"So what does your father think about you living under the same roof as Achilles Davenport? Has he, being aware of nothing about your private life, asked you about this and that directly or does he feel awkward about this topic? Overprotective maybe?"
A short-story reply to an ask on the ask blog connorfemway on tumblr.
Enjoy.
There was nothing more relaxing before a long voyage than dipping bare feet into the sands of the shore. Warmed by the sun, the sand that falls between toes has the effect of a much-needed massage. The feeling cannot be any more soothing, any more earthly. It is one thing about the dry land that the Assassin is sure she'll miss on this approaching trip.
There was no telling what would happen in the coming days. Upon the sea, upon the vast Aquila, the same sights could be seen many times a day, a week. To think that one of the faces she saw every day on this trip would be that of the father she had yet to connect with was both unsettling and comforting.
Might there still be time to bond with the man who had trouble lowering his nose? They had yet to work out proper communication. Haytham, despite his pushiness in most matters, had yet to inquire about his daughter's personal life. Their relationship was complicated in this way and many others. The two knew little to nothing of each other. Outside of trying to rename her, he hadn't bothered to inquire about much else, and neither had Connor. This was excluding the single time Haytham had questioned the whereabouts of Connor's late mother. That was a sour memory indeed.
Connor assumed quite a lot of her father. Assumed that he would not know this homestead nor who owned it. Assumed that her father would not know the man who stood by her left hand while she captained a crew of sea-faring men. Assumed that he would not mind the fact that she was the owner and captain of her own ship, the outfitted Aquila. This same ship sits in the harbor not too far from the captain, awaiting the order to sail, to return to the great blue in which both she and her captain belonged.
Haytham Kenway's arrival draws far more attention than it should. Not simply because he rides on a great horse and appears to be a man of uptight rigor, but also that he wears an expression of the deepest disdain.
The small door to the shack beside the harbor bursts open. For a moment, Connor fears it will tear away from its hinges. From the confines of the shack strolls Robert Faulkner, balancing a cigar on his lip. His gaze falls evenly on Connor.
The captain of the Aquila takes her time replacing her boots, straightening out the uniform she wears, adjusting the tricorn hat that sits upon her head. In the meantime Haytham remains upon his horse, a small bag dangling from the horse's side. Faulkner takes measured steps down from his shack and onto the grasses in which Haytham's horse pats wearily. The two men seem to be convening faster than Connor had anticipated. There was tension in the air, and Connor could feel it chill her to the bone as she made her way up from the shore to the grass, to the sides of her companions.
"Ne'er thought I'd see tha likes ah you around 'ere," Faulkner's voice rises up from his throat, leaving the mouth hidden beneath his thick moustache. Haytham dismounts his horse with care and turns his critical eyes on the sea-farer. The distrust in his gaze, were it a solid object, might stab the old seafarer to death. "What business 'ave ye?"
"He is the man I spoke to you about," the captain speaks before her father can open his entitled mouth. She tries hard to ignore the slightly wide-eyed look both men seem to take on at the same time: Faulkner's at the revelation that the Grandmaster Templar was Connor's father, and Haytham's at the observance of the uniform his daughter wears. "He will be accompanying us."
"Aye?" Faulkner snorts, giving Haytham a wary once-over with his eyes before he steps back, towards the dock, "We'll should be takin' our leave soon, Cap'n, soon as th' lads load 'er up."
The Assassin nods her head once in understanding.
Faulkner turns away from the two and heads to the docks, waving off Pegleg as he tries to speak to the man. Haytham's narrowed eyes follow him all the way.
"I had assumed that you lived amongst your people," this inquiry seems oddly placed. Connor straightens up, rolling this statement over in her mind a few times to correctly process it. To process the disdain in his voice, the way he scowls at each sailor who passes.
"I might apologize for disappointing you, had I any remorse," she states as plainly as she feels. Haytham's eyes fall onto his daughter.
The usual tight-lipped demeanor he holds is gone. Long gone. In a single moment.
"Perhaps it is time I start showing you the error of your ways," this statement earns the Templar an immediate glare. The words carry harsh undertones, "Because what you should feel is remorse, and plenty of it."
"That is not for you to decide," the daughter presses her palms low on her hips, tilting her head up to see her father fully without the obstruction of her tricorn hat.
A sarcastic smile passes over Haytham's lips. He crosses his arms behind his back, tilting his own chin up as he speaks.
"Perhaps it would be wise for you to reconsider these decisions. Maybe then you wouldn't be in the situation you are currently, living amongst drunken pigs and withered old men."
"I cannot say much better of you, father," the daughter is swift to retort, noticing Haytham's gaze fall upon the manor that lingers at the top of the cliff, "A man who makes his home amongst rats has no room for input. My decisions are my own."
"At least those rats carry dignity, the likes of which these men will never understand," there was no disguising the harsh opinions Haytham held of sailors and Assassins alike. To come to find that his own daughter was not one, but both of these types of people, was a fact that the man was struggling to come to terms with on a level the likes of which Connor could not imagine. The man was mentally thrashing himself up over the way his daughter lived her life.
"What these men understand is hard work and loyalty. I believe the reason we work together is example enough of the nature of the people you call allies." The daughter matches her father's sharpened tongue. Perhaps he might be proud of her wit, if these words weren't directed his way. It only serves to frustrate him further.
"Benjamin Church is no example of our beliefs," the man tries to retort, but before he can lay out his argument further his daughter cuts in, tongue sharp and gaze even sharper.
"Who might you recommend, then? Thomas Hickey?" a single eyebrow lifts in inquisition.
Haytham's lips have thinned, and his posture is as straight as a board. It is hard to hold back the anger he feels.
No, these men were not perfect. They had flaws aplenty. But they saw the truth, understood what the world needed. Benjamin Church was a rarity among them, while Hickey was simply misguided. But how well could he explain this to his daughter, who had the stubborn mindset too akin to her late mother?
"Perhaps we should speak of Achilles Davenport, then, if we are to name names," he hisses, stepping closer to his daughter. They stand only inches apart. Connor is only mere inches shorter than her father, putting them nearly eye to eye. "And perhaps I should inquire why it is you reside in his household."
"He has trained me," she says as though it's obvious, but Haytham's shaking his head. His tone has turned cruel.
"But what affection has he for you, Connor?" Haytham holds his palms up to the sky in front of him, his weight resting on his left leg. "He is not your father, and you do not belong in his home. He has trained you so that you might thwart our cause in his stead, since he has become no more than a withered man with a tall voice. He advises you to kill me and my comrades, but is that not the single thing you despise about my cause? The killing of those who might oppose us?"
Not far away, Faulkner is instructing the crew of the Aquila to begin loading cargo. His arms are folded over his chest, eyes stuck on the father confronting his daughter.
Connor's eyes are narrowed, considering her father's words with care.
"Do you not see the hypocrisy? Our causes are no different. Our people, skills, no different. The only difference is that those you aid do not truly care for your interests. They do not care for the people you wish to protect, nor do they care that they require you to slay your own father for the sake of their disillusioned cause," Haytham leans in a bit further, voice dropping. He has noticed Faulkner's eyes on them. "This is the only difference between our causes. The only difference Connor - the only difference between myself and those you aid - is that I do not feign affection for you and your interests."
Father and daughter's gazes are locked for a long few seconds before Haytham pulls the bag from his horse's side, slings it over his shoulder. The Assassin turns away from her father, heaving a deep sigh.
The Aquila has left port quite a time later. The captain of the ship stands at the helm as the sun falls past the horizon. It warms her face, briefly reminds her of the sands which she has left behind – for now.
"Why do you insist on saying such things to me?" she questions the father who stands not too far behind her. His palms rest on the railing of the ship, and he stares out at the open sea. But his eyes do not see it. His thoughts are deep, for when he notices she has spoken he has not heard her. He turns his gaze on his daughter's back. From behind she does not look like a daughter, but like a son. A son whose decisions are his own and nobody else's, unlike the girls of the colony who fall under the father's jurisdiction with no questions asked.
It could not be denied - Haytham struggled with his daughter in this way. So desperately he wished to persuade her by the simple force most fathers commanded. But then, who would she be?
She was truly unique in that way. Untouchable in her standing, just as her mother had been. It was what separated his daughter from the colonies, made her part of this natural America. Different, and rightfully so. But that made it no easier to think that she was his enemy, an enemy that might one day need to be dispatched. He'd already prevented this once, severing the rope wrapped about her neck at her hanging when the Assassin recruits had failed. Could he ever allow her death, or allow himself to be the one that brought this down upon her?
"Pardon?" he asks, tone more relaxed now yet still wary. As crewmen move about the ship below on the deck, Connor can't tear her eyes away from them.
"Why do you insist on saying such things to me?" she repeats her words with a bit more force.
The father sighs, turns around to lean against the railing. He crosses one foot in front of the other, folds his arms over his chest.
"In hopes that one day you might see what I see - that you might prefer to live beneath my roof instead of his." he does not smile as he says this, nor does his voice carry the affection one might think it would carry. Haytham Kenway was not that way - not accustomed to what most would call caring interaction or gentle words. He was a man who said what he felt at word value and little more.
"And what if that is never to happen?" the Assassin turns to look at her father. Their faces match - calm, simply, little emotional expression.
"Then one of us must, inevitably, be erased from this world." the words now carry a hint of that usual attitude, as though saying 'this should be obvious'. "It is my hope that we might come to avoid that."
Despite the things he had done to protect her so far, what more could he do before he'd need to protect her from himself? Haytham sets his eyes on the horizon. And so does Connor, who only feels the stirring of turmoil deep inside her gut.
The outcome of this trip would set a precedent, the likes of which she could not foresee nor understand at this moment. The future was unclear, but for now she could only look at her father for what he was - the Grandmaster Templar who happened to be half of the reason she walked the decks of the Aquila now.
And that was all it could be, for now. And she would have to take his invasive questions and harsh criticism for what they were - a broken connection between father and daughter, in steady repair.