The Boy Named Isaac
Davenport Homestead New England July, 1855 Isaac Kenway climbed out of the window of his bedroom on the top floor of the Davenport Homestead. He stretched, taking in the morning beauty as his black hair flowed in the light breeze. He looked out upon his vast network of tree houses he had set up around the house, with a final few touches left that required his attention. Isaac jumped off the roof. He landed on a tree branch, one with which he'd become very accustomed. It was used to catching his weight like this every morning at the peak of dawn. Isaac moved along onto the branches with ease as his father before him and his father before that. He reached a platform suspended high above the mansion, pulled his customized hammer from his belt, and got to work. The pounding of the nails into the wood was loud, but he was used to it. Isaac setup several of the houses in the trees before noon, the slamming of the hammer on the wood and metal echoing into the distance.
"Isaac?" Yelled up the voice of his father. He looked down, seeing his father, Michael Kenway, standing outside the manor by the door. He beckoned Isaac down, then turned around and walked back inside. Isaac hung the hammer on his belt, then took a dive off of the platform, right into a pile of hay for the horses. Isaac rolled out, wiped the hay off of his clothing, running his hand along one of the startled horses, and made his way inside the house. "Father?" He called out. "In here, Isaac! With your grandfather!" Isaac turned and walked to the other side of the house, entering the bedroom.
Connor Kenway lay on the bed in front of him, breathing and healthy. He was 98, about to turn 99. He looked oddly young for his age, as if he were only in his 60's. Isaac's father sat at his bedside, talking to him. He didn't look happy. "Isaac, your grandfather wants to speak to you in private." He stood, glanced (was that anger on his father's face?) at Connor, then made his way out of the room and down the hall, slamming the door behind him. Isaac flinched and looked at the door, then started to talk, but Connor raised a hand in silence. "Sit down, my boy." He said. His voice was raspy. Isaac sat where his father had sat just a moment ago on the bedside. "Isaac, today is your 16th birthday. I have been waiting for this day for...well, 16 years. I think it is time I answered some of your questions. I'm going to be very straightforward with you." And Connor began to speak.
"Isaac...life is a difficult thing. There are people out there that will rise to power, regardless of how they do, and those..." He fell silent for a moment, closing his eyes. Isaac shook his hand gently. The old man's eyes flashed back open. He sighed, as if depressed that he'd woken up. He continued speaking. "And there are those out there that will fight to safeguard humanity's freedom. People that have been protecting freedom since..." he chuckled, "since, well, almost the beginning of time. Your father and I were two of these people. We called ourselves 'Assassin's.' Do you know what an Assassin is?" Connor stopped, and Isaac shook his head. "I thought not," said Connor, but we will get to that. There are other people...people that are called "Templars. They are people that try to take the freedom from people. Connor stood up, making sure to keep a tight grasp on the sphere in his hand. He beckoned for Isaac to follow him.
Following his grandfather down the stairs, Isaac was trying to wrap his mind around all of this knowledge. Assassin's? Templars? Fighting over freedom and domination of the world? Since the beginning of time? All of history? His father and grandfather, killers? Killing to safeguard the freedom the people of America cherished? His grandfather turned the corner and walked down the hall, approaching the back door. However, he turned, pulled a candlestick on the wall, and a portion of the wall broke away, revealing a secret staircase. Connor walked down the stairs, and goosebumps ran up Isaac's arms as he walked down the stairs.
In the middle of the room sat a set of robes. They were light brown, with a belt that had a strange symbol on it. There were loops for hanging weapons and holsters for a set of dual pistols. "Isaac, we don't want to force anything on you. Especially your father. But, you do have extraordinary skills, inherited from your father and me. There are not enough Assassin's out there these days, and the Templars continue to grow in power. They must be stopped." Connor ran his hand over the fabric of the robes. "These were my robes, back in the day. I've made some additions to it and kept it in shape for this moment."
"But my father is just a lumberer...I've never heard of him killing anyone!" Isaac denied. Connor just shook his head. "Isaac, you need to carry on your father's work. The Templars may one day be rid from this world, but only if the Assassins can stop them. Or...when I was young, I tried to untie them. But it didn't work, and I don't know if it would ever work. It has taken a lot of time, but I have convinced your father to train you. He will help you prepare. Get down to the capital of the country when your training is over, I know someone that needs help from someone like...us."
Isaac was unsure of what to think, but after some time, he managed to get out "Ok...I'll do it. I'll train to be an Assassin. " He didn't want to believe anything his grandfather was saying, but he knew he was telling the truth. His grandfather did not lie. Besides, here he was, standing in a room with weapons hanging on the walls, portraits of known and powerful Templars, and a set of Assassin robes. Connor said "Good! Your training will begin after lunch." Isaac turned to walk up the stairs, which suddenly was blocked off by his father, who spoke like he was out of breath. "Dad! Isaac! Come quick, the manor is under attack!" Isaac turned back to Connor. "I guess your training starts now."
To be continued.