I left Connor to do some minor work investigating where the British would march next, Philadelphia it's rumoured, but it's good to be sure. The weather held a sharp chill that made me shudder violently as I made my way to meet Charles at a tavern nearby.
"Evening, Master Kenway" Charles said, greeting me with a nod, "I suppose you're still investigating the whereabouts of the British?" he said, "Yes, Connor is dealing with it at this very moment," I said whilst staring at Charles cautiously in the dim light. He hesitated then, straightened up his back and glanced his eyes around the table; "the boy, he's here… in Boston?" he tensed. "Yes," I said, straightening myself to his level, "I have been working with him for the past five months now, he and I tracked down Benjamin Church at Martinique, to deal with his betrayal to our order and to also retrieve the supplies that he stole." Charles looked at me and frowned, "did you tell him then? Did you tell him about Washington, and how he was responsible for the events that happened all those years ago?" he said hastily, "no, not yet – but I will soon, Charles, I am in the process of making the boy see the error of his way, it will take time…" I trailed off, seeking Charles' opinion. "But, Sir…" he paused. "Yes, out with it," I said, Charles met my eyes as he continued, "should he see reason, do you think he'd still be overpowered by the hatred he holds for me? We're not exactly accompanied by the men that we shared so many memories with years ago: Johnson… Hickey…" He started to trail off before I managed to interrupt him; "It will not be as it is," I narrowed my eyes at him now, "when he sees the error of his way he'll come to realise that you're more than a target to him once he joins the order," I said. He didn't answer then, only took a few gulps from whatever ale was left in his tankard.
That was all really, writing this now whilst feeling the soft breeze from the open window, after my evening discussion with Charles I now feel that there is something that needed to be said to Connor, and soon.
I met Connor in a warehouse hoping to find more leads to the men marching from Philadelphia, before he insisted we tell Washington. As he gazed at one of the men through a broken window I took the chance to say something. "They're talking in circles again; we're not going to find any more information than what we already have. It is Charles we should be sharing this to, not Washington," I said as I stared out through one of the open panels. "You seem to think I favour him; I assure you, I do not." I took a step closer, changing the subject; "Achilles has taught you well," he turned around then, his eyes glistened with curiosity. He did not answer. "I understand your need to feel independent, Connor, I assure you, you do not have to feel that way when I'm around," I pressed. His head turned away, I heard him take a deep breath then he started to speak; "it gets hard," he said, "knowing you're the Templar Grand Master, knowing you're my father – it gets hard because I'm constantly thinking about whether what I'm doing is right or wrong. It gets hard because you're telling me one thing, and Achilles is telling me another. It gets hard because I am now questioning my own beliefs because you are my father." He took a step back and frowned even more. "Lately, I'm getting confused. I'm not talking to Achilles, and I haven't been fully focused on anything." He started to raise his voice – I took a step forward and I put my hands on his shoulders, "Connor," I sighed, "calm yourself, child, I admire your honesty," I noticed his eyes became tearful; "but you and I both know Achilles can only do so much," he nodded in agreement, and I straightened my back. "You belong to the Templar order, with us." I firmed my grip on his shoulder, and I continued to stare into his eyes, "and I want you to study under me." I paused, "you may be an Assassin but you are my son and you have Templar blood; do not be ashamed of your roots." He broke our gaze and let his head turn down towards his feet, hoping to save the moment, I sustained my topic; "if you would like," trying to find the correct words, "perhaps you can study under me for a little while, it might be an appropriate idea, as misguided as you are," I said sardonically. "Okay," I heard him quietly say as he met my gaze again. He stared at me with those big brown eyes; he was the image of her… and of me. And in that moment, I was proud of him – not that I wasn't, I have always been proud of him. He did not show an angry retort, only the eyes of a curious child looking upon his father. I gave him a proud smile and clapped a hand on his shoulder. Before I could suggest leaving he already beat me to it; "would you mind accompanying me to the blacksmiths? I need a new sword."
Another day gone, here I am writing about an evening that went very successfully. I am quite… pleased, in a way. For the fact that I'm spending more time with my child, bonding with each other and gaining one another's trust. I bought him a new sword in the end; the boy didn't have enough coins.