I'm NO mothertongue...so please tell me my weakness I have in this little story
Second: I haven't read the book forsaken, I imagined my own story to haytham
third: enjoy
When he woke up, he shivered. His breath was cold and danced before his lips like fairies. It felt strange because at first he did not exactly recognised his environment, something he hadn't had for a while. A strange and dragging feeling straiten his chest and if he hadn't known it better, Haytham Kenway would have called this feeling: anxiety. The Templar smirked. How long hadn't he have this feeling? Thirty years? Or better 25. Was he becoming pathetic, mad even? Driven insane by his victims, who now wanted revenge and wouldn't rest unto he'd committed suicide? The old man sighed. A sound made his head turn as he saw a young man, not far away of him, squirming and writhing. Immediately the Templar analyzed his surrounding and was somehow surprised to be in a cave. Then his eyes fixed again to the now resting body. He hadn't seen the boy sleeping until now. The Assassin reminded Haytham painfully of Zio. Slowly he stood up. The sun was rising. He should have a clear head when they moved on. So he might take a bath, he remembered a little river, near the cave that wasn't iced by the heavy snow outside. With a last glance to Connor, the older Kenway scurried like a cat into the snow, while the sky was plunged into red ink.
Icy wasn't even a beginning to describe the water Haytham dived in, but the Templar endured it. Sometimes you have to suffer, he thought ironically and breathed heavy, while all the buzzing thoughts became like soft waves and a relieving smile left his lips. He remembered lying in the bed while Zio hummed sweet songs, he did not understand, but just the sound made him feel almost heavenly. Sadly that she had to die...and again the waves grew stronger, loud and harsh they were, destroying the relief and the emptiness in his head.
"Are you going to commit suicide, or what exactly is the purpose of your doing?"
Haytham did not immediately understand the words of his son, who leaned, fully armored, on a huge tree, where the older one had put his clothes for not getting them wet. For moments father and son just stared at each other, as if they've never met before.
"Good morning to you as well, Connor. Would you mind turning around?"
Realising the situation , the native made a funny sound, like a girl, Haytham thought ad then stood with the back to the Templar.
"My most profound thanks, son."
Connor could listen to the sound of splashing water and the breathing of his father while he tried to foculise anything but the older Kenway. Too anxious for anything he immediately turned around as he heard an unfamiliar sound and saw...
A huge and somehow beautiful cross was on the back of his father's. It was old, that for sure, but how old he could not say. It was plain, but at the same time, full of thousand little details and a ghastly image popped up in his head as if somebody had punched him in the face. How long did his father had to stand there and endure this procedure? How old was he? And why was it made? Did every templar have this sign? Maybe because of his fright his mouth started to speak without hesitation.
"What is that?"
"What?"
Haytham Kenway just slipped his white shirt on, then looked at him with a confused glance in the normally cold blue eyes.
"You have a cross on your back."
A short pause.
"Yes, dear boy. There is a cross on my back."
"Why do you have it?"
A deep sigh left his father's throat and reminded Connor of a horrific thunderstorm.
"Would you mind to shut up, get our bags, get the horses and then to possibly move on?"
"How long do you have it?"
Haytham Kenway sighed again...deeper.
"A while. Would you please..."
"How long?"
"Since I'm sixteen and now..."
"That can't be, a scar..."
"It was made by blunt knifes and very deep so it would stay longer than usual and..."
"But why?"
"Because I became a Templar and NOW..."
"Did it hurt?"
"I will rip your heart out right of your chest if you don't stop asking!"
Silence.
Haytham had almost screamed the last sentence. Both men stared at each other. Brown into blue. Connor got a strange feeling. His brown eyes analyzed Haytham whose breathing was loud and heavy, the eyes blank. The man before him, was not a man, but a boy, who was completely overwhelmed with this situation and the Assassin had a guess why. There was a memory, locked, forgotten, even buried, until Connor had pushed himself against it and now both of them did not know, what to do with the open door. Should they go on? Open another door? Or just close it and call the whole thing a foolish accident? There were seconds to decide and Connor had to choose.
"What do these little signs on the cross mean?"
He had a fifty/fifty chance...
"Names of those who were before you, of those you loved, those you killed and our law."
"That is much."
A dry chuckle that almost sounded insane.
"That's true."
"So you were not born as a Templar?"
"How...-"
"You said you were sixteen. What changed your mind?"
"My wife."
Silence.
"You had a wife with sixteen?"
"And a child."
Again: silence.
Connor did not know what to say, he got too much information and at the same time, he had the aching realization, he did not know anything.
"Who are you?", asked the young man.
His father smiled honest and nearly kindly.
"A murderer...like you."
"I'm not-"
Silence.
"What happened to your wife and child?"
"Wife: shot. Child: burned. Any more details?"
And there he was again: the cold-hearted, british Templar, emotionless like the cold water he dived in. The voice sarcastically dead and the blue eyes hard as steel. Connor felt pity for the man before him and sorrow weight for moments his shoulders.
"I'm..."
The hand of his father was ice-cold and reminded Connor of a corpse.
"Don't show affection where there is no. Do we understand each other?"
A short nod.
"Get the horses. NOW."
There was no chance, so Connor did as he was told to. When he came back, the Templar waited for him, avoiding his eyes. With a sigh the native gave his father the rein. They saddled up and Haytham wanted to spur at once his horse, so there would be no conversation.
"Haytham!"
Blue met brown.
"You look like your mother sometimes, you know?"
"What was it's name?"
"Of my daughter? Margarete, why?"
"I don't know."
"You're strange boy."
"Here!"
The young man threw the bag of the older one to Haytham who caught it immediately.
"You forgot your bag."
Finally they started riding.
"Father?"
The Templar turned his head, but no other word left his sons lips and the old man foculised again on the street.
But somehow...Haytham Kenway had to smile a little bit.
What a strange night, he thought ...with no sleep since thirty years.
And what a strange day with a smile he was glad his son couldn't see it.
Then, the Templar whispered the word "Father" and shouldered his bag.
A nice word, he thought.
A really nice word.
