Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed or its characters.
This is basically a timeline of what I consider important events leading up the moment when Connor is officially recognized as an Assassin. This doesn't go with anything. It's more of a character study. Little drabbles I wrote because I couldn't get them out of my head. Anyways let me know what you think in the reviews and if you like it, go on ahead and favorite it. And now to the story. See author's notes below.
He was seven pounds and eight ounces when he was born. A tuft of dark hair covered his soft skull and he wailed indignantly as he was wrapped in furs and placed in his mother's arms. She smiled warmly, cooing to him in Mohawk as she cradled him to her chest with a content sigh. A gentle kiss was placed on his forehead and he quieted immediately.
What shall his name be?
She ran her fingers through her babe's locks, still damp and beginning to curl at the edges. She glimpsed features on her son of a face familiar to her. His eyes and lips belonged to her but he favored his father through the nose and chin.
Ratonhnhaké:ton. He will be known as Ratonhnhaké:ton.
Her smile waned and she clutched him closer to her. She fearfully wondered what else he might have inherited from his father.
He was a spirited child, willful and defiant, often finding himself on the receiving end of one of his mother's harsh tongue-lashings. People in the village often whispered as they passed, eyes falling on Ista for a moment before landing on him, critically examining him. He was different from the other children. His skin was fairer and his features held more of a resemblance with the European settlers then his own people. He was accepted despite his appearances but it still bothered him, especially when other children questioned why his complexion was so light. He came home in tears one night when some older boys in his village began to pick on him, pushing him to the ground and calling him cruel names.
Half-breed!
Mutt!
Ista held him close as he sniffled and buried his face into her chest. She told he was special and not to let others define who he was.
There are those who hate what they fear or cannot understand. You are a blessing, Ratonhnhaké:ton. Those who don't see that are blinded by their own ignorance.
She walked with her head held high and taught him to do the same.
As he matured, he began to question Ista who his father was. It was another thing that separated him from the other children of his village and he hated it. He despised his uniqueness, unable to truly relate with anyone his own age beyond a game of hide and seek. He wanted answers. But his mother deflected each query with ease, bringing up some long forgotten topic or insisting she was too busy and he should go speak with his grandmother. Sometimes if he was fortunate, she would talk briefly about him and he noticed how Ista's eyes twinkled before she would glance down at him with a sad smile. He knew then he wouldn't hear about the man in question for quite some time. Often when he behaved unruly, Ista would snatch him by his ear and haul him away to their lodge, muttering under her breath in irritation.
Just like your father some days.
He only wished he knew the man so he could determine if it was true or not.
He couldn't breathe. No matter how hard he tried, his lungs struggled helplessly against the pressure on his throat.
You are nothing. A speck of dust. You and all your ilk. Living in the dirt like animals, oblivious to the true ways of the world.
Cerulean eyes icy with hatred and contempt burned into his soul. Large calloused hands held him in place against the rough bark of the oak. He gasped for life sustaining air, a plea in large chocolate eyes for him to stop. Tiny hands reached, attempting to pry the crushing grip away. The strange man squeezed harder, a malevolent smirk twisting his features as he leaned in closer to the boy.
I could snap your neck with ease. A little more pressure and POP! The pitiful little flame of your life extinguished.
He wheezed against the stranger's hold, pathetic whimpers leaving the boy's lips as his vision began to darken around the edges.
Tears sprung to his eyes as he pushed against the beam with all his might. It wouldn't budge and he release a desperate cry of frustration as he beat at it with little fists. The sickly sweet scent of human flesh and pine burning filled his nostrils and he coughed harshly as he inhaled dark billows of smoke. Her hazel orbs were filled with pain and sadness and she placed her necklace comprised of bear claws in his hands, squeezing them gently before urging him to go. He gripped his mother's hand tightly, pleading with her to let him stay and help.
You will think yourself alone, but know that I will be at your side.
Ista pushed him away with a command to leave and he would of continued to in his valiant yet futile attempts to free her had a member of their village not come and taken him away before the fragile infrastructure collapsed, leaving both trapped. His eyes, rimmed with tears, locked with his mother's as he screamed for the native man to let him go and he saw resignation in her eyes, softened in sadness as she whispered to him, hand outstretched towards him.
I love you.
The wooden planks above came crashing down around her, obscuring his view of Ista, and he hollered for her, struggling against the native man's hold and tears streaming down his dirt stained face. He cried out for her until his voice gave out and he slumped in the man's arms, too weak to do anything else except sob uncontrollably. He knew then he would never see her again.
Ista!
He departed from the valley with his grandmother's blessing. He was shown a symbol that would lead him to those who could help his people. A strange woman dressed in white robes took him on a spirit journey. Visions of death and destruction foreboded what would become of his home if he were to refuse. To his mild surprise, he experienced little sorrow when saying goodbye. Instead, anxiety and trepidation ate at him, consuming him whole with doubt. It was a long road ahead and he prayed to the spirits for strength and courage.
The others in the village… they thought this was something I wanted. Something I chose to do. But it never felt that way to me. No, it was not a choice. It was an obligation.
He trained and trained, centuries of history condensed into lengthy lesson where Achilles would lecture him on the age-old battle between the Assassins and the Templars. He honed his skills over the course of several years, a number of instances where he returned home battered and bruised taught him more than the training dummy ever could. Scars tallied the amount of times a foreign blade had made contacted with his flesh, etched into his skin as a permanent reminder to keep his guard up at all times. Achilles wasn't the easiest to get along and neither was he. That was evident when they first met. They clashed heads often, his questioning of his mentor's methods aggravating the old man beyond his limits for foolishness and a shouting match began. They normally ended with him leaving Achilles standing in the middle of the training area, fuming with suppressed rage, and going for a short run through the forest. Leaping from branch to branch always seemed to calm his mind. It was the one thing he still remembered about his mother and he kept it close to his heart. A short distance away, he would mediate on what had occurred, most likely finding himself at fault and with a long suffering sigh and a scowl plastered to his face, he would return home to apologize. A few words were said by Achilles and he was sent to bed. They both learned to live with each other, slowly accepting each other for who they were. His brashness and impatience tempered with time and a courageous young man yearning for justice emerged.
The Aquila was a marvelous vessel once she'd been fully restored. He still didn't understand why the ship was a "she" instead of an "it" but he thought it best not to argue with Mr. Faulkner. His first mate was an old boisterous lout who he highly doubted the man could have commanded "the Ghost of the North Seas" when he found him drinking himself into oblivion. But he proved to be a valuable asset on his first outing, explaining to the lad the inner workings of sailing a ship and giving orders to his crew. He was intimidated at first, especially with the concept of ordering men nearly twice his senior, but his confidence increased with each gentle correction or praise given by his shipmates. He learned to enjoy sailing. It gave him a sense of freedom sprinting through the trees never had. And with every naval battle he engaged in, his passion for the vast seas grew, a desire to explore the expanse of the oceans bubbling inside him. He was now Captain of the Aquila and he took great pride in that knowledge.
He had failed. Charles Lee had escaped. Innocent people had died today. And to top it all off, he'd seen his father. He eyes had widened in disbelief, stumbling over his tongue in shock. His mother had briefly spoken of him when growing up as a boy and whenever he asked about him, she would simply sigh, shaking her head sadly before changing the subject effortlessly. He remembered clues she reluctantly given about his identity. He was European, which explained his fair complexion, and he was a Templar. At the time, he was ignorant of the weight the word carried. Now he looked on, stunned, as his father, now his sworn enemy, orchestrated the beginnings of the massacre he'd witnessed. He'd been chased all over town by guards, mistakenly framed as the instigator for such bloodshed. With the help of a friend by the name of Sam Adams, he was able to return home blameless, but the guilt still ate at him. He could've stop it all, just like he could've saved Ista all those years ago. He arrived home in a foul mood and refused to speak with the old man, too deep in his thoughts, instead taking refuge in his room where he brooded until supper.
He received his robes the day after his arrival. Perhaps it was conciliation for being left alone in the city. Or maybe Achilles truly thought him ready. He wasn't sure as he held them in his hands gingerly, afraid of even the slightest tug ruining them. They fit him snugly and he raised his arms above his head, twisting from side to side, testing the coarse fabric. Achilles beamed with pride as he came down the stairs, awkwardly shrugging his shoulders when he met his mentor at the bottom.
Usually we hold a ceremony for such an occasion. But I believe neither one of us are the type for that sort of thing.
Hands rested on the muscled curve on his shoulder blades as Achilles spoke with steel in his voice, delight sparking in chocolate orbs.
Welcome to the Brotherhood, Connor.
It was official. He was now an assassin. He breathed deeply, feeling the weight of his responsibilities and obligations press further onto his shoulders. He felt much older than what he age warranted.
Rest. We have much to do tomorrow.
He felt oddly troubled and didn't anticipate the coming day.
A/N: And to believe all of this happened before he'd even reached his twentieth birthday. He's such a strong soul and has earned my respect for his character. I tried a different formatting style, going more for the storytelling through his point of view even if it's in third person. I apologize if I missed something important. I only watched walkthroughs as I don't have the game and research can only reveal so much of a character. So I hope all of this was believable. Again, let me know what you thought of it. Until next time...