy mess as she gave audible shudders and gasps. She may have pleaded with him for hours and he would still refuse to let go of her now, not until she told him what was going on.
“Please. Lord, please not now.” She muttered in between held back sobs.
“It's alright love, I'm not here to hurt you.” He cooed, gloved fingers combing against her scalp.
“I'm not ready yet,” She whimpered “One more day and I could have told you.”
“Told me what, exactly?” Thick black brows knit together, all at once thrusting his anxieties in his gut to simmer and boil away.
She didn't speak again, pained cries and wails leaving her throat. The suspense slowly murdered his heart, mind straining to find an answer in the midst of everything. All the clues were right in front of him, so why couldn't he see it? His grasp around her tightened, body going on the defensive, as if anything could have come to try and take his precious Abigail away. Still she sobbed, unholy pain crippling her senses as knives weakened her knees. Without a second thought, Shay brought her up into his arms, trying desperately to bring her some kind of security. He couldn't stand to see her so tortured, fragile and on the verge of shattering like broken glass.
He took care as he moved, returning her back to their bed in hopes of the truth revealing itself to him at last. Resting her poor self on the edge, he found himself crouched down at her feet, hoping beyond hope that she might divulge her troubles upon him. Leather gloves had been removed and set aside, his bare and hardened hands brushing against hers in a loving manner. Coal brown eyes peered up at her face, stained red with tears. She was trying to control herself, visibly fighting her own emotions as her face continued to twist together.
“Abby, love, what's been going on? I came galloping back, fast as I could the moment I got your letter. Has someone tried to harm you and the--” Her sharp inhale caused him to stop, her eyes all but ready to overflow once more.
“Don't, please, don't say it. I can't begin to even tell you, I, I ruined it, I...” Already her chest quivered, a stifled whine blowing through her nose.
It was then that clarity came to him. His eyes grew wide with realization, heart falling to the deep, frozen depths of the ocean. How long had it been that Shay had ever felt the desire to weep? He couldn't be sure anymore, not with his mind clouding so deeply with sorrow. How long had Abigail held on to her own tears? He dare not think on it. He struggled to keep his face straight, wanting so much to be the strong man she knew him to be. It wasn't until she cried out again, that he lost the final shred of his collected composure.
“I lost it, Shay. I lost our baby! Please forgive me. Please! I couldn't bear losing the love of you both.”
The patchwork job she'd done on her heart unraveled right before him, crumbling to bits all over again. At least this time she wasn't alone. His arms had pulled her tight, tucking her weeping eyes into his barreled chest. Salted rain dripped onto her hair.
“We can always try again, love. Always.”
