Chapter 13

A Life Begun Anew

Barry and Cassidy Finnegan were… alright, Shay decided. They surely did nothing to deserve thugs breaking into their house and hurting them.

Shay recognized the men who limped out of the place. They wore the colours of Hope's gangs, the same colours that once meant safety to him. Why would the Brotherhood accept this kind of behaviour? There was no way they didn't know.

There was no way Shay didn't know. And yet...

He clenched his jaw and slowly made his way back to his room with his new (hand-me-downs?) clothes. The Finnegans had been very kind to take care of him. They told him - briefly - that a friend of their (dead) son asked them to and they were more than happy to help. They had gone to Boston - how did he even reach Boston? - and came back with him to New York.

Shay had noticed little holes - so little he wouldn't have noticed them if they were not bleeding - around the gashes on his chest and on his head.

He had not landed lightly at the bottom of the cliff, and he was lucky he had not smashed his face beyond recognition. He had a scar over his right eye, another over his left collarbone and at least other three patches of uneven skin on his back: the rest, apparently, would have no problem healing.

Barry said the bostonian doctor - scared out of his wits because of his sudden appearance - had to remove those outrageously done stitches and redo all of them himself, because whoever brought Shay there had clearly never learnt the fine art of sewing.

At least Connor didn't let him bleed out. That was something he'd have to thank him for.

Shay noticed a letter on his bedpost. He frowned. The Finnegans didn't tell him he had received a letter with no wax seal and signed by-

Connor Kenway.

He squinted. There was no mistaking the handwriting, nor the words. It was signed Connor Kenway. Connor. Kenway.

Haytham had a sister on the other side of the world who chose to keep the surname Scott. He had no known brothers, uncles or cousins. His father was dead. The only Connors they knew were Davenport - dead at seven years of age - and Time-travelling Ghost Connor, who had no reason to call himself Kenway except if he were related to Haytham.

Shay sat on the bed and opened the letter.

.

To Shay Patrick Cormac,

If you are reading this letter after 4th April 1756, I have already died.

I am writing to you on 1st April. This letter cannot be seen by others but you and Haytham. You may do as you wish with it, because it is a confession of all I have kept hidden and I hope it explains the reason I acted so during these years we have spent together.

.

What he read later was the wildest story he had ever heard of, and the worst part was that it explained so much about Connor's reluctance to reveal his past, to speak of the Brotherhood's future and his family.

A purge, he wrote, the greatest and most devastating he had ever heard. It was hard for Shay to imagine that, in a handful of years, every single Assassin outpost and headquarter would be destroyed and every informant of the Assassins would lie dead. And that Haytham Kenway could have been a Templar Grandmaster whom his Assassin son Connor would have had to kill.

That path was one best left untraveled.

The letter also spoke of a Spirit that had forced Shay's hand in Lisbon, which he did not remember at all. He recalled Connor suggesting them to leave, Haytham asking what the pointy thing was, and… nothing. There was a blank between that and grabbing the Piece of Eden that made his skin crawl.

The Pieces of Eden could mess with his memory? It should have been no wonder, after hearing of mind-controlling Apples and destroying things that keep the earth together.

Shay shook his head. Better not to think about that. He had clothes to put on - he noticed the not-so-subtle crosses here and there, aye - and some criminals to track down and deal with.

At least the Manuscript would do no harm to anyone at the bottom of the ocean.

Kaniehtiio and Ratonhnhaké:ton - their son, who shared Connor's name - had fallen asleep, and Haytham found himself pacing restlessly in the longhouse. It came as no surprise to him, after his depressingly long streak since January.

After his birth, Kaniehtiio wanted their son to have a name to fit in with the tribe. Haytham had nothing to say about that, but the name… she said it would have been a surprise, and it had. Just not in the way she had thought.

That was Connor's name.

Haytham almost argued with his wife, still wet with blood and after-birth things he was extremely reluctant to touch, that their son shouldn't have that name. Thinking of Connor every time he called his son made his betrayal - and his absence - burn so much stronger.

But her eyes, the way she held their son, her relieved whispering (cooing, really)… Haytham didn't have the heart to argue with her.

So Ratonhnhaké:ton it was. Their son.

He smiled as he watched over them. They looked so peaceful. His wife was exhausted after so many hours of childbirth and so much blood loss, but she was still alive and had almost recovered and they'd raise their son together. His family was alive and well.

But still, Haytham found no peace.

Lisbon still rang in his ears. Chevalier's shot - it was him who shot Shay in the back - still played in his mind. And Connor… he didn't know how to reconcile the burning bite of Connor's betrayal to the lingering regret of sending him away.

The time-traveller followed his request. He went away, doing who knows what, because Haytham told him to.

But now, six months after their last meeting, when his son was barely two months old, Haytham found himself missing his advice and the comfort he gave him as a child, asking nothing in return.

He shook his head. Connor was not there. Shay was dead. The Assassins spread all over the east coast to find the Manuscript and Shay's body. Haytham… Haytham had needed time to think, to rest, to stay with his family, and Achilles let him.

Haytham took his journal, ink and quill from his satchel, which hang just by their bedside. He would make do with the pale moonlight and the light of the torches.

A paper slipped from the pages.

He grabbed it just before it touched the ground. It had been wedged between pages he never opened, stuck for who knew how long, but who dared put something in his journal? Who dared open it? Even Kaniehtiio knew better-

It was a letter signed Connor Kenway.

At first Haytham thought it was impossible. There was no Connor Kenway, Connor was not a Kenway, and Connor was not in the village. But he had seen a time-travelling ghost, a spiky thing that held the earth together, an evil Spirit that could force people to do its bidding and a glowing floating bridge, so maybe nothing was truly impossible by that point.

.

To Haytham Edward Kenway,

I am sure I have already died by the time you are reading this letter. I apologize for all the harm I have brought upon you, though I know my words will never be enough.

However, I realize my silence will hurt you worse than any word of mine ever had. There is much I should have told you that I was too much of a coward to reveal. In this letter, I will tell you the whole truth about my past.

.

It was Connor's calligraphy, of that he was dead sure. There were smudges and ink drops here and there, as if Connor couldn't quite bring himself to write any of that, but forced himself to anyway.

What he read next explained… everything.

Why he was so determined to take him away from Birch. Why he taught him his language. Why he was so uncomfortable around Kaniehtiio. Why he was so reluctant to reveal anything about his own future.

Connor killed Haytham Kenway, his own father… and Templar Grandmaster, apparently. The same Grandmaster he had worked with and whose death weighed heavily on him.

Haytham's hands were shaking. Connor hid so much from him, from the moment they spoke on that ship crossing the English Channel. He was doing nothing out of goodness of his heart or whatever bullshit Haytham had thought when he was ten and lonely. Connor was doing everything out of guilt.

Because Connor had killed him. "My father died because of me," he had said, because of course he would skirt around the subject of family as if it were a rabid dog. How could he have admitted to Haytham's face he had killed him and went back trying to undo his own actions?

Actions he had evidently grown to regret enough to change the course of Haytham's life at the cost of his own.

He took a deep breath, put the invisible-to-everyone letter back in his journal and gripped its consumed leather cover. Connor still did all he could to help him, he reminded himself, whether it was out of guilt or not. How would Haytham have reacted, had Connor just… come up to him, and told him he killed him, his own father? He would have lost it.

He should have noticed, really. Connor kept dropping hints: British on his father's side, Kanienkehaka on his mother's. Haytham would have been a Templar, Connor had a (Grandmaster) Templar weighing on his conscience, he always stuck by Haytham's side. Connor knew so much about Kaniehtiio… including her death.

His grip tightened. That was something he wanted to prevent at all costs. His wife… his son… Connor's future will never come to pass. Haytham would do everything in his power to steer history in the right direction.

That, he promised.

Colonel Monro didn't seem like a bad man. He did show up a bit red in Shay's Eagle Sight - danger if provoked, stay on guard - but… he was the one who told the Finnegans to take care of Shay. He had to be someone either very goodwilled, or incredibly manipulative.

He hoped he hadn't made the connection between Hidden Blades and Assassins, though that was unlikely. The Finnegans' dead son had Templar crosses, Monro worked with their son: hence, Monro was most likely a Templar. It did not bode well for Shay.

But still… he was far from the image of power-hungry greedy despicable Templars the Assassins painted them as.

It hurt to think about the Assassins. Everyone still thought he was dead, Haytham included. Connor made sure of that before he died. He needed a funeral, a proper one, for all the help and advice he had given them.

But there was no time for that.

Reality slapped Shay in the face soon enough. Hope was letting the gangs run and ruin New York. The British - if Colonel Monro was their standard of leadership - wanted to help the city, to make it so much better than a haven for criminals.

He ended up saving Christopher Gist from criminal justice (wasn't that a strange thing), getting back his Morrigan and needing a first mate.

"Tell me, Shay, do you have a first mate?" Gist asked, a sort of smirk on his lips, but not unkind. He was just… eager. Not boot-licking eager, fortunately, but more that's-my-dream kind of eager.

It still picked at an open wound in Shay's heart. Liam had been his first mate the longest, but when he was busy on some other mission Haytham (and Connor) took his place as if it was only natural. Haytham seemed to enjoy spending time together, all three of them, out at sea.

He shook his head. "They… they're long gone." Although Haytham and Liam were both alive and most likely looking for a body they would not find.

Gist nodded. "Then I apply for the position, captain!"

"Welcome aboard," he said, shaking hands with him. If Shay's smile was a bit wan, Gist did not comment on it.

Shay's loyalty kept being shaken in the next months.

Monro and Gist were not bad. They wanted to see the Colonies flourishing, happy, prosperous. Pretty and admittedly convincing words. They believed in everything they said. But how could they think for the good of the people? They… they sided with the Templars.

As if that confusion was not enough, Le Chasseur confessed the gangs' - the Assassins' - plans for New York.

Poisonous gas. How could Hope, Liam, Haytham be alright with it?

Either way, Shay could not stand idly by while the Assassins killed half New York.

"Our poison supplies have been sabotaged, Mentor."

Achilles frowned at Liam. "Explain."

The younger man put his hands behind his back and straightened. "Our poison supplies… have been blown up. Thirty of our men have been killed." He shook his head. "Many bodies were ruined beyond recognition by explosions."

That was a worrying hindrance of their plans. The Mentor's frown deepened as he glanced between the papers on his desk and his second protégé. "Do we have any information on who it might be?"

"No, Mentor."

"Hmm." This was not a good sign, but they had other ways to drive the British out of New York. Assassinating higher ups always did the job, though it was a bit conspicuous. Especially since there were Templars among them. "Focus on finding and killing anyone of Captain rank and above. Even the Hydra can't move with all its heads severed."

Liam nodded and stopped himself from grabbing a piece of paper. "Should I inform Haytham as well?"

Achilles lowered his gaze and considered. Haytham had looked a bit numb after Shay's betrayal, and had asked to go back to his wife for some time off. He told Achilles he'd be ready for any mission, but his unusual tenseness - for lack of a better word - meant he needed to stay away for more time than he'd admit.

This sabotage didn't qualify as enough, in Achilles's eyes.

The Mentor shook his head. "Not yet."

Shay had spent a whole year working with the Templars, picking at Assassins' gangs, boarding French ships and financing some rebuilding in New York and around River Valley.

It assuaged some of his guilt, at least, though he was stirring trouble and the Assassins would soon investigate and find him, and what would Liam and Haytham think? Would they hunt him on Achilles's orders? That possibility became more real each time he directly opposed the Brotherhood.

Especially when he found Colonel Monro - definitely a Templar - needed help to get to safety, away from French troops and angry natives. There would be either Chevalier or Kesegowaase, and Shay admitted (to himself, since nobody asked) he'd gladly punch Chevalier in the face. Kesegowaase, not so much; but he'd still do it.

Colonel Monro was a good man, and they wanted him killed. If push came to shove, Shay would kill them: his regret would be worth saving Monro's life.

When Gist told him there was a Templar Grandmaster who would - one day, maybe - make him an official Templar, Shay had tried pushing for a bit more of information. He didn't get much about the man himself, but it was better than nothing.

"Well, there had been some unrest after Grandmaster Birch's assassination back in Europe." Gist shrugged. "Many Master Templars wanted his place, so there's been some poisoning and some stabbing - you know how it is - and someone by name Jonathan Woods took over the British branch. He sent his protégé over here and he's taken reins of every Templar around, really."

"What's his name?"

"Alexander Stewart." Gist smiled. "Deadly as can be."

Surely, the Grandmaster had some other qualities. "Something else I should know about him?"

His first mate waved his hand at him a bit. "Grandmaster's kind of told us not to tell you anything about him till you became a Templar." He shrugged. "Sorry."

"I see." Shay would just have to discover for himself the man who took Haytham's place in this... timeline. He scrunched up his nose. It was plain weird to think of Haytham as a Grandmaster Templar, not to mention uncomfortable.

He steered his Morrigan to Marais Rocheux and hoped he'd arrive in time to save Monro.

Haytham was so proud to see Ratonhnhaké:ton walking on his own.

Alright, it was only sort of an awkward stumble towards his arms, but Haytham was still filled to bursting with pride at his son's accomplishment.

"You did very well, my son," he cooed at him. Ratonhnhaké:ton giggled at his father. Oh God he was so squishy. "But of course, you already know that, don't you?" Haytham kissed his forehead and his smile widened at his son's laughter. "I'm so proud of you."

He heard faint rustling behind him and grinned at the newcomer. "Ziio, our son just walked! His first steps!"

Kaniehtiio smiled at him - a bit indulgently, if he said so himself, but he was too happy to care. "He inherited your stubbornness. I was sure he'd soon walk on his own."

"He got your stubbornness, too." Haytham sounded petulant even to his own ears.

His wife laughed, and their son laughed and sort of stumbled into his mother's arms. She caught him and kneeled in front of him. "Ratonhnhaké:ton, are you hungry?"

"Hungry!" Their son clapped his chubby hands and smiled at the prospect of food.

Haytham was sure his face would split, so wide and permanent was his smile. This was so… normal. He had seen his son grow from a newborn into a toddler, sometimes keeping half the village awake with his cries - that had not been fun, but it was worth it - and trying to crawl away towards other kids.

Kaniehtiio had just taken Ratonhnhaké:ton into her arms when they heard the thundering hooves of a horse in the village.

They left the longhouse and found Liam on the back of a nervous chestnut horse.

"Liam?" He looked nervous, too, but there was something angry about the crease between his brows. "What happened?"

The Assassin nearly growled. "Shay happened," he spat. He jerked his head towards the woods outside the village. "You need to come back to Davenport, now."

Shay? Haytham didn't see how a dead body could 'happen'. "You found Shay?"

Liam looked only angrier at hearing that. "Oh, we did. I'll tell you everything on the way."

The man would not reveal anything more than that, and did not get off his horse to greet anyone. It was clearly an emergency and Haytham had to leave immediately. So Haytham nodded and told him he'd go back to the longhouse to gather his things - and change into his Assassin clothes, instead of the leathers he'd resorted to wearing some time before his son was born - while Liam could rest after his travel.

The Assassin jerked his head down. Haytham took that as assent and went inside the longhouse.

Both Kaniehtiio and Ratonhnhaké:ton looked at him in concern. "Rakeni go?" his son asked, pouting.

"Hén." He gathered his Assassin clothes from the travel pack he had taken from Davenport more than a year ago. He noticed his son's lips trembling. "But Rakeni will come back soon, alright?"

Kaniehtiio frowned at him, as if disapproving of his lying so brazenly to their son. She still managed a smile for Ratohnhaketon. "Your Rakeni will be very busy for some time. He has people to protect even outside Kaneseton."

Ratohnhaketon's eyes widened. He had never seen anything beyond the wooden walls. "Outside?"

"He's very strong and brave," she explained softly, while Haytham changed his clothes. "So strong and brave that others have heard of him, and ask for his help."

Haytham was sure his son would be soon worshipping him. He raised an eyebrow at Kaniehtiio, his cheeks burning with embarrassment, but his wife just smiled at him. She knew how this was making him squirm, and she enjoyed every second of it.

Kaniehtiio, still with their son in her arms, stepped up to him and kissed him. "Do come back alive, my love."

Haytham smiled at her and kissed his family - his son on his forehead, his wife on her lips. "I will."

Said that and prepared a second horse for him to ride, the two Assassins left Kanateséton with haste.

Haytham arrived at Davenport manor on 20th August 1757.

What Achilles and Liam told him was unbelievable, but Kesegowaase would never tell a lie so outrageous. He was a man of his word, at least, and knew Shay's face enough to recognize him.

But Shay, siding with the Templars - saving one of them? Shooting a small barrel of gunpowder in Kesegowaase's face? Haytham had a hard time wrapping his mind around that.

"Shay has also freed an Oneida tribe that had sided with the British," Achilles said, scoffing. "We need to make haste to kill Monro and his new lapdog."

Haytham frowned. "Since when did you capture an Oneida tribe?"

Achilles and Liam exchanged a glance.

"Why did you capture a tribe?" He insisted. Attacking British he understood, but… a whole village? Filled with innocents? His gut churned. "Did you hope I would have never known of it?"

Achilles shook his head. "The only other solution was killing them."

"I hope the reason you did not go through with that plan was because you'd have broken the first tenet of the Creed, and not because you'd have lost allies among the other tribes."

Neither of them spoke a word.

Haytham clenched his fists and tried - probably failed - at keeping a neutral expression. By a strategical standpoint, killing every tribe sided with the British was the best option: but Haytham kept thinking of Kaniehtiio and Ratohnhaketon and how their lives would be cut short if their burning longhouse fell on their heads. Capturing them was a compromise that, honestly, made him both sigh in relief and frown.

(Shay was also no lapdog, contrary to what some other Assassins believed.)

Haytham breathed in and out. It… It wasn't the right time to discuss the Creed. "What information do we have on Monro?"

It was 3rd November when Kesegowaase, finally recovered from his injury and angrier than ever, led his native allies to an assault on Fort Frederick, in Albany.

Hope had lent some men, but did not leave New York: Shay had dealt some heavy blows to their activities there, so she stayed there to further the Brotherhood's goals with Liam's help. Chevalier was nowhere to be found. In case Kesegowaase could not kill Monro and find some information about Templar plans, Haytham would search the Colonel's house.

It was very simple, compared to other missions he had successfully completed on his own. Haytham had almost raised an eyebrow at his Mentor, but he could understand his reluctance to give him a central role: he had no idea if his body was still in top condition (it was) and if he could deal killing blows with hardly a thought (he could).

Kesegowaase and Hope's men had waited in the forest for the perfect moment, when the redcoats switched between night and day patrol; when they were either about to sleep or had just woken up.

Haytham leisurely strolled through the town, knowing that soon the peace of dawn would be broken by the shots of muskets and the smell of fire and gunpowder.

Chaos erupted in a matter of seconds.

First, it was the shots: people warily looked towards the fort from the streets and the windows. Then the screams started, and a woman was scooping up her child to run faster and a man took up his musket to defend his home and another ran to the church to sound the bells, as if the fire starting up from the fort was not alarming enough.

It's not Lisbon, he reminded himself, and forced himself to keep walking as the crowd around him fled into a panic.

Haytham knew Monro was at the fort, rallying their defense. He also knew where he lived when he wasn't holing up in a fort and he had no trouble in silently dispatching the three redcoats inside his house.

Having hidden the three corpses in some bushes nearby, Haytham started rummaging through Monro's desk drawers. There were lots of letters and even some poetry, but little of use to the Assassins.

He found two letters addressed to a Grandmaster Alexander Stewart - and his odd thought was so this is the man who replaced me this time - and three from the Grandmaster that were in code, so Haytham didn't know what they were about. Maybe the Manuscript, which nobody would ever find because Connor had tossed it in the ocean.

Haytham still took them and put them in one of his pouches.

The front door slammed open.

Haytham settled into a dark corner of the study and waited. He dearly hoped it was not Shay. After everything Connor had done, he still found himself reluctant to kill Shay, traitor or not.

It was Monro.

He was clutching at his left shoulder while one of his soldiers helped him along on his left. They were most likely looking for the medical supplies under the desk. Haytham waited until they had their backs on him before driving his Hidden Blade between the soldier's ribs and forcing the Colonel to stand wobbly on his own.

"Assassin," he hissed, stumbling back, "come to finish your friend's work?"

Haytham shook his head. "It was not my mission to complete. But since you're here, I'll have to take over my friend's duties." He walked behind the desk, pulled the chair from there and shoved it behind Monro's knees so he was forced to sit. "I can make your last minutes either very painful or very brief, depending on your answers. Are you still looking for the Manuscript?"

Monro tightened his grip on his shoulder and said nothing.

"You do know it now lies at the bottom of the ocean, right?"

The Colonel's eyes widened minutely. So Shay either didn't know, or had not told this to the Templars.

"It would be a shame if your brethren were to waste resources on trying to find that." Haytham shook his head and took a dagger from a sheath behind his back. "What are your plans for these fair lands?"

Monro glanced at the dagger before his eyes narrowed on Haytham. "Purging them of the criminal filth you keep running on their streets," he said, though his voice hitched somewhat. That deep gash on his shoulder must have been painful.

Hope could control her men better, he supposed. Haytham stabbed Monro in the right thigh. The Templar suppressed a pained shout. "That much I know. But there must be something else-" he twisted his dagger, eliciting a grunt, "you're not telling me, Colonel."

It took a few seconds for Monro to stop gritting his teeth enough to speak. "You want to know of Shay."

Haytham very carefully hid his emotions behind his unnervingly calm smile. "Among other things, yes. What have you done to him?"

"What have you done to him?" the Templar rebutted. "At the first sign of him questioning the righteousness of your orders you discarded him-"

The Assassin put a bit (a lot) more pressure on his dagger. "I've been to Lisbon as well." His smile disappeared, replaced instead by a condescending look. "Never assume, Colonel, that we are incapable of independent thought. What have you done to Shay to make him help you?"

"We showed him the truth of your methods," he uttered through gritted teeth, just as Haytham heard someone's frantic footsteps in the house. He yanked his dagger out of Monro's thigh and opened one of the large windows of the study.

"Ó:nen ki' wáhi, Colonel." Haytham jumped through the window and fled through the burning city - not Lisbon - into the woods.

Shay found Colonel Monro bleeding out in his study.

He ran up to him and knew just by the amount of blood alone that only a miracle would save him, even if his wounds - when did he get that hole in his thigh? - did not get infected and he stitched them flawlessly.

"Colonel, what happened?"

The man sort of nodded at the open window. "...Left," he muttered.

"Haytham." Kesegowaase told him so. What did the Brotherhood gain from interrogating Monro? What did they gain from his death? Did Haytham ignore the words he had told Shay just after his wedding? Shay's lips curled at the thought. No one should kill without a proper purpose.

"...He cared…" Monro's eyes almost fluttered closed, but he forced himself to take his Templar ring off his finger. "For you," he whispered, and Shay grasped his hand and the offered ring as George Monro's life slipped away.

Shay closed his eyes and mourned the death of a good man.

Days later, Shay stood at the end of a table in a dark room of Fort Arsenal, surrounded by - soon enough - fellow Templars. He carefully unsheathed his sword and dagger and laid them on the table. A voice rose from the other end of the table, shrouded in darkness.

"Do you swear to uphold the principles of our Order and all that for which we stand?"

Order, purpose, direction. Peace. "I do."

"And to never share our secrets nor divulge the true nature of our work?"

Hide in plain sight. "I do."

"And to do so from now until death, whatever the cost?"

He would bear the burden of atonement regardless of any oath. "I do."

"Then we welcome you into our fold, Brother." The Grandmaster stepped into the light, his blond hair nearly glinting in the candlelight. He walked around the table and the other Templars, his boots echoing in the room, and slipped Monro's ring on Shay's own finger.

The Grandmaster took a step back and raised his smooth chin. "You are now a Templar, harbinger of a new world. May the Father of Understanding guide us."

"May the Father of understanding guide us," all of them chorused in the room's dim candlelight.

Ó:nen ki' wáhi: Goodbye