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“There’s no need to worry, Charles. We’ll be meeting again in no time,” said Haytham.
“But, if I stay as well, then the savage should have no chance at all –”
Haytham impatiently raised his hand, stopping Charles’ protest.
“Enough,” he said, sternly, “I do not need you questioning my ability or my order, while you should be well on your way to Boston.” Seeing Charles didn’t move at all, he added, “Now off you go.”
Sighing, Charles gave Haytham a small nod, and then turned to walk out of his mentor’s room.
With Charles gone and himself in the room alone, Haytham slumped on his chair like a sack of potatoes. His hands covered his face. And he let out a long sigh.
He was so tired.
Even though that was what he told Charles, he had no intention to kill his son, his only blood and flesh. Not one bit. Rather, lately, he couldn’t stopped thinking about the ways he had wronged him.
Like his ignorance of the fact that he had a son at all.
Like his absence from his life.
Like the days and nights he had spent plotting to capture him, exploit him, break him, kill him even.
Like the time he almost, almost watched him hanged.
Like that fateful night in Valley Forge when he completely broke his trust.
Haytham Kenway had been many things. But now, he was just guilty.
He couldn’t help but wonder how and why things turned out the way they were. And what could he have done to fix it.
Even more importantly, he had been having doubts towards the Templars’ ideals.
If they truly strived for order, and peace, how could they allow fathers facing sons in battle, with blades pointing at each other’s throats, with intents to spill each other’s blood? How could that kind of betrayal align with order and peace?
He didn’t want to admit, maybe, just maybe, there were some merits in the boy’s naive beliefs.
But alas, it was too late for that. Too late for regrets and what-if’s. Too late to try to make amends.
Charles was a capable man with conviction. He would lead the Templars to their glory in the New World.
But he, Haytham Kenway, was no more than a dying man.
He sighed once more, and picked up the quill on his desk.
At this very moment, a thunderous noise came from outside. The ground under his feet started shaking, as if the whole world was crumpling around him. He had to hold on to the chair to stop himself from falling.
A sad smile crept on his face.
Well done, Connor.
Then he steadied himself, and started writing.
He should have known better to bombard a fort with him inside. It was foolish, and desperate.
He staggered his way to the courtyard. His eyesight was blurry. His ears ringing.
Yet he shouted, “Where are you, Charles!”
“Gone,” said a cold yet familiar voice from behind.
Connor deftly turned around. Unsurprisingly, his father, the Grand Master Haytham Kenway, was standing there with that condescending aura of his.
Before he could react, Haytham sprinted towards him, and slapped him square on the face. Then a knee to the stomach and an elbow to the back. Swift and deadly, as usual.
Connor quickly got up from the ground, hit him in the groin, and then punched him once, and twice on the jaw.
They both growled, like two injured and hungry wolves fighting for the last piece of meat. They fought some more. Blood spilled onto their clothes, faces and fists.
Connor managed to stab Haytham on the wrist with his hidden blade. They split. Haythem had to lean on a barrel to support himself. Connor was also kneeling on the ground.
He didn’t expect it would come down to this. His mind knew that he someday had to kill his own father, but his heart still refused to do so.
So he snarled, “Give me Lee!”
“Impossible.” Haytham coughed, then continued, “He’s the promise of a better future.”
“He’s a monster.” Connor slowly stood up. His eyes never left his father’s.
“He understands what this nation needs better than anyone,” said Haytham. “Order. Peace. Direction.”
“Is that what you’ve been telling yourself?” Connor sneered, though there was a hint of pity in his voice. “Look at Lee. Look at all those cowards and scums you called ‘brothers.’ Look at yourself.”
Haythem narrowed his eyes, but didn’t respond.
“You justified your actions by claiming it was for the ‘greater good.’ Yet you violated our land, exploited our people.” Connor clenched his fists as he spoke. “You tried to kill Washington just because you Templars consider him unfit for the nation.”
“It was necessary!” Haytham gritted his teeth. His nostrils flared. Then he seemed to calm down a little. “And don’t act like it wasn’t him who burnt down your village and killed - killed Ziio, your mother.”
Upon the mention of his mother’s name, Connor’s fingernails dug a little deeper into his palm. However, he said, “Even so, he still has more integrity.”
Although it did not make his actions excusable, Connor believed that Washington didn’t actually hate his people, at least not as much as Lee did.
“Enough of this idiocy!” Haythem suddenly drew out his blade. “It is either me or you now, Connor. Only one of us will walk out of here alive.” With that, he assumed his fighting stance, and pointed his sword towards Connor.
Connor also had his tomahawk at the ready. But he said, “I don’t want to kill you, father, even though I know I should.”
“Then you’ll have to die.”
Haythem waved his sword like he was waving a whip, sharp and elegant. But instead of his son’s neck, it struck his tomahawk. Connor pushed the sword away, and bounced back to distance himself from Haytham.
“Why can’t you see the errors of your way, father? Why won’t you listen to reason?” said Connor, dodging another blow from his father.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” sneered Haytham. “Come on, boy! Show me how much you have learned from that old dog Davenport! Make him proud!” His sword aimed to strike Connor on the shoulder, forcing the younger man to roll to the side.
“No!”
Connor regained his footing, blocked and dodged Haytham’s offense. But something struck him as odd.
He knew his father was a master swordsman, who could be as deadly as he wanted. However, his attacks did not aim to break his defense, but gave him plenty of time to react. Also, it appeared that the older man was trying to provoke him with his harsh words, despite his obvious lack of will to end the Templar's life.
“Are you really as useless as I think you are?” challenged Haytham. “Attack!”
Then Connor saw it, too clearly.
His father wanted to die by his hands.
Although he did not understand the man’s reason, he did not intend to make that particular mistake either.
So he raised his hand.
And threw his tomahawk at that table a few yards away.
“Kill me if you want,” he said, standing with his palms towards Haytham. He knew he was taking a huge risk, but it was a risk he was willing to take. “But I will not do what you wish me to do.”
The older man’s sword was pointing at Connor’s face. But it was trembling. In fact, Haytham’s whole body was trembling. His face was as white as paper. His lips were pursed up like a line.
Then, “clang.” The sword dropped.
So did Haytham’s body.
“Father.” Connor rushed to his father’s side, and held him by the shoulders. “Why did you do that?” His voice was soft and sad. It pained him to see the older man, who used to be so tall, so arrogant, become so tired that he gave up fighting, as well as his life.
“I’m sorry, son.” Haythem’s eyes were clenched shut. His face distorted. “I’m just confused, and exhausted,” he sighed. His voice was barely audible.
“It’s alright now, father. I’m here.”
Connor hesitated for a split second, then awkwardly embraced his father.
Haytham tentatively leaned his head to his son’s chest, and again, let out a sigh.
Another cannonball hit the building behind them and exploded. Both of them immediately snapped back into the reality.
“Well,” said Haytham, though a bit weakly. “If you seriously intend to save my life today, now it’s a good time to do so.”
Hearing his father’s snarky remarks, Connor wasn’t sure if he should roll his eyes or laugh or both. But he did help get Haytham back on his feet.
“Let’s go, father.”
Despite cannonballs rained and exploded around them, they held each other towards the gate of Fort George.
The light was dim in their small room in the tavern, but Connor still managed to finish reading his father’s journal.
He put it down, stared at it, and was unsure what to do next.
Even though they had more or less mended their relationship in the past few days, even though now he understood his father better, they were still enemies on principle.
They were still Templar and Assassin.
They were still the Grand Master and the Mentor.
But maybe, there was a small chance that things could change, that they could eliminate their differences and become allies again.
Haytham turned in his bed and let out a small grunt.
“Why haven’t you gone to sleep already?” he asked, still feeling somewhat foggy.
Connor turned towards him, and felt like a child being caught stealing biscuits. “I’m about to,” he mumbled.
Haytham let out a soft humph. Then he noticed the journal on the table, and asked, “Have you finished it yet?”
“Yes, I have,” said Connor. “But if you want to go back to sleep, we can talk tomorrow.”
“No, we talk now.”
Haythem got up from his bed, rubbed his face with his hands, and then sat down by the table, facing Connor.
“Speak,” he said.
“What are your opinions towards the Templars and the Assassins now?” asked Connor.
Haythem glared at him for a second, and then sighed.
He should have expected that tactless son of his would be as subtle as a kick in the groin.
“I still think that you Assassins are a naive bunch.” He smirked when the younger man tried to protest, but thought better of it. “That absolute freedom can only cause anarchy.”
“However,” he couldn’t help but roll his eyes when he saw Connor’s lopsided smile. “Your methods do have some merits. They are also…more just, than how we pursue our cause as Templars.”
He pondered for a few moments, before continuing, “The Templars, on the other hand, have a more realistic, or pessimistic assessment of human nature. It is true that law and order will limit freedom, but they can also prevent chaos.”
“But you also tend to become ruthless, cruel even, to those who don't believe in your cause,” said Connor. “Just like Charles Lee.” He couldn’t help gritting his teeth when he said his nemesis’ name.
“Calm down, boy. No need to combust yourself just yet,” drawled Haytham. “Indeed, I have to admit, I have killed far too many than necessary in my life, even though I consider myself a man of honour among my peers.” If blood cannot be washed away, his hands would have been gloved by it long ago.
“‘Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent,’” recited Connor, the first tenet of the Creed.
I wonder if it’s a bit too late for me to follow the Creed now, thought Haytham, though he nodded upon his son’s words.
“Also, Hickey told me before his death that he only joined the Templars because you paid him nicely,” recalled Connor. “It appears the members of your Order somewhat lack the necessary integrity and conviction.”
“Benjamin Church,” said Haytham, bitterly.
Silence fell. Both of them were deep in thought, mulling over how to approach the next inevitable subject in line.
Connor was still unsure if his father would be willing to give up the kingdom he had spent all his life building, brick from brick. He didn’t completely abandon the Templars’ cause, after all, even though he did admit their methods had been problematic.
Haytham, on the other hand, only wanted to know one thing.
“Why did you still continue fighting, when everyone you thought was your friends, your allies, had deserted or betrayed you?”
Connor was startled by his question. He opened his mouth, but there was no answer.
Then he remembered the day he had retrieved Achilles’ robe from the cave, and Achilles had spent hours standing in front of the mannequin, looking at that white piece of garment.
He then looked at his father in the eyes, and said, “Because no one else would.”
From his eyes, Haytham saw that familiar fire that he remembered was also in Ziio’s eyes on the day they killed Braddock, at the meeting with men from other tribes, when she told him she stood for herself.
“It will not be the case from now on,” he heard himself saying.
Then he opened his arms to Connor, his son, and hugged him tightly, like he should have long ago.
“You do not need to fight alone now,” he murmured.
Connor didn’t speak.
But he buried his face in his father’s shoulders.