Note: The fic is partly based on Assassin's Creed: Forsaken by O. Bowden - the book tells about Haytham's life through his journal.
The name "Ratonhnhaké:ton" means "life that is scratched".
P.S. The story is not focused on the American Revolution, but some social issues of that period play a sagnificant role here. Besides, the situation is shown from a little bit different angle rather than it was in the game.
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A young horseman was riding through the forest. His face was hidden under a white hood. A cool wind was rustling in the leaves, the sun was going down, glittering through the branches of the trees. The weather was beautiful – he'd been looking forward to this day for such a long time.
At last, the young man stopped in front of a wooden fence surrounding a small village. He arrived home.
It seemed like little had changed here. The air was clean, he could smell only the smoke of fires and tobacco, people were walking around in clothes from animal skin, a ritual song was coming out of one hut. Children were playing nearby – theу ran to him, crying:
"Ratonhnhaké:ton, Ratonhnhaké:ton, you've come back, you've come back!"
Smiling warmly, he got down on one knee and spread his arms as they gathered around and hugged him tightly.
"We missed you so much! Will you tell us about your adventures?"
"Take us on a hunt?"
"Teach us how to fire a bow?"
"And ride your four-legged friend?"
"Of course, just not all at once," Ratonhnhaké:ton laughed. Yes, the rider's name was Ratonhnhaké:ton – for now he could forget how he was called outside the valley. Because he was home again, among his people he had once promised to protect.
At that moment, he heard a female voice:
"Children! Come here, it's time for dinner."
Laughing, the children ran to the woman. Ratonhnhaké:ton stood up and went forward.
He didn't notice how other adults were looking at him. He was looking for a man he wanted to see most of all. And when he finally saw him, he was so glad he seemed to stop noticing anything as he called:
"Kanen'tó:kon!"
His old friend wasn't looking at him. Ratonhnhaké:ton knew – Kanen'tó:kon had grown older, learned something new, had his own sorrow and joy, and now they had a lot of things to tell each other. And though they hadn't seen one another for several months, he didn't doubt his friend would be glad to see him again.
"I'm so glad I've finally come back. Please tell me what happened here while I was away."
But the only thing Ratonhnhaké:ton got in reply was a strange laugh. Then Kanen'tó:kon turned to him with a bitter smile on his face.
"Really? And I was beginning to think you'd totally forgotten us."
Ratonhnhaké:ton was looking at him in puzzlement. Yes, Kanen'tó:kon had grown older – he had a scar on his cheek, his voice sounded firmer, he stood like a true warrior ready to face any danger in his way. His eyes looked different, too – he could see some bitter experience in them, some sorrow he didn't know the reason for. But that was not what surprised Ratonhnhaké:ton most of all.
"Why do you say that? I was busy with the Brotherhood's business, I was looking for–"
"Exactly."
Kanen'tó:kon didn't trust him anymore.
"I think you have a pretty good life there. You have a big house, the people respect you. What do whites call it? You live in… civilized conditions." Kanen'tó:kon frowned gloomily.
"That's not true! I've never forgotten our village. And I'm still that same Ratonhnhaké:ton."
"You are? But I do remember they gave you a different name. I know what that old man calls you. Connor."
Ratonhnhaké:ton felt a painful pang in his chest.
"Why'd you make such conclusions? You didn't even talk to me. We're friends, don't you remember?"
"Friends? Yes, we were once. I didn't talk to you? Well, you weren't here to talk to. Besides, people's actions always speak louder than their words." Kanen'tó:kon only shook his head. "Anyway, soon you'll see for yourself how much things have changed here."
Kanen'tó:kon left him; Ratonhnhaké:ton began to look around. He'd only just realized – nobody had come to greet him. His tribesmen didn't notice him. Or rather, they just preferred not to notice him. They were throwing quick glances at him before they looked away. As though they didn't even see him. As though he had never been here before.
As though now he was just a… stranger.
Ratonhnhaké:ton – yes, his true name was still Ratonhnhaké:ton, Ratonhnhaké:ton – froze in confusion. He didn't know what to do. Until a few seconds later, he felt a dry hand on his shoulder.
"Welcome back, Ratonhnhaké:ton."
He turned around – an old woman was standing in front of him. It was Oiá:ner – a person who'd always supported him since the day the spirits took away his own mother. It was she who'd shown him his destiny and guided him on the path he'd been following to this day.
"You've been away for so long."
She looked much older now. There were more wrinkles on her face, she couldn't walk without her staff, her voice got lower and weaker. Her eyes were sad. And still – and still she was warmly welcoming him as she had always done before.
"What's happened here?"
"A lot. A lot of sad things. People are not what they used to be anymore."
The old woman paused and then said, smiling:
"I guess you got tired from your journey, don't you? Go get some rest. Then come to my hut. The sky is clear tonight – tonight we can talk to the spirits."
An hour later he came to the biggest hut in the village. The dusk was stretching over the ground, a crescent moon had appeared on a pinkish-blue sky. Oiá:ner was sitting in front of a fire.
"The spirits are beginning to talk, one by one," she said quietly as Ratonhnhaké:ton sat by her side. "They say a danger is looming over our tribe – over those who've lived here since time immemorial. A war. We don't want to become a part of it – but the spirits know we can't hide from the trouble any longer."
"Do the spirits know what we should do?"
"They do. But they never answer the question." She paused and looked at him. "Our people are worried. They are preparing for the war."
"I won't let anything bad come to this land. I've promised I'll protect you. And I won't let our people get involved in the war."
"I know you won't go back on your words, Ratonhnhaké:ton. But people don't believe them anymore." Again he felt a painful pang in his chest. "But that's not what I wanted to talk about tonight."
Ratonhnhaké:ton was looking at her, ready to listen carefully.
"Do you remember a story about a hunter and white wolf your mother told you as a child?"
"I remember. Vaguely, but I remember. Wasn't it just an old fairy tale of our tribe?"
"No. The tale is not old. It was she who created it. She told me the spirits showed her a vision. On the night she let you into the world. And called you Ratonhnhaké:ton."
Ratonhnhaké:ton froze, listening to her.
"The spirits said I should tell you this tale again. I think now that you're older and more experienced, you'll figure out what they wanted to tell you. And finally realize who you really are."
Looking at the golden flames stretching to the sky, she began:
"Once upon a time, a young warrior from a faraway land came to a village. He was as brave and handsome as a wolf. He fell in love with the most beautiful woman of the tribe – he knew she would never leave her people behind, so he asked the chiefs to let him become a part of the tribe. He was kind and thoughtful to people, and the chiefs knew he loved the woman more than his life. So the people accepted him as their own. The years went by, the tribe was flourishing. Soon the warrior and his wife had a son. The boy grew up and became a fine hunter."
She stopped, as though it became hard for her to speak – then she went on:
"They lived happily – until one day a pack of wolves from a faraway land attacked their village. The village was set on fire. A lot of people died on that horrible day. The young hunter was not in the village, and when he learned about the fire, it was already too late. He tried to save his mother – but the fire took her. And when he was looking for his father among the burning huts, he saw a frightened white wolf. The wolf was bleeding, he was crying in pain – but the hunter had no mercy. And the wolf was left with no choice but to run through the fire, together with the other wolves."
Ratonhnhaké:ton seemed to stop breathing, listening to her.
"Time went on, but the hunter's heart was still filled with rage and pain. He vowed to protect his people and kill those wolves that had come from a faraway land. He was hunting them, one by one. He killed all of them until only one was left – the white wolf he saw in the fire. The hunter couldn't catch him. The wolf was beautiful and strong, he became the leader of the pack, but the gray wolves were no match to him. He was lonely. One could often hear his sad howl near the village. It seemed like he was attracted to people, he was watching them from a distance, but never attacked. Still, the hunter kept chasing the wolf day and night."
She closed her eyes and fell silent – Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't speak, thinking over what he'd heard.
"Why haven't you reminded me about the story before?"
"To be honest, I… I wasn't sure whether I should have. You were going to leave the valley and head to the people whose ancestors came from a faraway land. The tale was not related to what that spirit wanted you to do, you were young and could have misinterpreted your mother's will. But now – I think it might help you find answers to your questions."
Well, he could understand her. But still…
"But… but what eventually happened to the hunter and the white wolf? I…"
He tried to remember what his mother told him – but he couldn't remember a word. There was only a mist in his head – he couldn't remember anything.
Oiá:ner looked sadly at him.
"I'm afraid you'll have to figure that out on your own."
.
A couple of days later Ratonhnhaké:ton left the village. It was hard to stay there. He needed to sort things out, to decide what to do next. Besides, he still had a lot of work to do for the Brotherhood. He couldn't juggle it all now – he guessed he just needed to deal with one thing and then get to the other.
But time was going by, the Brotherhood had taken all of his time, and he still couldn't learn to deal with several things at once. Besides, his only living relative and, ironically – an old enemy contacted him again. A man who gave him life and who – he still believed in this – someday would give answers to all of his questions.
Right now they were sitting together at the table, in New York, on his territory in Fort George. But Ratonhnhaké:ton remembered that his true name was still Ratonhnhaké:ton – even if his birth father called him Connor.
"Well, all folk legends usually finish in a rather predictable way. There is nothing interesting about the tale," Haytham Kenway replied in quite an indifferent voice. They had finished their dinner and now were drinking tea, sitting in front of each other. "I just don't understand why you decided to tell me that."
Connor – yes, now it was better to call him Connor rather than Ratonhnhaké:ton – took a sip, looking at his father intently. Haytham was an absolute mystery to him, a puzzle he longed to solve. And though he didn't know him well enough, he had learned one thing: when talking to Haytham, sometimes it was more important to pay attention to his gestures and face, rather than to his words.
"There might be nothing interesting about that indeed. But the tale was created by my mother."
His father turned away and took his bag hanging on the chair back. He pretended he was looking for something, but Connor knew what that meant – it was no mere fairy tale for him either.
"So be it."
At last, Haytham stood up and, still careful to avoid his eyes, went to another room. Soon he came back – there was a tricorn hat on his head and a book in his hand. Connor knew that book – it was Haytham's journal. His father always carried his journal around, even when they'd been chasing Church on Connor's ship – perhaps because the journal was keeping something one couldn't read in his gray eyes.
"Anyway, we need to go now. I doubt Washington is going to wait for us in his camp," he was again looking Connor in the eyes; his expression was composed, as though nothing had really happened. Then he walked to the table, put the journal in his bag, turned around and left the room.
Connor followed him. To be honest, he had a feeling their meeting with Washington wouldn't end well – he knew Haytham didn't like Washington. He thought it might be better not to go together, but Haytham insisted. On the other hand – maybe it would let him look at the situation from a different angle.
Anyway, he couldn't change anything now. He had to only hope they wouldn't regret it.
.
Still, as fate would have it, his hunch was right this time. He couldn't understand how it could have happened.
Not long ago he was going to Washington's camp together with a man whose blood was running in his veins. Not long ago they seemed to have started getting along. Not long ago he was racing to his village, trying to make things right. Not long ago he couldn't believe it was over.
But it turned out that the man who gave him life had been keeping the truth all the time. And the one who had made him believe in justice and freedom turned out to be a coward that took his mother's life long ago and was about to burn down his village once again.
And now he had the blood of his childhood friend on his hands.
Everything he had believed in was turned to ashes. He had nowhere to go – nobody was waiting for him at home. His tribesmen didn't hide their contempt anymore. Children – children were afraid of him. Even the woman who guided him on the path couldn't believe in what he had done. He had left the village once the sun came up.
He stopped in Johnstown. Nobody was waiting for him here – he just couldn't keep running from what he couldn't escape. And now he was sitting on a step of a tavern, having no idea what to do next.
He didn't even know what his name was now. Ratonhnhaké:ton? His people had rejected him. Connor? There was no place for him among the strangers. In a moment, everything stopped making sense. He felt devastated. Disappointed. Powerless. And…
Crazy laughter of a dozen voices was coming out of the tavern. It was irritating him. He raised his eyes – a passer-by shuddered as he spotted them in the shadow of the hood, and hurried to walk away. A bunch of drunkards was staggering down the street, yelling their stupid songs. In the distance he could see soldiers in blue uniform – in his hands he was holding his tomahawk, the sunshine glittered charmingly in its steel.
He remembered the moments he was becoming one with his tomahawk. It seemed like he could hear its silent song in the battlefield – when he covered the steel in red, his own blood flowing quicker in his veins. The tomahawk had no mercy. Neither did bullets and blades. They could feel only primal rage – which seemed to be the only thing he had left.
Once he had told himself he would never raise his hand against the innocents. Against those who did no harm to the others. But how could they be innocent if they just came and began to take away everything from those who had lived here long before they did? If all the evil had come to this land with…
Why – why hold the tomahawk's rage back? Why not let it taste white blood? Why keep it for those who wore red coats when he could just–
"Connor?"
He flinched – the shy voice belonged to a child. He turned his head – there was a girl sitting by his side. Her blue eyes looked a little frightened. She was holding a golden wreath of dandelions in her hands – the same one was on her head. She was a daughter of the tavern owners.
"You… you've been sad all day," the girl went on in that same shy voice. He had no idea where she got the courage to keep speaking. "And I decided to make a gift for you. Here it is."
He put the tomahawk aside and took off the hood – that encouraged her. He leaned over, and she stood up to put the wreath on his head. He smiled – and she was already laughing, hugging him tightly. She didn't suspect anything – and she wasn't afraid anymore.
"Penny, call Connor back in, the dinner is ready."
A plump woman came out of the tavern. First she looked in the opposite direction, then she spotted them. Penny sprang to her feet and hugged her mother, still smiling happily.
Connor – he guessed he could still call himself Connor – couldn't take his eyes off them. Two years ago he helped this family – their daughter got lost in the forest, he found her and saved from a bear. Since then they never took a penny from him, and their doors were always open for him. And now they reminded him so much of what he also used to have: his mother's love and warmth. He could almost hear her gentle voice again – singing him a lullaby, teaching him languages, telling him legends of their tribe.
Could he really…?
"Connor, you look so sad and tired. Please come in. Musicians came to us, people are having a holiday. Eat and drink some ale – it will help you get rid of all disturbing thoughts."
The mother and daughter came back into the tavern, but he decided to stay on the step a little longer. He could hear his mother's voice again – he could hear her telling the story about the hunter and the white wolf. His father had said folk tales were simple – but that wasn't true. Apparently, his mother wanted to tell him something he couldn't understand as a child, so she did that in the form of a fairy tale. But what was the message?
She hadn't talked much about father. He knew it was hard for her to talk about Haytham. She told he was handsome and valiant. She spoke fondly of him – she never stopped loving him, even as time went by. She said he had saved her and the whole tribe from trouble – Oiá:ner also told Haytham was kind to them. But mother could never explain why he decided to leave. Even now he still didn't know the answer.
A young warrior from a faraway land decided to stay with his wife and her tribe in the fairy tale. But it was probably just a reflection of her dream which was never meant to come true – could his father really stay with them? He… he had chosen to leave, right? If he didn't want to leave, what could have made him do that? And why would he leave if he loved her more than his life?
Maybe – maybe mother wanted to say their family history was not what it seemed to be at first sight? And it was not only about their family? The wolves from that tale came from a faraway land as well. He needed to learn more? To stop following that spirit's words which had led him to his mentor's house? To question the creed, so he could see beyond the prejudices? To find his own path by himself?
After all, he had the wolf's blood in his veins as well.
However, at that moment he heard some male voices:
"Have you heard that a new settlement was found in the north-west not long ago?"
"I have. The one that was abandoned by some Indian tribe?"
"Have no idea. All I care for is that it's not stuffy and there is free land there. Oh, and they probably need some grain. I'm thinking of going there…"
He took the tomahawk and put it on his belt. Then he took off the wreath, put it on the step and stood up.
He only wanted to ask those men more about that settlement. And he could swear he felt no rage at their words. Almost no.
.
After several months of wanderings, he arrived in Boston. He hadn't been engaged in the war and the Brotherhood's business for quite a long time. Now he was working as a courier – to be honest, he was just afraid to take a weapon in his hand again.
But at this particular moment, he was standing in front of a tall house of red brick, in the most affluent part of the city. There was no clear thought in his mind – inside he felt empty. He was looking at the invitation with the same surprise he received it yesterday – yesterday a tavern's owner gave him a white envelope. The sender's name surprised him even more – he didn't think he would ever hear from that man again.
"Please, come in, young man."
A woman opened the door. He walked in – it was still a little hard for him to think straight because of the booze he drank yesterday. But when he noticed a man in a black frock coat, he quickly realized who it was.
"George Washington?"
Smiling, the gray-haired man nodded in a welcoming gesture.
"Please, Connor, come here, make yourself at home," Washington led him to a room and pointed his hand at an armchair in front of the tea table. "Would you like some tea?"
"No, thanks," Connor said a little suspiciously as he sat down. He didn't mind being Connor again – nobody had called him the other name for a long time. "To be honest, I have no idea how you know that I'm in Boston, and even found the place I'm staying in."
"You don't think only you and the Brotherhood have ears and eyes everywhere, do you?" said Washington as the maid poured tea and milk into porcelain cups. "I'll be in Boston for several days, have some personal business here. I just heard you're here as well, and thought I could invite you to talk, like an old acquaintance."
"Still, I doubt you invited me just because you wanted to talk," Connor said, squinting.
"Well, I see you want to get down to business," Washington said, a little embarrassed with his straightforwardness – or maybe he'd finally realized it wasn't the best idea to play do-gooder for a savage. He didn't speak, thinking of what to say. At last, he began: "So, that's what I wanted to talk about. I heard a rumor that one settlement, to the north of here, got abandoned. It was founded on the former territory of an Indian tribe that decided to leave the land and go west, not long ago. Horrible things began to happen there. First, people started hearing strange sounds at night: screeches, scratches, incomprehensible whispers, thuds of an ax on the wood. Soon the residents began to find heads of the cattle on their doorsteps, household items covered in blood, damaged structures, even a broken door – in the doorframe they saw an old tomahawk which had been kept in the headman's chest as a trophy. The residents tried to find the culprit, but in vain – the creature left only footprints on the ground. One night a storage with grain caught fire – heavy rain stopped it in a matter of minutes, so the fire didn't harm anybody, but the grain was destroyed. Eventually, they decided to burn all amulets, trinkets – everything that was left from the previous inhabitants. But when the residents threw the things into the fire, they saw dozens of demons in the flames, and so thought the land was cursed. That night they gathered all their possessions and left the settlement."
"There is nothing surprising about the story," Connor only shrugged his shoulders. "Spirits have always protected their lands. The people desecrated that land and got what they deserved."
"That's quite possible. But some residents said they could smell some strange aroma around the fire – as I see it, they just burned quite a bunch of ritual herbs together with other Indian possessions. Cannabis maybe, I don't know. Besides, a frightened man can see anything in the fire," Washington went on in a calm voice. "What's more, the settlement was located not far away from the Mohawk's Valley, to the south-east of it. Also, I heard that some residents saw a white shadow in the moonlight – but the spirit always disappeared before they could make out anything. And considering our last meeting, I thought you might shed some light on the mystery."
Connor's shoulders tightened slightly.
"Well, I guess I may help you indeed."
"I know that meeting didn't end on a good note, but… I really think we need to talk about that. Right now." He could see it was hard for Washington to keep speaking. "Please, Connor, just don't get me wrong. I'm not going to threaten or accuse you of anything. I just want to talk, that's all."
"I must admit, I'm really surprised that now you decided to approach problems delicately before you hang people and burn down all the villages they used to live in." He looked around: there was nothing suspicious in the room. "And I didn't think you could get so concerned about a tragedy of a small settlement."
"Life has shown me that the biggest troubles can start with the smallest problems. Besides, I know it's you who killed the most influential representatives of the British Empire here. I can imagine what you're able to do if we don't resolve the conflict," Washington's tone got grimmer. "Firstly, I have no evidence of your involvement in the incident, only speculation. If we keep hanging people without trial, it won't lead to anything good. Besides, I know about the loyalty of the Assassins to their leader – they would never let your death go unpunished. Secondly, our army has won a lot of battles under your command, and it would be unfair to make conclusions without talking to you first. And thirdly," Washington finally looked him in the eyes, "I still remember the man who saved my life."
Connor didn't speak for some time, looking at him indifferently.
"Suppose I believe you. What exactly do you want to talk about?"
"I see you have changed a lot since that meeting with your father in my camp. And I can understand it made you feel… disappointed."
"Disappointed? That's an understatement. And I'll tell you more – I've learned a lot of things about whites over these months."
"What is it?"
Connor only grinned bitterly.
"My mentor used to tell me that the first white people that came here by ship faced a lot of troubles on the land. They were exhausted with their voyage, their first winter was harsh; they didn't know how to live in new conditions. They could have died if indigenous people didn't help them. And the whites were grateful for that. But I've also learned something else: white people – I'm not talking about that particular colony but people in general – soon settled pretty well on the continent, and their population began to grow. They needed more land to grow food, to have a place to live. Eventually, it all came down to the fight for the land. You need to have a place to plant crops, keep livestock, build cities, maintain an army, develop trade. And whites began to cheat the... Indians to take their land away from them: conclude false treaties, threaten, pit the tribes against each other. Exterminate. Wipe their villages off the face of the earth. Only to take what didn't belong to them – and has never belonged to anybody."
"I know this, Connor. And I can understand that a disappointed person will do anything to take his pain out on something. And so stops seeing the good in other people." Washington said with sympathy. "Tell me, you drove those white people away from that settlement because you were afraid they could move further to Mohawk's valley? Or did you do that just because you... wanted to? Just to take revenge?"
Connor couldn't answer him. He had left Johnstown, trying to get over that horrible feeling that seemed to be eating him up from the inside. He was afraid to stay in Johnstown – he was afraid to hurt somebody. That was the reason he didn't return to the Homestead either. He couldn't come back to his tribe. Eventually, the dandelion wreath withered, and he decided to stop near the settlement for several senseless weeks – thankfully, there were no children there. Initially, he really tried to convince himself he was doing that so whites didn't move further to his tribe's land – the wolves had taken what didn't belong to them. But soon he realized it was senseless. Just like everything he had done before. Still, feeling the others' terror, hearing the shrieks of horror, seeing how helpless the people were to figure out what was going on… That was funny. Had he put his disappointment into this? Yes, he could say that. His pain, grudge, anger? Well, that would do, too. But powerlessness… Yes, that was the worst of them. He was ready to set the whole forest on fire – just to get over that feeling.
"I hear you decided to step aside. Started drinking, although it's not typical for you, from what I can say. Honestly, I think you could do more than sit in a tavern and deliver mail."
"But what can I do? My tribe has rejected me. And I can't stop the inevitable: some tribes have begun to go west. The British Empire is not the option: if it's not stopped, it will keep pumping what it can out of the land, just like it does with all its other colonies, and it can't let a powerful country be built on the continent. If it's you who win the war, I'm afraid the outcome will be the same, even if you keep your word and don't touch the Indians. The country needs to develop, people will need more land – time will pass, and completely different people may gain control over the country. It's just a matter of time, I guess. So whatever I can do seems to be senseless anyway."
"That's not true. What you've done before was not senseless. You helped a lot of people, and they remain grateful to you. You helped us save the lives of many soldiers. You're a talented commander and great leader, Connor. Believe me, it's a rare quality."
He had helped? Yes, he had helped. The wolves – that was who he'd helped.
"For most whites, indigenous peoples are savages. They seem to be savages because they have their own way of life, traditions, customs, beliefs, values. White people can't understand them because they are just… different. Is it possible that they'll manage to live in peace someday?"
"Well, Connor, if we look at this from another angle – there are a lot of good people among British soldiers who die for their kings and queens, although we're not that different from them. Perhaps one of the main reasons for all conflicts is that we always cling to our differences instead of focusing on what could unite us. Of course, there are many other reasons." For a moment, Washington fell silent. Then he went on: "I just want to say one thing: I wouldn't want the country to be built upon the blood and tears of the innocents. I can't speak for those who'll be ruling the state after us, and I know I can't ensure justice for everyone – but I know my associates and I will try to do everything so all people could become equal in this country someday. No matter what their nation is."
Smiling, he raised his cup and said:
"So, my dear friend, would you drink some tea with me?"
And Connor was left with no choice but to drink the tea with him.
Deep inside he knew it was probably a trap. He didn't really believe what Washington had said. He had learned one thing about politics – if you try to help everyone, you will end up helping no one. And he doubted they were going to make the same mistake.
But his life seemed to start making sense again. And he didn't care about that anymore.
Because he found solace among the wolves – when his own people had rejected him.
.
After talking to Washington, he decided to return to the Homestead – he needed to get some rest and finally sort things out. He was planning to leave the city tomorrow, so today he decided to meet the members of the Brotherhood – they were glad to know their leader had come back. Besides, one of the senior Assassins told him some good news: patrolling the streets, he had spotted a man Connor needed to talk so much, and even learned about the place he'd stayed in.
Connor quickly arrived at the destination. Upon entering the tavern, he saw a man with a familiar tricorn hat sitting in the back corner. It was a great opportunity – he couldn't miss it.
"Evening, father."
The man flinched and turned his head to him. Of course, it was Haytham Kenway – apparently, he also had some business in Boston. He hadn't noticed his son coming to him.
"Do you mind if I have dinner with you?"
"I…" there was something strange about his speech; he talked slowly, as though he'd just been woken up. "Of course, Connor, I… I don't mind."
Connor sat in front of him.
"How are you doing? It's been a while since we met each other."
"Yes, it's been a long time."
Immediately, Connor noticed one weird detail: Haytham looked dreadfully pale. Exhausted. Apparently, he hadn't slept well for several nights.
"The weather is so… nice today."
"Yes, it is."
He could see how tight and tense Haytham's shoulders were. He looked strained and couldn't even hide that. Looking at his plate, he tried to keep on eating his meal, but it seemed hard for him to swallow. Connor didn't like that. He didn't like that at all.
"Are you busy today? We could–"
"Yes, Connor, I'm very busy. I have a lot of work to do, I don't have time for talking."
Haytham seemed determined to avoid the dialogue. Connor wasn't angry at him – he didn't think his father was so touchy. And so stubborn. Why make things worse if they could just talk and–
Suddenly, Connor remembered.
"No. You and I are finished."
"Son…"
Let the spirits have mercy on him…
"A warning to you both – choose to follow me or oppose me and I will kill you both."
How could he say that?
"Look, father, I just want to–"
He didn't finish – Haytham started coughing all of a sudden. He sprang and dashed to his father – but Haytham pulled back from him, as if he'd got burned. Thankfully, he got over the fit quickly, and a girl brought him a glass of water. As he finally caught his breath, he wiped his mouth with a tissue, stood up and went to the counter – apparently, to pay for the water.
When the hunter was looking for his father in the fire, he found a frightened white wolf. The wolf was bleeding, he was crying in pain – but the hunter had no mercy. And the wolf was left with no choice but to run through the fire, together with the other wolves.
How could he be so deaf?
For a moment, Connor stood motionless, looking around the tavern. Those who'd heard the coughing were turning to their plates again. Nobody was looking at him.
However, he noticed a bag hanging on the chair back: Haytham was so shocked that he'd forgotten to take it. Could it mean that there was…?
Connor looked around again: nobody was looking at him, Haytham hadn't returned yet. He was confused: the only thing he was interested in was Haytham's journal. Haytham would definitely understand who had stolen it. Perhaps his father would never want to talk to him after that again – the journal was his most personal thing. It could ruin their relationship once and for all.
Still, it was such a great opportunity to get to know his father. Maybe it would help him figure out what to do next; maybe it would give him answers to some questions. What had made him what he was? What was his cause and intentions? Why did he treat him that way? Why…?
"I always wondered what life might have been like had she and I stayed together."
Why did he leave them? Why did he leave if he loved her more than his life?
He took the bag and opened it in a second; his gift helped him find what he needed.
Unfortunately, he wasn't quick enough to put the bag as it had been hung before: Haytham was coming to the table. He only sat on his chair and put the journal on his lap, trying to act like nothing had happened.
"You searched my bag?"
Connor didn't answer, looking embarrassed and guilty.
"Well, whatever you took, I hope you'll enjoy it."
His father didn't even check what had been stolen; he only shook his head tiredly and walked away.
Having followed him with his eyes, Connor exhaled loudly and opened the journal. The book was large, battered and old; the date on the first page was 6th December 1735.
His father had been keeping a journal since he was a child…
He had to only hope this time he would manage to make things right.
.
He was racing through the smoke, having only one target before his eyes. The fire of his rage was stretching to the sky, devouring everything on its way; he was ready to set the entire forest on fire to catch the white wolf.
He was rushing forward, needing no rest; the wolf was running as fast as he could, but couldn't run away. Finally, the fire caught them in a ring – there was nowhere to run.
The wolf turned to him and bared his teeth, growling as he kept stepping back. He was exhausted, his fur was covered in blood; he was ready to fight to the death.
The hunter could often hear him howling near the village. He didn't know what the wolf was trying to tell him, he didn't care to know; he just knew the wolf was inviting him for a hunt.
The wolf was old but still beautiful. He was smart. He growled but never attacked; only once, being cornered, he had jumped on the hunter and bit his hand. The hunter had a knife in that hand; the wolf knew the knife would have been his death. Sometimes the hunter thought he could see sadness in his eyes; they were gray, almost human-like. But he knew it was just an illusion.
He'd been chasing the wolf for several years – but now the wolf had nowhere to run. He was bleeding, he couldn't protect himself; the hunter could almost feel the pulsing vein on his white neck, hidden under the fur. The flames were dancing in the steel of his blades – the blades could show no mercy. Just one blow, and it would be over.
The wolf took his last leap; just one blow…
.
.
And Connor woke up.
He was sweating, breathing heavily; the full moon lit the room with its pale light. He sat on the bed and put his legs on the floor – he started seeing dreams about the hunter and the white wolf a long time ago, but this one had never happened before. He knew he wouldn't fall asleep anyway, so he stood up and walked to his writing desk.
He lit a candle and opened his father's journal. Haytham had a neat, clear handwriting; the journal covered almost all of his life. Connor had read it in several months – it was a hard task to do. There were moments when he realized he couldn't read it any longer, so he just dropped the journal and tried to focus on something else. It was hard to perceive the other person's pain – he had enough of his own. But he had never given up on it. And he wasn't going to.
He sat at the table and buried his face in his hands – he was remembering what he had learned about his father and himself over these months. It was incredible – they resembled each other so much. As children, they both had lost their homes in the fire. They lost their parents and friends. They escaped the scaffolds once. They even got a couple of big bumps on their heads – perhaps that was the source of all their problems. They tried to do the right things, help other people. They sincerely believed in their causes but faced devastating disappointment. And in the end they were left at crossroads, struggling to figure out who they were and where they should go next.
Now he could see why his father seemed so cold and distant. Why he could say such hurtful things. Why he became so ruthlessly cruel, even though he had once been able to show mercy – ironically, the same thing could have happened to his son not long ago. He had the blood of an Assassin – he even used to believe their orders would manage to live in peace someday. He became a Templar by deception. His own mother rejected him when he killed a man as a child – she stopped perceiving him as a son. What was more, he had never left them – it was Ziio who told him to go away. Now he knew why Haytham refused to talk to him in the tavern: apparently, he thought his son hated him now, although he, just like Ziio, had forgiven his father long ago. Haytham saved his half-sister, even though they didn't get along. His father could tell him a lot of things, escape and leave him on his own in the battlefield – but it was Haytham who saved him from the gallows. He saved his life – even though he knew it would mean an end for his order's dominance in America. He was disappointed in his order – the Templars had taken everything he loved. He killed his mentor. But… but why would he keep clinging to the idea, to the past? Why didn't he leave the order and just… move on?
It was so strange. He did believe his father was still the man his mother fell in love with, even though time had changed him greatly. He had helped a lot of people but had only one friend in his life. Apparently, other Templars respected him, even admired – but no more than that. He had nowhere to go. Even in his mentor's house, he'd been shown no warmth – his mentor killed his father. Due to his distant nature he couldn't become truly close to somebody, even to his dead friend – Jim Holden. And even after killing his mentor he didn't leave the order. As though without it his life didn't make sense, as though…
Yes. Yes, that was probably the answer. He couldn't find a new purpose in life and so kept clinging to the past as best as he could. He had nowhere to go – even though he was raised in deception, he didn't stop being a Templar. And he probably would never stop. Maybe when he met his son, he began to hope he would finally manage to escape the nightmare. But now that he was rejected…
He could see what was hidden behind Haytham's arrogance, his never-ending remarks. Haytham struggled to overcome the alienation – it wasn't easy for him to do. He was constantly growling, biting, baring his teeth – maybe he was just afraid to get hurt again. But no more than that. He remembered their conversations, a smile on father's pale face, his words of praise, the way he clapped him on the shoulder as a sign of support. Haytham tried to show him fatherly love, even if in his own – wolfish – way. And if he had opened up just a little bit more… Damn, now he was ready to forgive his father for everything, accept him as he was – if only he could go back to that day in Washington's camp and change everything.
He leafed through the journal – the last entry was about Washington. Then father wrote he started seeing nightmares about the hunter and the white wolf, and… all the other pages remained blank. Only three were left. As though his life had almost stopped that day.
But no, it hadn't stopped. And it wouldn't stop. It was going to be alright. One couldn't leave the world without being shown warmth in their life. It was going to be alright. He would make things right, and then they both would come home. Together. He'd sent his father three letters thus far – he tried to explain himself, requested a meeting. And though he hadn't received any response, he still believed it was possible to change everything. He believed and he wouldn't stop believing. He just shouldn't have told Haytham about the hunter and the white wolf. Mother's tale was not a prophecy – it was just a warning. She had never told him how the story ended, and he'd never wanted to kill the white wolf. A blade could show no mercy – but not him. It all depended on the both of them. He wouldn't let the flame of rage destroy everything and take his family away from him again. It was going to be alright.
He just hoped Haytham would eventually want to move on.
He couldn't think about that anymore. He needed to calm down, think of something else, relax – he had a lot of work to do in the morning. Perhaps a glass of water could help him fall asleep.
He took the candle and went into the corridor. Shadows were playing in the light – he remembered how many secrets the house kept. Creaking floorboards, pictures on the walls, furniture, ladder – everything could tell its story. He guessed it was the moment when he finally realized how much this place meant to him – the place he called home.
He had lived here since he was fourteen. He learned a lot of things over the time. He had shared a lot of sad and joyful moments with the owner of this place. He had met a lot of nice people here. Here he had learned who he was going to become. And here he had become the man he was now.
To be honest, he had almost forgotten his other name. Nobody called him that here – everyone called him Connor. However, he had tried to come back to the village once – he got spotted, they raised the alarm, he decided to leave it as it was and rode away. He didn't know whether the tribe would go west – in any case, Washington had promised nobody would touch them again. And though he still hoped they would manage to accept him back someday, he could hardly do anything about that now.
But the wolves of the Homestead treated him as their own. They always helped each other, and they had never wanted to hurt anybody. All they wanted was peace. This place had healed him, he accepted his pain and learned to believe again. He didn't pay so much attention to the Creed anymore, although he remained loyal to the Brotherhood's cause – it let him see beyond prejudices. He still needed to learn more, to sort himself out and find his own path. But he had learned to believe in himself, in ability to change and make a difference. He had learned to believe in people – and he didn't feel powerless anymore. He had come back to the war. And though there was still a little part of him missing, he knew he would manage to reunite with it soon. It couldn't be otherwise.
"Connor…"
Connor went down to the first floor and came into his mentor's room.
"Please, bring me some water."
Connor walked to the kitchen and poured some water, first for himself, then for the old man. He remembered – it was Achilles who gave him the name of his dead son, Connor. Perhaps he reminded the old man of his son indeed – Achilles cared about him, let him stay in his house, taught him to fight, gave him his uniform. He made him an Assassin – and his heir. He showed him fatherly love he'd never been shown before. He guessed at some point the old man began to think he could replace his birth father – as one of the first things Achilles had told him when he took him as a mentee was…
Connor stopped, looking at a candelabra in the hall – it opened a door to the basement with all the portraits of his victims. Then he came into his mentor's room.
"Thank you, Connor."
Achilles was old and gravely ill. He could hardly walk now. Connor knew he didn't have much time left. Achilles knew that as well.
"You've almost stopped coming to me – Miriam said you're either sitting in your room upstairs or walking in the forest all by yourself. What ails you?"
"Nothing, Achilles. It's alright. I'm just preparing for my meeting with Lafayette, that's all."
Achilles was looking at him intently. But he remained calm – he even managed to smile. He guessed it calmed the old man down – Achilles smiled back.
"Well, I hope you're not thinking about that at night. Go to sleep. You know Lafayette is coming tomorrow."
Connor only nodded in reply. He stood up from the bed, but Achilles stopped him:
"Connor, please, be careful. I feel these are going to be the most important battles for you in the war. Please, just don't make a mistake. You know what you have to do."
"I know, Achilles. Don't worry, it's going to be alright. Sleep well."
He left the room. He put his foot on the step – and froze, staring in the darkness, his left hand clinging to the banister.
"They have to die, don't they? All of them. Even my father."
He remembered. On the first day he entered the house, Achilles gave him the name – Connor. Since that day he'd been taught to shed man's blood. Since that day he'd been told he was doing that to protect his people. To punish the wolves who he had believed to be responsible for his mother's death. He had killed a lot of them. And he kept killing – even though now he had no illusions about the reason he was doing that. But that wasn't enough. Since the first day he'd been told he would have to kill the leader of the wolves' pack. The man had once destroyed the whole Brotherhood – but eventually let ruin his own order. Because they knew what could make him vulnerable. He had nowhere to go, he was forsaken by everyone. And he had nothing left – nothing but his only son.
He hadn't noticed when his eyes got filled with tears. His other hand loosened its grip – he came to his senses before the candle could drop to the floor and set the whole house on fire.
The spirits would judge the old man for what he wanted. But not him.
.
Connor was racing through the tunnels of New York. Cannonballs were thundering over him. The city was under attack – the cannons had no mercy. They spared neither the abandoned houses nor the soldiers, covering their red coats in blood. He needed to hurry – to find a man he needed to kill and didn't get killed on the way.
Connor entered the territory of Fort George. The smoke of the fires was stretching to the sky – the cannonballs were raining down, having no target to hit. He got concussed – a cannonball fell behind him but didn't kill. He stood up and went forward – perhaps today the spirits were on his side, perhaps today he would finally finish…
"Where are you, Charlse?"
"Gone."
He turned – his father stood in front of him.
He felt this. He felt it couldn't end that easily. He'd been asking the spirits to help him in the battle today – but…
The spirits had no mercy.
They started a fight. He stabbed his father in the hand and made him unable to use his hidden blade. But that wasn't enough – Haytham was ready to fight to the death.
"I came here for Charles, not for you. I don't want to fight with you."
"Then you'll have to."
Haytham was implacable. He was deadly pale. Blood was running quicker in Connor's veins, he could hear the tomahawk's song again. But he remained calm. There was no other way. The steel could show no mercy, but not him. And as long as he didn't let it taste blood, it was possible to change everything.
Haytham was striking, blow after blow. Again he was growling, biting, baring his teeth – he was desperate as never before. He was raving about his dead pack, that they would rise and come back to build a better world. But Connor wasn't blind and deaf anymore – he could parry any attack.
"I know what's hidden behind your words, father," he said firmly. Haytham lunged at him – he deflected the blow. "You know, a lot of people saw fit to tell me what I was fighting for. My mentor talked more than anyone. He told me I was fighting the good fight. For freedom. For justice. For my people. But in return I got only one thing."
"What was it?"
The sword and tomahawk crossed their blades.
"Disappointment."
It worked. Haytham was taken aback – his resistance was weakened. Connor stepped up pressure – he almost knocked the sword out of his hand.
"Then what are you fighting for now?"
Haytham stopped to catch his breath.
"Not for the Assassins, although I'm still a member of the Brotherhood. For people. For those who accepted me when my tribesmen turned away from me. I do not belong to my tribe anymore – I'm a stranger to them now."
Haytham was getting tired – Connor could see it clearly. He was exhausted with sleepless nights. He was bleeding from the inside. Connor didn't attack him – he was only parrying the blows. He needed to convince his father to put his sword down – to be honest, he had no idea what he was going to do if he didn't manage to. He just knew one thing: if his father didn't want to move on, he may drag them both down.
"And still you keep fighting for the old man's fairy tales," Haytham lunged again. "Fairy tales about fraternity, freedom and equality. The people chose nothing – I've already told you that once. Don't you see the gap between us, Connor? You're fighting for those who tell them nicely, while we're struggling to build true peace all over the world."
"Fairy tales?" Connor deflected the blow again. He didn't know what to do – he was also getting tired. The orders didn't seem to be the real problem – his father didn't believe his order's fairy tales either. But what was it then? He couldn't understand that. But if nothing else helped, perhaps he could… "Father, you're clinging to our orders so desperately that you don't seem to notice what's important. No idea and prejudices should decide our fate – it's we who choose our destiny. No notion should stand in the way of peace and understanding. There are a lot of things a man can believe in – not only an idea."
"And what are they?"
Again the steel was crossed in unity.
"A lot of things. Even the simplest ones – any person can understand them, whatever their views are. These things are more important than any idea. A belief in yourself. In ability to change and make a difference. To move on. In people. In understanding. In mercy. You need no idea to believe in all these things. The hunter from my mother's tale – he loved his parents very much. And he also thought he had lost them both in the fire. He was consumed with pain and rage. He was devastated – he didn't know what to do. And for all that had happened he blamed a white wolf he saw in the fire – because he thought the wolf had taken his father and mother."
It worked – it was easier to deflect the blows now. Haytham was listening to him; he was again occasionally stopping to catch his breath. Connor believed in this – he had finally found what could unite them.
"Everyone told him it was wolves who took his parents' lives. And his life was turned into a senseless chase after the wolves. He was killing the wolves, one by one, until only their leader was left – that wolf he saw in the fire. The white wolf didn't hurt anybody – he was lonely, he had nowhere to go. He was drawn to the hunter, he tried to tell him something, to warn him. But the hunter couldn't understand him. He didn't realize what pain he had caused to the white wolf. He was clinging to their differences so much that he almost lost the last thing he still had left. But he realized his mistake. He regretted what he'd done – he pleaded with the spirits to help him make things right before it was too late. Because he believed in people. And he saw that the wolf was still–"
He didn't finish – a cannonball fell nearby and knocked them down. But the spirits showed them mercy – they didn't die. They both were still alive.
If only he could…
But Connor didn't have time to come to his senses – Haytham did it faster. He jumped on him – he clutched his throat with one hand, pinning his other palm down.
"So, what did the hunter see in the white wolf? In what did he believe so much? Tell me."
The madman let go of his palm and started strangling him with both hands. Connor couldn't believe in this – he'd almost managed to convince him, his father was listening to him. For a moment, his instinct reminded him about the blade on his free hand – right when he saw an open white neck.
The white wolf jumped on him so he could kill him with one blow. He knew it would be death for him.
"That wolf…"
His faith was shaken. He was suffocating, his vision was blurred – he couldn't speak. He didn't know what to do – he couldn't do this. It couldn't end this way. Just couldn't.
"...was…"
He had no energy to lift the hand with the hidden blade anymore, his other one stopped clinging to his father's palm – it seemed like the hands on his throat loosened their grip as well. A glimmer of hope was still alive inside him – its spark revived his faith. And with a new breath of hope he said:
"...a man."