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“Are you familiar with the life of Altaïr ibn-La'Ahad, the greatest Mentor in the history of the Brotherhood?” asked Haytham as he was putting some sugar in his tea.
It had been quite a while since their public assassination of Charles Lee, on Haytham’s own funeral no less.
Haytham had now officially moved into the manor, though Connor insisted him to take the bedroom on the second floor, because God forbid, had Haytham taken his old bedroom, Achilles would most definitely be turning in his grave.
“More or less,” said Connor, awkwardly stirring his tea with his big fingers grasping on the tiny silver spoon. He still wasn’t used to the fancy tea set that Haytham adamantly insisted on having with him when he moved in.
“Are you referring to the ‘Hunt for the Nine?’” he asked, now frowning at his ridiculous little cup.
Haytham cocked his eyebrows. “Ah,” he said, “so Davenport has actually taught you something.”
“But he had to keep it brief, since we didn’t have the time for history lessons.” Connor sighed. Even with his Father by his side now, he still didn’t miss the old man any less. “Why don’t you elaborate for me, Father?” he said, dryly.
The older man curled his lips slightly, lifted his cup to take a sip, then said, “The ‘Hunt for the Nine’ was Altaïr’s way to redeem himself within the Brotherhood, after he broke all three tenets of the Creed at the Solomon’s Temple, costing the life of one of his brothers and the injury of another, as well as the near failure of their mission.”
“Achilles told me as much,” said Connor. He was listening attentively and happily forgetting his tea. “But how? And why?”
“He killed a priest when infiltrating the temple, made himself visible to his target, the Grand Master Robert de Sablé, and left his brothers behind while he fled. Hardly noble even by your corrupted Templar standard.” Haytham paused to drink some more tea, then continued, “As of why, well, he was made Master Assassin at the age of twenty-four, so I’d say arrogance has probably gotten to him.”
Connor wrinkled his nose in disgust, and then asked, “Then why wasn’t he expelled from the Brotherhood? Or even, why was he allowed to live?”
“Well, for one, the mission wasn’t a complete failure after all. The other assassin who made it out alive, Malik Al-Sayf, did manage to escape with the Apple of Eden that they had intended to retrieve, even though he lost his left arm and his younger brother in the process.”
Haytham snorted at the horrified fascination on his son’s face. “Second, Altaïr’s Mentor, Al Mualim, who, ironically, later turned out to be a Templar agent all along, for some reason decided the young man deserved a second chance, though I bet he regretted it deeply when he as dying on his protégé’s blade.”
“So Altaïr was stripped all ranks and had to start from Novice, right?” asked Connor.
“Indeed. In order to redeem himself, he had to assassinate nine Templar agents. With each kill, he could regain one rank and one piece of his equipment. Then eventually he discovered the truth that he was betrayed by his mentor, so he had to kill Al Mualim, and became the Mentor himself.”
Upon hearing that, Connor made an odd face, as if he had understood something.
“But that was also how it ended between you and your mentor, Birch, wasn’t it?”
Haytham couldn’t help but rolled his eyes. “Yes, there might be certain parallel there, I suppose,” he said, maybe a little too annoyed than he had intended. “But that’s beside the point.”
“Which is?” said Connor, his eyebrow arched.
“That Altaïr redeemed himself, despite the damage he had done to the Brotherhood,” said Haytham, stoutly.
The Assassin’s eyes widened with realization.
“But how are you planning on doing that?” he then asked pointedly. “Kill eight more Templars?”
“Don't be daft, Boy,” sneered Haytham, though lacked the usual venom. “With Charles dead and me defected, the Order is now in shambles, because much as I hate to admit, the rest of them are equally hopeless. It would not be proper redemption if it’s too easy now would it?”
“Then what?” Connor eyed him suspiciously.
“My Son, your lack of tact has never ceased to amaze me,” smirked the ex-Templar.
Then he rose from his seat, walked towards his mahogany desk, and took a piece of paper from the top of the pile of documents.
“This is the reason why you joined the Brotherhood at first, yes?” He handed the paper to Connor.
The younger man quickly glanced over it, and then stood up and gaped, almost knocking over his chair. He looked up to stare at his Father, and asked, weakly, “What is this?”
“Surely you can read?” drawled Haytham, putting his hands behind his back. “I believe it says the deed of your little village.”
“But it is in my name!” cried Connor. “And it must have cost you a fortune!”
“I did own a plantation in Virginia,” said Haytham, clearly quite proud of himself. “And don’t you worry. I assure you I was paid handsomely.” Indeed, a well-tended plantation tended to worth much more than a piece of the Native’s land.
Connor gave one more glance over to the deed before solemnly tucking it to his robe. The village elders would no doubt be delighted when they see it.
“Thank you, Father,” he said, smiling gratefully at the older man. “It really means a lot to me.”
“Ah, the things I do for my own redemption.” Haytham smiled back.
“But, what changed your mind?” asked Connor. “What made you start caring?”
“Well, your nauseating optimism must have gotten to me as well,” he smirked.
“Right.” Connor tried not to roll his eyes.
But then he asked, with all the sincerity in his heart, “Tell me the truth, Father. I need to know.”
Haytham stared at him warily for a few seconds, eyes narrowed.
Then he let out a deep sigh.
“I have seen hope in humanity before, Connor. Dedication, perseverance, and loyalty,” he said, with a voice full of regret. “Yet I chose to ignore it, blinded by my own hatred and vengeance. Then it was gone, like a flicker of candle flame in the wind.”
Connor nodded understandingly. “Holden,” he said.
“Yes,” said Haytham, now sitting back in his chair. Remembering his long lost friend made his throat dry. So he took a drag from his cup, not caring its content was now cold.
He then continued, “And then there was your Mother. Bravest woman I’ve ever known. She alone had more back bone than all my Templar brothers combined.”
“Yet she left you,” prompted Connor, lowly, as he was also sitting back across the table.
“That she did.” Haytham smiled bitterly. “Because I wasn’t worthy. I was merely a greedy man driven by his own agenda, hungered by power, yet at the same time delusional enough to believe I could find an escape in her, in the face of the storm I have created.”
Connor was speechless. Yes, his Mother was a remarkable person, but despite himself, he had to wonder perhaps Haytham had romanticized her due to his regrets and self-loathing.
But exactly what changed his mind?
“Then you came along, Connor. And Valley Forge happened,” said Haytham, looking at his son right in the eyes. “You put your ideals and your faith in humanity before your personal vengeance, which I was not expecting at all. Not in the slightest.”
The young Assassin was shocked by his Father’s confession. He just sat there staring at the man with disbelief, unaware of the mist forming in his eyes.
“Oh,” was the only response he could manage.
“You have shown great conviction, strength, courage, all noble qualities,” said Haytham. “I’m proud of you, Son.”
Then he added sardonically, “Though I should have killed you long ago.” He smiled wryly.
“A little late for regret now, don’t you think?” Connor returned with his own lopsided smile.
There was a light knock on the door that made them both turn their heads.
Stephane was standing at the door, and said to them, “Connor, Monsieur Kenway, they are waiting for you.”
Haytham looked at the Quebecois cook, just as the latter was looking at him. They exchanged a nod. After he helped Connor assassinate Charles, the rest of the Assassins stopped regarding him with open hostility, though some of them, such as Duncan Little, still gave him wary looks. Stephane appeared to trust his son completely, and became the friendliest one towards him among the recruits.
“Thank you, Stephane,” said Connor, now standing up. “We will be there in a minute.”
After Stephane left, Haytham narrowed his eyes towards Connor, and asked, “Is there something I should know about?”
To his surprise, Connor blushed almost unnoticeably. He cleared his throat, and said, “None of us had a proper ceremony when we joined the Brotherhood, but you seem to be the type who sticks to traditions and customs, so I decided to give you one.”
“Oh?” Haytham tilted his eyebrows, interested yet still skeptical, though he also got up.
“I didn’t mess around, Father,” said Connor, exasperated. “I dug through the Prophet’s Codex to find his description of the initiation ceremony. It is old-fashioned, yes, but I guess that suits you just fine.”
And the boy had the bloody gall to wink at him.
“Nice try.”
However, Haytham patted the younger man on the shoulder condescendingly. “But I’m not taking the bait.”
The mannequin in the middle of the basement was moved to the side. Instead, there was a brazier on the spot. Flames were licking the tongs, burning them red. Haytham knew that his left ring finger would be branded by it, leaving a permanent mark of the Assassin insignia.
He was standing in front of the brazier, with Connor on the opposite side. The other Assassins were all spread out, watching the proceeding with curious eyes.
“Laa shay’a waqi’un moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine,” recited Connor, lifting the lit tongs from the brazier. He was looking at Haytham expectantly, despite his minor struggle in pronouncing the Arab words.
Haytham held out his left hand, watching his ring finger being branded.
It hurt. And Haytham had to think of something, anything to will it over.
He couldn’t help but think how Edward would have been proud. More of Connor, his precious Grandson, no doubt. But perhaps, he would also be proud of Haytham himself for finally making the right choice.
“We work in the dark to serve the light,” said Connor, now putting the tongs down. “We are Assassins.”
“Nothing is true. Everything is permitted,” said him and Haytham at the same time.
He had performed the leap of faith for countless times in his life. Never once had he realized it could be so liberating.
As he was falling from the rooftop of the manor to the pile of leaves on the ground, he felt like he had, in the end, escaped from all his cynicism and doubts, and reached something else.
It was exactly like a leap of faith.
And it felt like home.