HAYTHAM

By the evening, I was really beginning to worry.

What had I done? How could I plough ahead, simply thinking that everything would be fine? I still had no clue how to free Connor. His execution was tomorrow. Christ, what am I to do?

I avoided Charles at all costs. He'd only see my quietness as a sign. While he ate dinner at the inn, I stayed upstairs in my room. The warbling of violins and cheerful chatting seeped through the floor. But I hardly noticed. I was focused on what I had done.

I've just sentenced my son to death. What manner of monster am I?

Even if I never saw Ziio again, she'd hear of this. She'd know what I had become; what she feared I would become. A heartless Templar like all the rest. What would that do to her? It would break her heart. She'd been through plenty of horrors during her lifetime. She didn't need the death of her son; let alone that I had brought it about.

No. I'd have to grant Connor his freedom. That was what Ziio would've wanted. Everything she said and did, it was all in the name of freedom. From Braddock, from threat, from others claiming her land. Liberty this, liberty that.

That explained why Connor was an Assassin. He'd have inherited such strong morals. Seeing what Washington did to his village, I was surprised he defended the man. Perhaps he was oblivious to the fact that Washington was responsible. But his mother would have told him, surely? Perhaps he simply forgave Washington. After all, the Commander was his only hope of freedom. A thousand miles from Charles.

What Charles wanted was control. For people to fear him; obey him. 'Fear is discipline,' he once told me. I disagreed. Discipline was a sign of peace; fear, one of chaos. I wanted neither freedom nor control: I wished for normality.

At this moment, life is not even slightly normal.

I paced my room, desperate for a solution. Should I sneak into prison? Have the warden stay the execution? Free Connor at the scene? All of them seemed impossible. All of them seemed beyond my capability. I was too old for all this. My agility was dwindling by the day.

That was when I remembered. In a small leather case, tucked underneath the bed, was the answer. I reached out and clicked the buckle open. There they were. Encased in velvet like crown jewels, lay five jaws. They glinted dangerously. I picked one up...and a dark nostalgia filled my bones. My throwing knives.

I had but a few left. They belonged to my father; I only used them in emergencies.

My son is to be hanged. If that is no emergency, what is?

I stared at my reflection in the silver teeth...and knew what had to be done.


The bells from the church spire struck six. The metaphor of Connor's downfall, some might've said. The death of an old Haytham, said another. A Haytham who hadn't a care for his son. That Haytham was gone...for today.

I leapt from my bed and quickly dressed. My usual blue cape and tricorne hat lay untouched: this Haytham was wearing something different. Something his father would be proud to see him in, and in which his son would recognise him as an ally. My Assassin robes. Naturally, they belonged to Father. God knows how he'd obtained them; how I'd obtained them even. Perhaps Jenny gifted them to me on my return to England? That was nearly two decades ago. I couldn't remember with all this destruction afore me.

Throwing knives tucked in robes, I was ready to go.

I crept past Charles' room, childishly. I knew he was asleep. There was no danger in waking him: he'd no doubt downed a drink or two last night. Having Connor hanged without trial was thirsty work.

I hardly bothered eating or drinking. I was far too worried about this stunt going wrong. I hadn't touched an English throwing knife in years. What if I missed the rope? What if it sliced my son's flesh instead? Why hadn't I taken the initiative to practise yesterday?

Stop this childish fear, Haytham. Birch taught you knife skills aged eleven.


Before I knew it, I was stood in the courtyard. There was an enormous crowd, there to see the man who plotted to kill Washington. They chattered excitedly, but quietly. Saving their throats for an uproar, probably.

The gallows were an elevated wooden platform. The rope was wound on the pole top, like a white crow's nest. All it needed was a victim. A piece of prey.

I pulled my hood further over my head. Father's hood was not peaked like most Assassins. It was open; my face was exposed. All I could do was steer clear of Charles. That was hard, considering I had to be close to the stage. Charles stood beside Washington, tall and quietly pleased with himself. I loathed that look. Much as I respected my colleague – both as a Commander-in-chief and a sort of friend – I hated him sometimes. Today was one of those days.

This Haytham is an Assassin. A man who hates Charles Lee.

I was playing a children's game, in an adult way. Dressing up as something else; something I should've been. I was risking everything here. I could easily be spotted by Charles, or have Connor killed...the risk was so great that I knew it was no game. Not one I ever dreamed I'd be playing right now.

A carriage pulled up in the square. Suddenly the crowd grew energetic; they moved in unison like a wave. I stood tall to see what was going on. Outside the carriage stood Thomas Hickey, with an expression as smug as Charles. A few guards reached into the back of the carriage, and threw out a man. They grabbed both his bloodstained arms and shoved him onto the street. His hands were bound behind him; his eyes alive with anger. Connor.

Don't look for too long...you'll give yourself away.

With difficulty I tore my gaze from him. The crowd began to roar with disgust at this 'madman'. Over the cacophony, I heard Thomas' voice as he approached my son:

"'Ello, Connor. Didn't think I'd miss your goin' away party, did ya?" He dragged my son to his feet, cackling. "I hear Washington 'imself is gonna be in attendance. Hope nuffin' bad happens to 'im."

"You said there'd be a trial." Hearing Connor's voice for the first time was striking. His American accent was stronger than Ziio's, but bore the same toughened tone. Or was it just fear?

"Ah, no trial for traitors, I'm afraid. Lee an' Haytham saw to that. It's straight to the gallows for you!"

I couldn't help it, I flinched. Connor was about to think even worse of me. He'd know that I'd sent him here. I was the villain.

Please, Connor...don't hate me for this...

I assumed my position as the guards pushed him forward. I know I'd only met the boy, but the way they were manhandling Connor irritated me. But I couldn't do anything, even as a woman in the crowd came forth and punched him. Blood sprayed across his face; he was nearly knocked over. He was walking a pathway of people pushing him, like a schooner on a rough sea.

That was, until a man with a cane stepped forward. He didn't hit Connor at all. In fact, he took a hand off his walking stick and murmured something. I squinted through my hood. He was old – but not such that he was feeble. I recognised him. When a black hand reached out to pat Connor's shoulder, I realised who he must be.

Achilles Davenport, the last Assassin. Well well well, you've aged.

If Achilles was here, then he must've already planned something. He was going to free Connor. But how? He had no weapons on him, and was in no fit state to fire any. Was there an inside plan?

Well, I was here if it went wrong.

"Brothers. Sisters. Fellow patriots."

The street went silent. It was Charles stood on the gallows. The only thing to be heard was the rain, gently damping my hood.

"Several days ago we learned of a scheme so vile, so dastardly – that even repeating it now, disturbs my being." Charles purred as he strolled across the platform. The crowd were beginning to bubble. "The man before you plotted to murder our much beloved general!"

Connor looked like he could've spat. His lip curled, in the same way his mother did in disgust. I studied him carefully: heavens, was there so much of Ziio in him. Every little mannerism as Charles spoke...it was like watching a male version of her. Perhaps a little younger? Yes, she was around twenty-three when I met her. My heart ached silently at the thought of that lost time. But Connor – Ratohnhaké:ton – was younger. Twenty? I supposed he was born in 1756, so it all added up.

Charles continued talking to the crowd; my attentions turned to Achilles. He wasn't looking at Connor. The old man seemed to be gazing at the rooftops. Was that just an elderly gesture? No, I realised, as I also looked up.

What? How did he get up there?

There was a man up there. A man on the roof, with a bow and arrow in hand. But how? Surely one of the guards would've seen him? Was he an Assassin? Not that it mattered. He was here to free my son, and I was confident it wouldn't work. An arrow from that distance would hardly sever the rope. Quietly I prayed that the arrow would work; that it wouldn't hit Connor's flesh.

Proximity was also a problem. As Charles thrust the sack over Connor's head, his eyes glinted in my direction. I bowed my head – just enough that my hood covered my eyes. Through the material I watched him. He looked away, and began working on the noose.

Every inch of me came alive. My fingers flexed, ready to strike. I took a shaky breath – and let it go, carefully. I was about to do it. About to save my son.

I reached in my cloak for a knife. As I touched it, I flinched. What on earth was I doing? Dignified Master Kenway, dedicated to the Templar Order, and heartless killer...where was that Haytham? Why was this Haytham here? What had changed? The boy was not Ziio; I never really met him, in any case. Perhaps I should turn back. He had rescuers here, clearly. Whether he knew it was me or not, he'd still curse me.

Why does doubt consume me now?
Make a choice, Haytham. Time is running short.

Somehow I couldn't tear away. My fingers tightened on the knife. I couldn't. I was heartless, that was certain. But I was no demon. I couldn't look away from him...let alone leave him to die.

"May God have mercy on your soul," Charles finished.

My heart raced as Connor's body dropped. Everyone gasped – and in the energy of the moment – I nearly did too. But suddenly, the air went from anticipation to confusion. I looked at the stage. Charles was utterly bewildered. The people muttered, exchanging glances. The sound of the rope snapping never came. Connor's neck was still in tact; his body writhed like a wild marionette. The arrow from the Assassin had weakened the rope – but still it clung to its last fibres.

No time to gawp. I had a job to do.

The street was focused on my son, not me. That gave me an advantage. I released the knife into the air. It seemed to spin slowly, reflecting the rain and sun on its surface. Every eye flashed towards it. The men and women ogled like goldfish; Charles was looking directly at me. I kept my hood down as my body tensed. Please, let it work. Please, please...

I heard the slice of the rope, and a heavy crash to the ground. It had worked. Connor's body toppled (thank the Lord, he was very much alive), and as I glanced up, the platform was empty. Charles had disappeared...and so had my son. Under the gallows, no doubt. But this was no time to breathe a sigh of relief. People now knew what was happening. Screams shattered the silence as they began running; clearing a way for the killer on the loose. Some were backing away from me.

Time to go. This Haytham's task is complete.


Hey again! Sorry for a late update. I've been pretty busy, but here it is. This was a truly epic sequence in the game, so it needed to be a long chapter. Hope it was a good'un; see you soon!