Wow - that's all I can really say for the incredible overwhelmingly positive responses for this story thus far. I love hearing from you - the readers - and getting your feedback; what you loved, hated, cried over, punched your monitor, etc. This story is definitely starting to look rather long, and I've had to make some adjustments in future chapters for the better.
I typically like to fall into an updating schedule but I'm not sure when you can expect the third chapter. My goal is within a week!
As always, I own nothing except my original characters. Happy reading!
Chapter 2
The morning dew always had a way to dust the slumbering city of Boston in the wee hours of the morning, the miniscule drops of moisture glistening beneath the birth of the rising sun. But the smallest window of serenity for the budding colonial town was incredibly short-lived; it'd be granted only a sparingly handful of hours before the scores of inhabitants emerged from their homes, eager to make haste in the early spring morning. The placid, tranquil atmosphere, as well as the dew, would succumb to the greater forces of the Bostonites, their fast moving legs already in high speed to complete the first duty on their ever growing list.
But thus was the lifestyle of a colonialist. Capture and take advantage of the daylight, and gain whatever rest you could when the sun dipped below the horizon. Despite the colonialization of the once primitive wilderness having begun decades ago, the colonialists were still mindful to their desolate, isolated civilizations; the supposed funding from the crown was leagues away. But despite the shoddy promise of support and resources from the mainland of England, the colonialists didn't take long to see the profound transparency of the supposed support. The roaring seas and expansive oceans was more than a strict barrier of distance; it also served as a means for justifying the over taxing of the remote colonialists and the enforcement of draconic laws that failed to support the underlying mantra of the fictitious crown.
Relations were strained. The people of Boston and the colonies were no longer resting silently. The unjustified murders and appalling wrongs to their struggling peoples couldn't be ignored anymore, the corrupted crown's attempts to smooth over the frets all but drowned out by the colonialists burning virtues. The flame had been lit, and it would only be a matter of time before it reached the powder keg.
Joining the bustling throngs of men and women in the congested streets of Boston, Haytham shoved such thoughts into the recesses of his mind, instead allowing the more pressing matters consume him. As promised to Ziio only hours ago, he would find his captured son; if the boy was even still alive. As Ziio had stated, the boy's trail had long turned cold, either from the elapsed time or his kidnapper's skill at covering their tracks. Side stepping a band of Red Coats, mindful not to draw attention to himself, Haytham grudgingly assumed the latter. The Native woman was no stranger to tracking; quite contrary, her and her people were infused with a knack for tracking he could only dream of possessing. Whoever plucked his child from his Native kin were no amateurs.
And it was that notion alone that would assist in his searching. The likes of a messy, aspiring kidnapper made the list of potential men long and, quite frankly, far too time consuming for Haytham's taste. He still had a free roaming Assassin to find and eliminate in less than a weeks time.
He needed to find the child rather quickly.
Turning towards a tavern nestled across from the harbor, undoubtedly preying on sealogged sailors desperate for the passions of a woman and the finer aspects of booze, Haytham dismayingly eyed the ragged looking prostitutes lingering outside the door. The day had just begun and the call girls were already on their prowl for customers - a revolting trade. Unfortunately, as much as Haytham despised the filth that frequented the tavern at such an early hour, his best lead for gathering insight as to his son's disappearance would likely come from the lowly place.
And even more unfortunate, such a person would come from the his elite, secretive brotherhood.
Pushing the heavy tavern door open, Haytham nearly gagged at the wave of nauseating smells that slammed into him; a sickening mixture of cheap booze, stagnant sweat, and other detestable human fluids. The bay windows in the front of the tavern, though covered with a waxy coat of filth, basked the open room with the morning rays coming up over the harbor, the added heat from the sunlight serving to increase the stench all the more. Breathing through his mouth, Haytham darted his eyes about the tavern. Various circular tables and benches constructed of warped and splintered wood littered the area, while an equally shoddily crafted bar - the crown jewel of the tavern - was nestled on a long wall. A bored yet impressively toned bartender stood dutifully behind the bar, his beady black eyes scrutinizing Haytham's stately clothing, either hoping for a decent paying patron or expecting some means of trouble. But Haytham paid him no heed, instead took inventory of the rest of the vile establishment. On the opposite end of the room from the windows was a warped set of wooden stairs leading up to the second floor, where Haytham presumed the more nocturnal activities were performed for an added cost.
Bringing his inspecting gaze around again, he narrowed his stare on a younger man silently sitting at a table alone, his head turned down into the full beer stout resting in front of him. Free of a tricorn hat, Haytham immediately recognized his long face, hardset eyes, and smirk that seemed to be permanently etched on his cross face. Thomas Hickey. Born to poor Irish parents, he was one of the few in the Order that didn't pine for the finer luxuries of life, despite his blatant hunger for wealth. Or perhaps he simply lacked the experience of how to flaunt his acquired wealth, no matter how unjustly, from his humbled, impoverish raising.
Reaching the table, Haytham dropped himself onto the bench opposite of Hickey, who jumped with a start, his hand already on his pistol. But one look at his leader, his hand slowly inched away from the weapon, though not completely dropping his guard; an action that didn't go unnoticed by Haytham. Lifting a brow, the Grand Master eyed the foul amber-hued beer. "I shall never fathom your palate for the likes of this drink."
Hickey shrugged. "Old habit die 'ard, I s'pose." He took a swig out of the stout as though for evidence. "Fancy seeing you 'ere, boss."
"Yes, well, I assure you it's not to become a regular occurrence," Haytham firmly replied. Glancing around himself, he mentally took stock to the few other drunken patrons, their glazed over, half lidded eyes confirming their intoxicated states. "I need information about a capture."
Assuming the conversation would take some time, Hickey signaled the bartender for another round, much to the frowning, rejecting face of his leader. "A capture, eh? What kind 'av capture we talkin' about?"
"A Native child - a boy - was taken from his home and brought here to Boston." Haytham suddenly paused, his calculating eyes immediately seeing the other man's jaw tighten just slightly, his calloused hands wrapping around the glass stout with noticeable pressure. "You seem to have spies tucked away in every nook and cranny for the sort, I presumed you'd have some kind of information."
Hickey glanced down at the drink, his mouth gone dry though he found no interest in drinking it. "An Indian boy, eh? Gots to say, I see lots 'av slaves come an' go, boss."
"He's a boy no older than half a decade, Hickey. Even amongst the filth you rely on as associates, he would rather stand out on the auction platforms."
"These are 'ard times, boss," Hickey countered with a snide smirk, though the forced gesture struggled to make it up to his troubled eyes. "Slavers ain't got no morals these days."
Haytham sighed heavily. "Then you have seen him."
"Ain't said that."
"My patience with you is limited, Hickey," the Grand Master growled lowly. Breaking for a moment as the bartender dropped two more stouts of beer on the sticky table top, Haytham nodded his head in acknowledgement and waited for a few moments before the tavern worker sauntered away, no doubt interested in catching something of their intriguing conversation. "Your network runs deep, especially with this industry. Or has your esteemed reputation faltered in such a respect?"
The other man's eyes hardened, his jaw going taunt. "What's a Native boy gots any interest with you? Fancy spotting a slave of 'er own?"
"Don't insult me so," Haytham spat back. "My interest is none of your concern, and you'd do well to still your tongue from broaching on the subject." The other man uneasily broke eye contact, a shameful crimson flush edging on his cheeks. "Now, have you what I seek?"
Hickey paused for a long moment, somehow finding incredible interest in the second mug of the flat malt drink, his morning mood no longer thirsting for the satisfying buzz of the strong beverage. He easily recalled that day in the forest with his brethren, their searching for the village Elders ending without success only to find a lone Native child playing blissfully in his exotic playground. As usual, William and Charles took charge over the peculiar situation, their habitual bickering on the subject of the Indians William possessed a strange fondness for eventually taking precedence. Charles' decision, and William's eventual agreeing, to take the boy was met with no opposition; Church relented like the spineless being he is, and Hickey... The man swallowed uneasily at the memory of that dismal day, of the boy's frantic eyes and fearful tears that trailed down his cheeks. And yet, as much as he loathed the idea of stealing the boy for leverage against the tribe, he was smart to keep his mouth tightly clamped; his callous reputation and integrity would surely be at stake should he have acted on his true feelings. After the boy was whisked away for safe keeping, Hickey shoved any thoughts of the child from his mind.
He never thought Haytham would question it.
"Tell me, Hickey," the Grand Master began slowly, his voice low. "Who is it you are trying to protect?"
"It ain't like that, boss," Hickey tried feebly. His normally shielded gaze looked torn, his emotions pulling his intent in different directions. The aged flashbacks from his childhood in Ireland surfaced to his mind, a harsh kaleidoscope of memories of his elder sisters turning to forced servitude after his father succumbed to the bottom of a bottle. The incredible pain they endured at their tender age and the disgusting satisfaction their masters took in it would never be forgotten. "Look, alls I know is what I heard from a wee bird. An Indian lad, a kid, was brought to some prop'rty on the edge 'av Boston. Dunno if he's destined for the auction block or what."
Haytham looked skeptically at his subordinate for a moment. "What property? Show me where it is."
"I dunno where its at. Just caught wind about it a few days ago. It might not even be the lad you're looking for."
"Is that all the information you know then? Why can't you simply ask this acquaintance of yours to kindly show you. Or better yet, have me his name and I shall seek out this spy."
Hickey shook his head, though careful to conceal the sounding alarms in his mind. "And bloody well ruin what relations I have with him? One look at the likes of you 'an I'll be lucky to get an ounce 'av information again."
As much as he hated to admit it, Haytham knew Hickey's word held some sort of truth to them; there was a reason the Irishman was responsible for maintaining the relations with the otherwise lowly spy networks. Raw and unrefined, Hickey was able to blend with their ranks. But Haytham - he'd stick out incredibly so. And as much as he wanted to assist Ziio in find their son, he wasn't willing to jeopardize the Order's infiltrating sleuth networks.
"Fine," the Grand Master grudgingly replied, already pushing himself up from the shoddy bench, his drink continued to be untouched. "I suppose I very well have a lead on this enough with the small information you did give me. You would do best to forget we had this conversation, understood?"
"What conversation, boss?"
Already moving towards the tavern door, Haytham didn't press the truth with the other man, despite his poor ability to conceal that he harbored more knowledge. Time was of the essence if he was to successfully track his son and the Assassin, and he hadn't the time nor energy to spare on Hickey. At some point during the next few days he'd have to meet with Charles to discuss the Assassin, should he run into difficulties in tracking him.
At least he had some means of a lead for finding his son, even if the information was second hand and questionable in validity.
The grudging hours turned into tiring days for Ratonhnhaké:ton. After he was knocked unconscious by the colonialists, he awoke to find himself laying alone in what looked to have once been a horse stall. But the wooden planked walls were warped so severely that he was able to peek through the sides, though there wasn't much else to see in the desolate, abandoned barn. The shackle on his small arm hardly gave him more than a few feet to move around, the iron chain stubbornly keeping him close to the wall. Even if he was able to rid himself of the painful shackle, the barred and likely locked stall door still separated him from the rest of the barn.
Sitting with his back propped up against the wall, Ratonhnhaké:ton hugged his knees to his chest, despite the suffocating heat that weighed heavily in the air. It didn't take him long to learn that the small pail of water filled in the mornings was all he was granted for the entirety of the day; his first day in his prison, he'd made the erroneous mistake of painstakingly drinking it all before even noon, and then was forced to withstand the incredible heat without the luxuries of water. Though it was stale and harbored a wretched taste, his parched throat didn't care for the dismal flavor.
He missed his village and his mother's voice. He missed the longhouses and playing with his friend and cousins in the trees. He missed the animals, the sounds of the forest and stories from the Elders at night. His first day in the barn he'd wept shamefully, calling out for help until his voice went raw and exhaustion finally took its toll on him. No one came. The only person he'd seen since his capture was a middle-aged colonialist who would exchange his empty pail of water for a full one and toss a loaf of stale bread into the cell. But the man was swift with his movements and mute in his exchanges, completing what he had to and only sparing Ratonhnhaké:ton a single, quick look over. The man looked unmoved to his pleas, acting as though he didn't hear them, and it was on the third day he'd finally stopped his attempts at trying to sway the man to his cause.
A bitter pill to swallow, but he knew he was on his own, damned in his mysterious fate.
The recognizable crash of the barn door opening and closing jolting him from his musings, Ratonhnhaké:ton scrambled to the wall and leaned in to get a better glimpse between the planks of wood. He'd already seen his pseudo caretaker that earlier that morning, and his pail of water was only halfway empty.
His eyes landing on a familiar man, Ratonhnhaké:ton attempted to swallow thickly, though his dry throat restricted the action. Dressed far too regal and gallant for the likes of a run down barn, the Englishman who assaulted and captured him days ago stalked down the rows of stalls, his steps full of confidence and surety. Shortly behind the Englishman was his caretaker, his steps significantly less bold and his eyes downcast. Quickly pushing himself back from the wall as the men quickly came around to his cell, the Native hastily wiped his brow of the torrential sweat and squared his shoulders, hoping to look like the fierce warriors from his tribe.
"Ah, and here we are," Charles said as he stopped in front of the barred cell door to the stall, his ringed fingers wrapping around the bars. The boy openly glared back, detesting the man's clean shaven face and smart clothing. "And how fairs the young Indian?"
"Let me go!" Ratonhnhaké:ton exclaimed, pulling at the iron shackle and chain in aggravation.
The Templar chuckled darkly. "I see that fighting spirit is as strong as ever! And here I thought some time alone, in a place where you savages dwell would do you some good. Let you learn your place amongst the filth."
The boy didn't look moved by the harsh words, his firm stare not lessening in the slightest. "What do you want with me?"
"Oh, you mean nothing to my purpose - you're entire tribe are utterly trivial to my plight. And believe me, boy, we have tried to negotiate with them for the land. But they have been folly and reckless in their decision making."
The child blinked. "You are the Englishmen trying to run us from our lands."
Charles felt a sardonic grin spread on his face. "So the Elders taint your minds with exaggerated lies at an early age. Perhaps your kind are not so different from the Crown after all." Pausing at the blank look on the boy's face, he guessed he wasn't following him. No matter. "Let me explain this to you in terms that your simple mind will comprehend - your role in this glorious scheme is to merely stay here for the time being. We'll start negotiations with your tribe in the next few days for your return. And if they play nice, give us what we want, your life will be in exchange."
The truth of the man's words penetrating his tender mind like a training arrow through an apple, Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head slowly. "You only waste your time. The Elders will not give up the lands."
Charles considered the boy for a moment, his valiant gaze as unnerving as the strange familiarity from the child. "You best pray you're wrong, for your sake." Turning around from the Native and gesturing for the servant, Derek, to follow him, the Englishman was at least content in knowing the boy was somewhat healthy. In truth, he couldn't care less for the child's wellbeing; he was nothing more than a pawn for his bidding to finally get the lands he'd been struggling to acquire for the past five years. Though he prided himself for being a man of prestige and honor, he had no qualms finessing the line of desperate acts to get what he wanted.
"Am I in Boston?"
Stopping in his tracks as he was about to walk past the cell, Charles paused, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. "That you are, boy. Is the hospitality not up to your expectations?"
But the boy either didn't take notice to the sarcasm or promptly disregarded it. Though still infused with the roaring waves of hatred for Charles, Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn't conceal his pulsing fear at knowing his ultimate, untimely death was sure to come; the Elders wouldn't relent, no matter if his life was dangling for the exchange. "My father lives in Boston."
The Englishman stared at the Native child, his words striking a cord within him. "Your father? I presumed both your parents were of the savages that call the forest their home."
"My father is English. He lives in Boston," the boy explained slowly, carefully choosing his words. "When the Elders do not give you what you want, release me to my father if you will not let me go home."
"You continue to entertain me with this idea that you're in any state to toss around counter offers. Perhaps I shall keep you as my own slave," Charles said with a humorous chuckle. "But I'll patronize you - if what you say is true about the stubbornness of your tribe, you won't be living much longer. What be this supposed man's name that fathered you?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton had only muttered his father's name a handful of occasions, usually out of the ear shot of his watchful mother. When he felt safely alone in the dense foliage of the forest, he would silently whisper his name, relishing in the bizarre English name that rolled off his tongue. It was as though he hoped to never forget the name, for chance he needed it or longed to finally meet the mysterious man he only dreamed about. His mother was steadfast at describing him, offering only small snippets of information of the colonialist. Tall and broad with dark hair, and equipped with an arsenal of wit nearly as sharp as the weapons he was proficient in; that was much as his mother would reluctantly disclose. But it was enough for him to conjure his own projection of the man.
And thanks to those secretive sessions in the forest, Ratonhnhaké:ton had no qualms reciting the name. "Haytham Kenway."
The world seemed to be on a tilt for Charles, his heart plunging into his stomach while the blood drained from his face. Haytham Kenway. It all made sense. The Native woman so many years ago... he'd made smart, sarcastic comments about the hungering look in Haytham's eyes when he gazed at her, but the other Templars simply laughed at the possibility. Haytham was a man of principle and virtue, but apparently a man nonetheless, and he'd capitalized on an opportune moment at least once. Looking at the Native child in a new light, Charles' eyes immediately found the features the boy inherited from his paternal, English side. Those hardset eyes filled with determination, the confident jawline, and the unnerving stare.
But that only complicated the matters all the more. Considering the boy was born and raised in the filthy village, Charles doubted Haytham knew of the child's existence. And if he caught wind of it, would he welcome the boy with gracious, open arms of a parent? Or would he cast him aside as the bastard child he truly is? It was a risk Charles wasn't willing to take; should the Grand Master develop a paternal side, he would undoubtedly be more than irked with the less than appealing treatment he gave the boy. Not to mention the incredible distraction the child would pose to their leader in his pressing obligations and duties.
No - Haytham must not meet his son.
Turning towards the servant, Charles gathered his wits and recomposed himself. "Derek, should I not return for the boy in two days, you are to kill him." He heard an audible gasp from the child. "Keep his body in safe keeping so that I may deliver it as a reminder to the villagers. Am I understood?"
Not deviating from his stone-cold features, his emotionless eyes not changing in the slightest, the servant merely nodded his head. "As you wish, sir."
Ratonhnhaké:ton frowned. "You know my father then."
Sparing one last glance over at the child - Haytham's child - Charles sent him a cold, debasing smirk. "Aye, I do. But mark my words, boy, you will never know him, nor will you ever amount to even half the accomplishments he has. You'd do best to forget his name and anything else you think you know of him. You may have English blood coursing through your veins but your pedigree is tarnished beyond repair from your uncultivated Indian heritage. And you ought to recognize now that no matter the name of your father, you will never amount to anything more than a lowly savage."
If the man was looking for a rise out of Ratonhnhaké:ton, he would be gravely disappointed. Seeing the Englishman visibly moved to anger from the mere mention of his relation to the man who fathered him, the boy relished in his silent triumph. "The Elders were right about you English - you like to hear the sound of your own voice."
Charles frowned, leaning in closer to the bars, his voice coming out in a harsh whisper. "Not nearly as much as we like to hear the screams of your anguish."
