Unbroken (Haytham Kenway)

Chapter 1

A/N: hello readers!!! Thanks for trying my work, and I hope you enjoy it! (If you do, be sure to recommend it to friends ^^) Just a disclaimer: I don't own Assassin's Creed 3, any of the franchise, or any of the characters. My own OCs, however, are my brain children. My plot is my brain child. Kindly don't kidnap them!

Clara smiled to herself as she practically skipped down the path to her home. Her husband had been on business for the last few weeks and only just come back that afternoon, though she had been busy in town at the time. The sun was dozing off, painting the snow orange and pink. She remembered her father picking her up and putting her on his strong shoulder, and smiling at the setting sun on the vast expanse of empty ocean. "Red sky at night, darling, makes a sailor delight,"

And delight she did. Her husband never told her why he was gone so long, but she wasn't a fool. She knew he was bloody and bruised more often than not. She knew about his nightmares, about the meetings in the cellar with men that didn't give her so much as a glance. They never suspected a housewife to listen behind the closed doors. She only ever heard a few words, like "Assassin," "precursor," "the Order," and - on one occasion, "Kenway." None of this made any sense, but she was glad her beloved was alive and well this time back from his business.

Perhaps she had tempted fate with that thought.

The first thing she could recall of walking in the door was the oppressive quiet. Usually there were servants bustling about, and the butler, George, would take her winter shawl and gloves. All that greeted her was silence.

Secondly was the open window on the upper floor, the curtains flowing like specters. She called out her husband's name, but received no answer.

Last, and most importantly, was the image of her dead husband, lying in a pool of his own blood that was spreading, growing larger and larger. In the dim light, it looked almost black. Above him was a hooded person in white robes; a woman, if her slender figure was anything to go by. She saw Clara and quickly threw a knife at her.

The recently widowed woman ducked, then stared at where the dagger was imbedded in the doorframe with wide eyes. When she turned back, the window was open and the killer was nowhere in sight.

She stumbled over to the dead man's body and tripped on the edge of the rug, falling to her hands and knees next to him. The blood was slick and warm, her husband's eyes were open but vacant, and all at once she felt the overwhelming urge to vomit. So she did.

Sobs and heaves wracked her body at once, her red-stained hands leaving smudges on the floor. She was still retching long after her stomach was emptied, but managed to stand and collect herself.

A glance at the corpse did nothing to help her nausea; she closed his eyes and draped a linen sheet over him nonetheless. As soon as it was done she knew she had to get away - anywhere but stuck in that suffocating manor and it's walls, closing in on her by the second.

She found herself running down the stairs, but her blood-slick boots slipped and she fell the rest of the way, landing on her head once or twice. Her vision faded slowly, but a minute or so later, she regained consciousness. 

A sharp ache in her skull combined with a shrill ring left her nauseated again, and she took some time to let her stomach heave. When that unpleasant bout was over, she got up again to go to the stables. Somehow she would make it back to town and get help. Yes, that's what she would do.

It was a miracle she managed to get to her horse with how dizzy she was, although she did collapse against its side briefly before crawling up into the saddle. A slow trot was all she could manage. Even so, she threatened to fall off at any moment, and the pain and dizziness wouldn't subside.

"S'alright, girl." Clara slurred when her horse pricked its ears. It heard something she didn't and started to become anxious. "C'mon, don' be that way." She urged. Howling filled the air and her horse's ears flattened against her head. The mare started pawing at the ground and throwing her head back nervously.

Suddenly several pairs of glowing eyes emerged from the gloom, pacing at the edge of her blurred vision. The horse reared, throwing her off, then bolted. Clara scrambled back away from the wolves, fear clutching sharply at her throat.

The nearest canine bared it's porcelain fangs, it's paws silent in the snow was it approached the easy target. 'Just make it quick.' The woman prayed, closing her eyes and letting the back of her head rest against the tree with a thud.

Her eyelids were clenched and her cloudy breaths were ragged with fear. Any second she expected the pain, the terror to become tenfold, but just as she heard the crunch of the wolf crouching in the snow to pounce and then it's beginning snarl of victory, a loud bang burst through the air.

A haunting howl of pain and a thump echoed it, accompanied by angry growls from the remainder of the pack. Clara opened her bleary eyes to see a man fighting off the wolves. She must've truly been dreaming.

But no, the pain in her head was very real. The icy sting of snow against her hands was very real. The scene before her was too vivid to be anything but real. Her heart thudded in her ears as she watched the fight.

The sounds of the battle filled the otherwise silent forest, though it ended a few minutes later. Footsteps approached her, then a gentle hand was placed on her shoulder. "If you'd be so kind as to open your eyes, madam." The voice requested. It was smooth, velvet even. Soothing to listen to.

Her eyes opened again, making her wince. The pale snow was blindingly white, and in sharp contrast to the blood soaking it. She looked at her savior, noting his thin lips, his steely grey eyes, his strong jaw.

Those lips of his moved, but it was getting harder to hear him past the ringing. "I 'poligize, mister, but I can' make out what you migh' be sayin." Those eyes of his sharpened with concern at her response. He picked her up with ease, careful not to jostle her head.

Vaguely she registered a horse that wasn't her's, arms around her waist, and the methodical thrum of the galloping hooves pounding against the frozen earth. Her head rolled back to lean against something sold and warm, quite welcome against the bitter cold.

That rich timbre said something against her ear and rumbled against her back, but she was already slipping back into unconsciousness.