Part Twenty-Two: Death of a Turncoat
It was a five day ride, just over a hundred miles, from Pennsylvania to New York.
When he reached Trenton he sent a letter north to the homestead, asking if he could have the Aquila in New York. He wasn't sure if Achilles would even reply, let alone give the assistance he asked, but over the course of his ride he had decided that he wanted someone with him when he rejoined with his father.
New York itself was still suffering, even after a year, no one had cleared away the rubble of the Great Fire, the regulars unwilling to invest in fixing the damage until the war was decided. A quick ride up to Bellevue told Connor that the pox was not as virulent as it was the previous year, and better contained. The scars still remained, and he touched his necklace for strength. He had tried to collect his thoughts during the ride, to pinpoint what he felt and why, mentally prepare himself for meeting his father again.
Though it grated on his nerves deeply, he could understand why Haytham would test him. It would be foolish not to, the older man was a Templar, he an Hirokoa. Assuming he felt no connection to Connor, he would want as much of an assessment of the native's abilities before plotting his destruction. On a strategic level it held weight, but Ratonhnhaké:ton felt hurt that his raké:ni had no feelings for him if that was the case. He had so many feelings he didn't know how to sort them. The only one he could positively put a name to was curiosity. He knew very little about his father, Achilles' reticence holding to almost everything, and he wanted to know more about how the older man had become a Templar, how he had come to the Colonies, how he had... No, he wanted to know why he had destroyed the Hirokoa, wanted to know what had happened that had hurt Achilles so badly as to make the Old Man so discouraging. There was so much he wanted to know he could hardly contain it.
… But he was not a fool either; Haytham Kenway was a Templar, and could not just be trusted. That was why he wanted the Aquila, he wanted Faulkner, gruff but always straight talking, to give Connor a center, a place to feel grounded, as he was certain his views on his father would change drastically as they continued to work together.
Once he arrived at New York, he tapped a few of Dobby's friends, asking around and learning that many supplies were being housed in a warehouse on the waterfront. Washington had been losing supplies for the month that he had been bivouacked, the perishables might be rotten by now, but the blankets, clothes, and shoes, as well as the arms and powder were likely not, and Connor wanted to return them if he could.
On a tiny peninsula of the island, the "waterfront" was nearly the entire perimeter of the city but the most important parts were on the East Side, where the ferries operated. Regulars patrolled everywhere, happy in their Loyalist city and their winter quarters, and the native kept his hood very low, drawing his scarf up even in the mild weather, hiding his skin color as he could. His bow he kept in his lodgings, looking more like a frontiersman than a native. He had four or five good choices for warehouses that stored the stolen supplies, and for now that was all he needed. He had found the perfect perch to watch them, and watch for the Aquila to come into port as well. Now all he needed was his raké:ni. Where was he?
It was the second week of February, after sunset, when he landed in a tight roll in an alley, exiting out onto the street, when he heard a cultured London accent.
"Evening Connor," Haytham said. "I see you made it here in one piece."
The arrogance in his voice prickled along Ratonhnhaké:ton's heartstrings, and he could not contain a snort. Why did his father make him so frustrated? So angry?
"Recovered from your beating, then?" the native asked, glancing at the healing lip that had been split.
The retort caused a minor thinning of the lips but little more. Haytham had made his dig and Ratonhnhaké:ton had given an adequate counter; this meant that insults were no longer necessary. He hoped.
Haytham moved on.
"Benjamin Church is holed up in an abandoned brewery on the waterfront. We should be done with this by sunrise."
"Good," Ratonhnhaké:ton answered. "I would like to have those supplies returned as soon as possible."
"Of course," Haytham said in a deceptively polite voice. "I wouldn't want to keep you from your lost cause." He turned without even so much as a backwards glance. "Come along then. Follow me."
Another order?! The gaul!
Ratonhnhaké:ton followed, working his jaw, as Haytham walked proudly through the streets, not a care in the world. His level of self-confidence was palpable, and that made others give him berth, parting and giving him an easy path down the sidewalk. Everyone gave the man a glance, his presence strong, and Ratonhnhaké:ton wasn't quite sure (again) how he was supposed to react to him. Their previous encounter played over in his mind several times, the tests, the cold blooded murder, but always his mind wandered back to that first moment. When the older man's eyes widened and then closed off. He never charged, never tried to attack. Because he was caught? Ratonhnhaké:ton could hardly resolve that in his head; the man was too confident. But at the same time he jumped immediately to an alliance. Why?
"Tell me something," he asked softly as they turned a corner.
"Hmm?"
"You have the opportunity to kill me, but you have not. Why?"
Haytham gave a quick glance to his son, a flick of the eyes and little else. "Curiosity," he said simply. "Any other questions?"
And wasn't that a loaded question. Ratonhnhaké:ton had more questions than he knew what to do with. He felt like it would take days to ask them all. A long pause drew out as he tried to find the best one to start with, one that would not shut Haytham down, fill him with contempt or dismissal. He was a little afraid, still, to ask about his ista, or Achilles, but perhaps...
"What is it the Templars truly seek?"
The question made Haytham stop walking, halfway down an alley, and turn to face his son.
"Order," he said, something in his voice giving the word meaning, weight. "Purpose. Direction. No more than that. It's your lot that means to confound with this nonsense talk of freedom."
Ratonhnhaké:ton was offended. "So order cannot be held with freedom?"
"Yes," Haytham replied without blinking an eye. "Humanity is a disaster; even after centuries of war and violence and persecution, they do not learn. They are mad with wrath, avarice, envy, lust, pride, gluttony, laziness. The Seven Deadly Sins. The Bible had that much right, at least. Mankind cannot live without hurting each other, and so the Templars seek to remove those sources of pain. If man is fed and clothed, entertained and happy, then they do not care that they are in a cage. Like dogs, they need only be trained and then a New World will be born, and it will have Order, Purpose, Direction. Freedom must be stamped out, else those deadly sins resurface and destroy the world. The Assassins tout it on their sleeves like champions of a Holy War, happy to see the world burn. Time was, the Assassins professed a far more sensible goal, that of peace."
"Freedom is peace," Ratonhnhaké:ton insisted.
"Oh, no," Haytham replied, shaking his head. "It's an invitation to chaos. You are happy to see men fighting and killing each other, championing the four horsemen and watching and laughing as madness overtakes the earth. Look at the moments in history when the Assassins had a strong foothold in the world: Ezio Auditore prevented the Borgia from uniting all of Italy, stopping their constant warring, prevented the French from swooping in and instilling Order. Yusuf Tazim facilitated the rise to power of Suleiman the Magnificent – oh, so magnificent that he strangled all remaining members of his family and conquering entire swaths of Europe and Asia in a sea of blood. Just what are you expecting with all your talk of freedom? It is only freedom to; freedom to kill, freedom to drink, freedom to conquer, freedom to do whatever you please. Order, however, Order is the freedom from all these things. Even now, the 'freedom' you think you profess is little more than chaos. Only look at this little revolution your friends have started. I have stood before the Continental Congress and listened to them stamp and shout. All in the name of liberty. But it is just noise."
"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, "It is learning. Hirokoa wait for the people to learn, to rise above the sins you have listed, to realize that laws arise from their own conscience. You talk of war, but I have seen my own people take war and turn it into a game you call lacrosse, for the express purpose of lowering casualties. I have seen six nations come together and discuss laws and work together to create harmony. The Haudenosaunee are the very thing that the Hirokoa idealize. I have seen people correct the wrongs of the world: a man who brings freedom to slaves, women who will not let themselves be degraded, a man who faced the demons he ran from, a woman who took her daughter and started a new life for herself, a man who doctors the spirit instead of preaching damnation; I have seen all of these things, all the result of the freedom you hold in such contempt. If these people can learn the truth of the world, then others can as well, and that is what Hirokoa wait for. Nothing is perfect on the first try, no child can become a master in one attempt, humanity cannot overcome its challenges in one generation. What you see as centuries of war is centuries of learning, of trying to be better, of rising above the sins that you so loath."
Haytham scoffed. "Your naiveté is staggering, I don't know what that old spade even sees in you."
"Do not call him that!"
"Shay could tell you the truth," Haytham said, ignoring Ratonhnhaké:ton's correction. "He saw firsthand that the Assassins are not nearly so perfect as you make them out to be. And Achilles? He has earned every derogative pejorative in the world for the damage he has caused. He is no victim, but a perpetrator, the blood on his hands is awesome, and you would say different if you know what I do. What Shay does."
"And who is Shay that you use him as a crutch to defend your argument?"
"Ask your precious spade."
Ratonhnhaké:ton forced himself to practice stillness, angered by his raké:ni's words. Arguing about the Old Man would be futile, he tried a different track.
"And what of Lee?" he asked. What of his orders to destroy Kanatahséton? Of eating his mother?
"What of him?" Haytham demanded. "He understands the needs of this would-be nation far better than the jobbernowls who profess to represent it. He could with this little war – that you started, I might add – and he could bring Order to these colonies that pretend to be states. You think this war is about freedom, taxation without representation, pronouncements from a king without the consent of the people, all the fiery rhetoric of that radical Samuel Adams, but the truth is far simpler. The Colonists here couldn't handle mastering their own destinies if they tried; even now they've thrown their trust to absolute strangers: Jefferson, Henry, that idiot Washington. Virginians are fools based on the men they have voted for. And Washington is the greatest fool of all, a man destined for middle management who has just enough skills in politics to get himself in over his head. Look at Valley Forge, those men are no army, and look at his long string of failures. Charles is the better choice by far."
"It seems your tongue has tasted sour grapes," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, hackles raised and struggling to practice stillness. Haytham, whether he knew it or not (and he suspected strongly that the man did) was insulting everything that the young native held dear: freedom, Sam Adams, the struggle of the Americans, Achilles, Washington. Anger was bleeding through his control, he was riled and he was letting Haytham know it. Words fell out of his mouth. "The people have made their choice – and it was Washington."
"The people chose nothing," Haytham hissed, his own controlled form breaking. "It was done by a group of privileged cowards seeking only to enrich themselves. They convened in private and made a decision that would benefit them. Do you think a single one of them cares about the people who elected them to be representatives? Do you think any of those men care one lick about the slaves? Women? Do you honestly believe that they are thinking about anything other than their imminent capture by the Crown? About being hung for treason? All that oratory, back and forth, progressive and conservative, is only to save their own necks from the gallows! Oh, they might have dressed it up with pretty words, but that does not make it true." Fire was in his eyes, passion that Ratonhnhaké:ton was not expecting coloring his cheeks. "The only difference, Connor – the only difference between myself and those you aid – is that I do not feign affection."
The Templar grandmaster turned in a huff and exited the alleyway, powering through the crowds, heedless of who he shoved aside. Ratonhnhaké:ton was hard pressed to keep up, half jogging after him, offended and uncertain and frustrated and confused. There was a kernel of truth in Haytham's words: the Congress did convene in private, not all of the men cared for the input of their constituents. Even Sam Adams had an air of dishonesty, was politically motivated and shameless in how he pursued his goals. And Washington was suffering a string of losses, his uncertainty hurting his ability to make decisions.
But that was learning. True learning, Achilles said, was always painful, and some people needed to walk through fire in order to learn their lessons. Entire communities, colonies, nations, would logically suffer much more pain. Could the pain be avoided? Could Haytham's pronouncements end it? Yes, but what would the people learn? What would Connor have learned? His abuse in Bridewell had been the second worst thing he had ever endured, but that did not mean he did not gain something for it, that he did not learn from it. Freedom was... freedom facilitated learning. It allowed a person to choose to be better, allowed a person to choose right from wrong.
Washington was making mistakes, but he was learning, the Continental Army was learning, even Congress was learning, and they would continue to push themselves to struggle and make the "more perfect union" that Sam Adams and the others wanted so badly. What his father was suggesting was...
He shook his head. They could not afford to think about this now; Church and the missing arms came first.
But still, he wanted to know more.
Philosophy was not an option after that, and a dozen possible questions entered his mind, but at last he settled on one more, a different track.
"Must be strange for you," he said, keeping his voice soft, neutral, wary of the hissing they had done minutes before, "discovering my existence as you have."
Another flick of the eyes, a glance too quick to categorize.
"I'm actually curious to know what your mother might have said about me," Haytham said casually. Blood and fire and smoke filled Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind, memories he relived in his nightmares flooding his brain as he remembered the fire, trying to get to her, trying to save her.
"Help us! My ista is still inside! I need help!"
"It's going to be fine. Once I get there everything will be fine!"
"No, my son. You must leave. Now."
"Iá. Not without you."
"It's too late for that. You must be strong, Ratonhnhaké:ton. You must be brave."
"Iá! Stop! Let me go! Let me save her!"
"I love you..."
He remembered the atenenyarhu, their contempt before they ate the village. And he remembered the night he learned who had made the decision to create that tragedy. Curiosity that had been following him for weeks burned away in an explosion of anger. He stared at nothing, long since stopped walking, struggling to control the anxiety, no, the rage that was threatening to consume him.
"I always wondered what life might have been like had she and I stayed together," Haytham was saying.
Stayed together? Stayed together? Why didn't he stay? Why did he leave? She might be alive if he had only stayed and turned away from the Atenenyarhu!
And then, without a care in the world, "How is she, by the way?"
His response was instantaneous. Quiet. Dangerous. "Dead," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, throwing a hateful glare at the source of his worst pain. "Murdered."
A blink of surprise. Shock. "What?" Haytham said, his voice colored. He looked down, a corner of his hat hiding his aged face; for a moment his entire frame sagged. Then he pulled himself together. "I am sorry to hear that," he said softly, politely.
… What? What?
That was it?! Sorry? After murdering his mother all he could say was sorry?!
"Oh," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, struggling to practice stillness, furious, "you're sorry? I found Ista burning alive. Her face was covered in blood, bone was sticking out of her arm." He watched as Haytham's face lost color, finding some kind of black satisfaction as seeing the man react so to the ugliest details of his memory. It was painful, physically painful, to recount the tragedy, but he did it in the hopes of making his father feel even a fraction of the agony he lived with every day of his life. He wanted that man to hurt as he had been hurt. "The longhouse was in flames, she was trapped under a canoe. I was six years old; I could not lift it. But I tried, I tried with everything that I was, and I will never forget her face as she sent me away. She sacrificed her life that I might live. The fire was started by you!" Haytham took a step back, eyes widening enough to be noticed. "Charles Lee is responsible for her death by your order. All of the atenenyarhu were there, Warraghiyagey, Hickey, Church, Charles Lee. You wanted something, some thing so badly you had no qualms about bloodying your hands to get it. Your Atenenyarhu ate my village and my ista. You caused it. All of it. And you're sorry?"
"That's impossible," Haytham said, shaking his head. "I gave no such order. I spoke the opposite, in fact – I told them to give up the search for the Precursor Site, after Shay told us what those sites did I wrote every Rite in the world, telling them the dangers of looking for more. We were to focus on more practical pursuits..."
There was pain on the older man's face, raw and honest in a way that he had yet to be with Ratonhnhaké:ton. The dark satisfaction of the young native's rage subsided, and in its wake he felt hollow, tired. Speaking of the fire had burned him out and he did not want to hear his raké:ni's excuses.
"It does not matter," he said, voice low. "It is done and I am all out of forgiveness."
He would never forgive Charles Lee.
He would never forgive Haytham Kenway, either.
He understood that now. Curious as he was about his father, as much as he wanted a relationship with him, he could not forgive what was done to his ista. It would be the one irreconcilable difference between them; Haytham Kenway did not value life. Ratonhnhaké:ton did. Sorry... of all the terrible things to say...
"You might be surprised to know," Haytham said after a very long pause, "That we share more in common than I fear either of us initially thought."
"And what does that mean?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked, turning slightly. He did not want to talk anymore, he was emotionally exhausted; he wanted only to raid the warehouse, deal with Church, and return the supplies. He needed time to sort out his feelings, and he could not do that with his raké:ni here.
"I was ten years old when my father died," Haytham said, looking away. "Mercenaries attacked the house. Jenny was kidnapped, stolen away in the night. Father tried to save her. They killed him before my very eyes."
Ratonhnhaké:ton stilled, surprised to hear the end of Edward Kenway. The Hirokoa never knew what happened to him...
"I killed my first man, that night, and spent the rest of my days searching for my sister. I found her some years ago, a concubine of the Ottoman Emperor, robbed of everything that made her... Well, it hardly matters now." He looked at Ratonhnhaké:ton, face once more closed off. "The irony does not go unnoticed. Me, son of an Assassin, raised by a Templar; and you, son of a Templar and raised as an Assassin."
"And what does it mean?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked.
"That the world is madness, and we must ensure Order lest we go mad ourselves. Come, we've wasted enough time."
They were a ten minute walk to the warehouse, Connor struggling to process everything he had learned and sort out his feelings at the same time, trying to rearrange his thoughts to prepare himself for the mission he had. Haytham required no such time, he was collected the moment he started walking again, everything locked away as if it had never existed in the first place. Connor loathed and admired the trait in the same breath, hating that the older man would turn off his emotions so easily and admiring that he could compartmentalize for an assignment so quickly. He hadn't decided on which emotion to settle one before Haytham held up a hand.
"Hold a moment," he said, ducking to the corner of a building. Connor followed, frowning as he followed his father's gaze. "Church, you clever bastard," he muttered.
"What is it?"
"I was hoping I could wave you past the guards, but he's replaced most of them with men I don't know," Haytham explained. He hummed, low and in his throat, thinking. Connor did the same, considering possible options. Glancing out, he saw that both men wore the same kind of coat, dark grey and open to the February cold, boots were cheap leather, knee high, and of course tricorn hats. Two men left the gate, both in similar dress. Uniform? Then it would be easy to-
"Well I should be able to pass without arousing suspicion," Haytham said, he threw a glance a Connor. "But you..." he left the sentence hanging, gesturing to the deerskin leggings and white coat. With a shrug of his shoulders he started to move out to the gate.
Wait... was Haytham just going to leave him? Again?
A hand jerked out, grabbing the older man, offense tightening his grip. Haytham gave a condescending, questioning glare.
"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "We do this together or not at all."
"Then what do you propose?"
"I will find a guard who is off duty and take his uniform." It was the most obvious thing in the world, that Haytham did not think of it...
"Very well," he replied dismissively. "I will wait here then."
…?
… Not even a "be careful?"
"Of course you will," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, his tone sarcastic to hide his hurt.
"Oh I'm sorry," Haytham retorted, sarcasm even stronger. "Would you like me to come along and hold your hand, perhaps? Provide kind words of encouragement?"
"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, irritated. "I expect you to act like a father. But you would seem to know nothing about that. Perhaps I should not be surprised."
He left before hearing more derision, his chest burning with a myriad of negative emotions. Why did Haytham trigger such angry outbursts? He was usually calm, collected, focused. Why did Haytham so easily brush all of that away?
… Because he was his raké:ni. No matter what else Ratonhnhaké:ton thought of him, that man was his raké:ni, a man who was supposed to be in his life, be with ista and help raise him. But instead he left, and even now Ratonhnhaké:ton could not understand why. As a child, he had not thought much of it. As a pupil under Achilles, he had thought Ista had rejected the Templar. Now, seeing the man's dismissive attitude, his contempt, the young native wondered if the older man had left because of... him. He never did learn how Haytham had discovered Connor's existence, perhaps he had always known, and simply chosen never to take part in the native's life. Perhaps he hated Connor from the start, and it was not just because he was an Hirokoa. The thought caused his chest to tighten.
He shook his head. Where did such thoughts come from? Why was he thinking them? It shouldn't matter!
Growling, he eyed the two men he had seen leave the warehouse. They went their separate ways, Connor following the bigger man. It would be a tight fit, but he was close enough in size. The man annoyingly kept to the main roads, lost in the thick evening crowds, before stepping up a short series of steps to a brownstone and entering.
Waiting five minutes, Connor cracked his knuckles and walked up the seven steps. He knocked politely, planting his feet and preparing for anything.
"Yeah, wot is-"
One swift uppercut was all it took, and in the evening light nobody saw the violence, and Connor made sure the fall angled into the house instead of out in the street. The coat was snug on the shoulders but good enough. The shoes were are too tight, but the hat was a perfect fit. Putting his wampum on his arms under his shirt to hide them, he took a chance and left the feathers in his hair, hoping no one would see them in the evening light. They were from the eagle he had visited before the Spirit Journey, he did not want to tuck them under something, he had already compromised with the giant wing feathers decorating his wampum.
Stuffing his feet in the boots, he walked up and down the hall of the house until he felt he could walk and run as necessary. He would pay for it the next day, but for now it would have to do. Nodding, he backtracked to the corner.
Haytham stood and gave a long, appraising gaze. Without asking permission he stepped into Ratonhnhaké:ton's personal space, pulling at a collar and adjusting lapels and pulling at his hat. He was not expecting the intimacy of the contact, and Ratonhnhaké:ton held himself perfectly still, uncertain what to do, cursing himself that his emotions were threatening to overrun him again.
"That should suffice," Haytham said after a pause. "Follow me."
They finally entered the wide boulevard and moved to the brewery. Connor noted the water was directly behind the warehouse, and guards were stationed at every corner under lamplight. Haytham gave no such glance, simply breezed up to the main doors, confident in every stride and fully expecting to get what he wanted.
"Hold strangers! You tread on private property. What business have you here?"
Haytham answered smoothly, "The Father of Understanding guides us."
The guard at the door narrowed his gaze. "You, I recognize," the man said. "Not the savage."
And then, contrary to every thought the young native had been having up to this point, Haytham said,
"He is my son."
The words were quiet, heavy and heartfelt, so unlike what Ratonhnhaké:ton had experienced to this point he turned to look at the older man, unable to completely hide his surprise. Was that true emotion he had just heard? Or a ploy? Something in between? What... how...
The guard gave a lecherous, vile sneer. "Tasted of the forest's fruits, did you?" he said in lewd tones. He gave a series of measured knocks, and the door opened. "Off you go, then."
Connor leveled a quiet glare at the guard, silently promising that he would return to deal with him. The guard didn't even blink an eye, oblivious of the threat Connor had just delivered.
Some men were content to hate.
He closed his eyes, practicing stillness. He would have to let it go. Not everyone wanted to learn.
Inside the warehouse was dark, moonlight only just giving enough light to see by. It was terrible hunting conditions, and Connor asked the eagle that was his spirit to guide his eyes once more. Haytham strode into the empty chamber, only partly filled with crates, packages, barrels. Wouldn't there be more if he were stealing Patriot supplies? Something was off somehow...
"Benjamin Church," Haytham said, striding up to a man in a powdered wig and a brown coat. "You stand accused of betraying the Templar Order and abandoning our principles in pursuit of personal gain. In consideration of your crime, I hereby sentence you to death."
The man turned around, but it was not Church, someone much younger, thinner; he frantically looked up to the shadows. "Now!" he shouted.
And, from the shadows, a dozen men with muskets came out, aimed at the two men.
Connor froze, holding himself perfectly still, eyes darting everywhere to assess the new threat. A dozen men plus the fake, a dozen muskets, men waiting all night for a hair trigger. Connor was fast but not that fast, distraction would be his only option. A glance up saw open rafters from above, that would be perfect... but what about his raké:ni? Haytham did not even tense with surprise, only gave a cursory glance at the men around him before leveling a cold gaze at the fake.
"You're too late," the man said with a sneer, secure in his victory. "Church and the cargo are long gone. And I'm afraid you won't be in any condition to follow."
"Neither will you," Haytham said with cool promise.
The fake snorted. "We've chosen to stand with the victor, Kenway. It's Britain who'll win this war! You always did prefer principle to profit. Perhaps that's why your little kingdom's started to crumble. It was a nice dream you had, Kenway – but a dream is all it ever was."
Haytham sneered at the contempt. "Oh, how I'll enjoy making you pay for your betrayal," he said in a clam, disconcerting voice. "Did Church pay you well? Were you rewarded handsomely? And what good will your gold do you? Is it magic gold, you think? Like the one they spun the fleece from? Do you think it will shield you from my wrath? You others," he said, jutting his chin around to the muskets, "You'll die quickly, but you," he leveled an icy glare at the fake, "You are going to tell me everything you know. It won't be pleasant, not for you, but I'll have my pound of flesh for this."
And, heedless of the dozen muskets aimed at him, Haytham reached for his coat pocket. Someone fired, the shot going wide, and all Connor could do was move, dropping a smoke bomb at his feet and tossing a rope dart up to the rafters, climbing up in less than fifteen seconds. Several shots were fired, an uneven volley, but the smoke affected the aim, and by the time Ratonhnhaké:ton was ready he saw that Haytham was unharmed, two smoking guns in his hands that were quickly dropped as a sword was drawn and a formal stance was taken. Connor drew his own two flint locks, taking careful aim, remembering what Achilles and later Clipper hat taught him. The first shot was perfect, in the shoulder, and the other landed in the stomach, bringing four of the dozen down, only now it was closer to eight because Haytham had batted away the muskets and taken down two more. Connor appreciated the technical proficiency from above before taking his rope dart and snaring two men, leaning back and flinging off the rafters. The two men were jerked off their feet, and while Connor did not have enough weight to lift them into the air their shoulders were now dislocated, bloody messes. He landed lightly on his feet, half of the opposing force incapacitated, and drew his tamahaac. Six on two were still not great odds, but the morale of a paid man was very different from the morale of a principled one, let alone two. Connor focused on one giant brute of a man first, wielding a heavy tamahaac of his own and taking a hefty swing. His form was excellent, but the swing was slow and Connor ducked under it easily, slipping behind to the exposed back and giving two quick chops to the shoulder, breaking the blade and blood spurting everywhere. After that was a man who finally managed to reload his musket, Connor was inside the reaction radius before he could fire, shouldering him in the chest into a massive wooden barrel the size of four men, knocking the wind out of him. The third realized the danger, the dim light showing his face was pale. "L-Look at the half-breed fight!" he stuttered. "Like some feral dog..." It was the guard from outside, and Connor knocked the musket away like it was a twig, kicking the man viciously between the legs before taking his tamahaac and swinging at the hips, breaking a bone and letting the man fall. Three down, so three were left unless Haytham...
Three corpses lay on the floor of the warehouse, fatal blows to all of them. Where Connor had maimed and crippled, Haytham had simply killed. Did the man not realize that these were not spawns of Hahgwehdaetgah? He considered commenting, but he saw the fake waffling on the floor, trying to get away on legs that no longer worked for the fear he felt.
Connor leaned down, pressing a hand onto the terrified man's shoulder. He kept his voice soft. Low. Menacing.
"Where is Church?" he asked.
The impostor was near tears for the fear he felt. "I'll tell you!" he said, shuddering under the young native's touch. "Anything you want. Only promise that you'll let me live."
He gave a glance to his father, the older man making a small gesture of ascent. Nodding, he hoisted the man up to his feet, the fellow staggering slightly before finally managing to stand under his own power. He looked fearfully between the two men, but Connor kept his voice calm, reassuring. "You have my word," he promised.
The fake gave a long, terrified glance at Haytham and the threats the other man had made, but he found trust for Ratonhnhaké:ton's face and quickly divulged everything. "He left yesterday for Martinique. Took passage on a trading sloop called the Welcome. Loaded half its hold with the supplies he stole from the Patriots. That's all I know! I swear!"
Connor nodded, but Haytham, who had slowly circled around back, made a sudden motion, and the sickly, wet sound of a hidden blade sinking into a man's back was heard. Ratonhnhaké:ton's eyes widened in horror, as did the impostor's, and he let out a gurgly, "... you promised..."
"And he kept his word," Haytham replied calmly. Coldly. "I never made such a promise, and I warned you that you would suffer. Enjoy bleeding out." He turned to Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Let's go."
"What?" the young native demanded. "You would let him suffer?"
"Yes," Haytham said, cutting him off. "He betrayed the Order. He deserves no less."
"Have you no heart?" Ratonhnhaké:ton demanded, kneeling down and moving to do something, anything, to ease the fake's suffering. The trust was broken, however, and the man jerked from the touch, tears rolling down his eyes as he slowly died. "Iá," he said in his native language, "You will be carried to a better place than this. Iottsitíson will guide you." He extended his hidden blade and granted the mercy, quiet settling over the warehouse. He stood in anger. "You did not have to do that," he hissed.
"Are you, of all people, going to preach to me about the morality of death?" Haytham queried, tone tired and irritated. "Isn't your life's profession that of assassination?"
"You cannot speak of that which you know nothing," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "I at least understand the weight of the death I carry, the burden I bare. How many have you killed simply because it was easier? Because it was-"
The eagle of his spirit shrieked in his head, and his eyes snapped to the man he had winded against the barrel, now sitting up and taking aim with his musket. The barrel was aimed at his father, at this close range it was sure to hit, and the older man's back was to the danger. There was a split second of thought, of what would happen if he just... but instead he grabbed Haytham's arm and dragged him down, the sound of the musket echoing over the empty warehouse.
Haytham was furious, face red with emotion as he stood and grabbed a fallen musket from the bodies that surrounded them, firing himself and hitting the man in the stomach. "Filthy rat," he muttered, moving forward and ramming the bayonet into the man's chest to emphasize the point. "You should know better than to attack your masters."
Then, as if he had not just savagely killed a second man on top of the slaughter of the brawl, he turned to Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Church has at least a day on us... We must move quickly if we're to catch him."
So many things were firing in Ratonhnhaké:ton's head he wasn't sure he could speak. The brutality... the savagery... He shook his head, trying to put it away. "I have a ship we can use," he said gratingly, trying to overcome his feelings. "Meet me on the pier when you're ready."
He marched off, getting away from the cruelty, trying to find some place he could calm down. He powered out of the warehouse, backtracking to where he had left his clothes, prying the ill fitted leather boots off, anything to keep his body moving. Stillness would not come to him, and he sought to wear himself out. It was well past midnight, and by the time he was done running over rooftops and had climbed to a weather vane in exhaustion, he saw the sun begin her rise, pinking the clouds to the east and giving him a glorious sunrise in the cold February air. Only then did his mind at last settle, and he tried to think.
Curiosity. Confusion. Anger. Betrayal. Frustration. Similarity. These were only some of the emotions he could identify churning in his chest, and he knew there were more underneath, things he could not or would not name. It was the last one that bothered him the most, and when his eagle drew his eyes to the sleek lines of the Aquila, he was quietly relieved to see something so familiar.
By midmorning the ship had weighed anchor, and Connor was at the dock in anticipation, already thinking about Faulkner, of sharing the things he had learned, experienced. Anticipation replaced his anxiety, and the inherent safety of the Aquila made him sigh in relief so strong he nearly forgot that there would be a passenger on this voyage.
Haytham stepped up to his shoulder, eyeing the blue and white ship, face closed off and lips turned into a faint frown of disapproval. Tension rippled through Ratonhnhaké:ton, dozens of new memories flitting through his mind's eye, and he reached for the stillness he had just achieved, hoping it would last.
A boat finally reached the dock, two of the crew already waving in greeting.
"Long time no see, captain!"
"Hello," Connor said softly, stepping in and taking an oar. "I do not mean to be rude but we are in a hurry, would it be all right to go immediately back to the ship?"
"'Course, captain! Been docked for almost a month, were happy to get yer letter we were."
Haytham sat at the stern of the boat, arms crossed as he looked out at the men. "Shall we?" he asked impatiently.
Both crew members gave curious gazes, but Connor did not want to even try and explain the complicated series of events that had led to this, and instead took his oar and they all began rowing. Haytham made a noise of distaste.
"I thought you said this was your ship, Connor. What are you, the cabin boy?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton said nothing, working his jaw and keeping the rhythm. The others saw and kept carefully quiet, eyeing the new arrival warily, carefully.
"Well, captain!" Faulkner said when they made it to the Aquila, "It's good to see you! The boys have been asking where you'd got to and I was hard pressed to give an answer after the way you—shiver my timbers! What are you doing here?"
The older man gave little more than a glance at Faulkner, instead casting his gaze to the deck and the crew, eyes narrow and calculating, before turning back to Connor. "I suppose it will have to do," he said, once again dismissive. "I certainly hope she's fast, for all the time we've lost on this little endeavor. Get her moving, Connor, while I secure my quarters."
And without so much as a backwards glance he breezed below deck as if he owned the ship.
Faulkner was quick to grab the young native. "Of all the damned fool idiotic things! What is that Jonah albatross doing here? On my ship?"
Connor was hard pressed to answer on deck, with the eyes of the crew watching and he uncertain how to explain himself. He offered instead, "I will tell you later. For now, we are setting sail for Martinique. Benjamin Church is going there, with supplies stolen from the Continental Army, Washington is desperate for whatever we can find."
"But why is...!" Faulkner paused in his oncoming tirade, seeing Connor's face, and his own expression crumpling. "Aye, aye, captain," he said. He turned and started shouting orders, and Connor moved to his own quarters, putting his small pack away, his bow and quiver, and pulling out the blue coat the crew had given him, putting it on. He kept his feet bare for the pain of the boots the previous night, and walked out on deck and took the helm. Haytham joined him shortly thereafter, and the rest of the afternoon was spent sailing the Hudson River, out to the Lower Bay and then to the Atlantic. Haytham said nothing, just watched the crew as they worked, Faulkner giving orders here and there but letting the men generally manage themselves. He disappeared at the supper hour, and did not appear after dark. The cabin boy said he had gone to bed, and only then did Ratonhnhaké:ton relax. He and Faulkner went to Faulkner's cabin, the old salt sitting the boy down and demanding every single detail of what had happened.
Connor wasn't even sure where to start, he wanted the Old Man's counsel, but was afraid to even ask how Achilles was doing. Eventually he started with Valley Forge, the conditions there, the missing supplies, and coming across his father in the abandoned church. He kept the details as clinical as he could: the offered alliance; the repeated tests, sneaking into the camp, deliberately being captured, finding his own uniform in New York; the death of the teamster and the men in the warehouse, the broken promise of the terrified impostor, and the goal to find Church and get back the stolen supplies. Emotion swelled in him at odd parts, his voice shaking with anger of confusion or sadness, whichever felt the strongest, and when he had run out of words he looked up to Faulkner, lost as to what to do.
"I am afraid," he said softly. "He kills so coldly, without feeling or thought of the weight of the death. When I was younger I behaved similarly. I thought all evil I saw was the act of atenenyarhu, and I had no qualms of killing those who did bad things. Will I become-"
"Never, boy," Faulkner said before he could finish his question. "And if you even think that again I'll have you swab the deck with the crew. No, captain, you'll never be like that Jonah albatross. The difference between Assassins and assassins is that we have the Creed. First tenet: Stay your blade. We only kill those what need to be killed. As for you: nobody understands the Creed right off; we all have to learn it the hard way, in spits and spurts, before we become Assassins. Adéwalé had all kinds of stories about your grandfather before he learned the Creed, and just as many stories from after. If your own grandfather can make that big of a change, then you – who was already a fine boy when we first met, captain – will be just fine. As for your old man..."
He paused, silence drawing out as he considered his choices.
"Can't deny any man from knowing his old man," Faulkner said finally, "And you've got a long list of knowing, I'll give you that, boy, but you can't trust him."
"I do not."
Faulkner smiled, soft and sad and knowing all at once. "You've always been the smart one, boy. I'll tell you this, though, so long as he's on this ship, you're the captain."
Connor frowned, confused. "But I am not-"
"The boys all call you 'captain' at any rate, but I'll pass word around, if you give any order we'll follow it. One thing's for sure, Connor, from everything you've just said, is that you want to prove to that Jonah albatross that you're worth knowin'. Can't say as I agree with you, but I'll be damned if it doesn't explain the chip on your shoulder that makes you so determined to better yourself, and we all love you enough that we'll try and make it work."
Another feeling swelled in his chest, one he had not felt since before leaving the Old Man, and he bit his lip against the warmth, looking down at his hands.
Haytham barely left his quarters, only stood silently by Connor's side when he was at the helm, eyes taking in everything, closed off to the world. The silence relieved Connor as much as it hurt him. He wanted to talk, wanted to share, but knew from their few days together that things would quickly devolve into an argument, and he did not want the crew to witness something that private. Haytham had said Connor lived because of curiosity. Why did he not ask questions?
As the silence drew out, however, Connor could not take it, he could not leave things on the upended note they had left off on, he had to keep trying.
Perhaps because they were on the Aquila, he asked the obvious question.
"What was rakshótha like?" he asked over the wind, turning to port to compensate for an unusually strong gale.
"Who?"
"Grandfather. What was he like?"
Haytham said nothing for a long time, face closed off, before he gave a quick flick of the eyes, answering. "He was a drunken pirate," he said, "What else is there to know?"
"What was he like?"
"I'm afraid I can't answer that, Connor," Haytham said, voice distant and hard. "He died when I was ten years old. As a child I knew him only as the only man on Queen Anne's Square with scars on his face, ruggedly handsome and had a subdued charm. As I grew up I learned the truth, a truth this lot have failed to inform you, it seems. He was a shameless drunk who stole the ship he sailed and the men he captained. He was rowdy, violent, and solely interested in the furtherance of his own power – a fine Assassin, don't you think?"
"You mind your tongue, Kenway," Faulkner said. "He'd be ashamed to see what you turned into. If you were even half the man Eddie Kenway was the world would be a better place."
Connor watched as Haytham's eyes narrowed to near slits, lips thinning to a similar width, and felt his presence chill the very air. "I had the last man who said that to me killed."
"Aye," Faulkner said, his voice low and dangerous, "Adéwalé. He was my master when I was recruited, and I'll have you know that if you even think of speaking ill of him you'll be locked in the brig faster than you can find your sea legs."
"Strange words coming from a First Mate," Haytham said in a blithe tone. "You almost sound like a captain."
Faulkner scoffed. "Who do you think sails this ship when the captain's away?" he said easily. "You think Cormac was any different with his first mate? Or do you know something we don't?"
"Mind yourself," Haytham said in a low voice.
"I'll mind myself when you stop being colder than a brass monkey's balls," Faulkner countered. "You don't even realize what's happening do you? What the captain here is trying to do? Even my old man, drunk that he was, knew more about fatherin' than you, and I'm sorry for Eddie and Connor Kenway both, 'cause you will never earn the right to the name."
"And what do you think that name actually means?" Haytham asked, voice rising slightly, irritation flushing his face. "Drunken buffoonery? Lechery? Greed? He was the living embodiment of the Seven Deadly Sins: consumed with avarice, so envious of those in higher station he abandoned his first wife for a life at sea, angry at the world for the wrongs he felt were committed against him, too lazy to carve a life out of his own, too proud to let himself be dragged down by something like principle? Oh, what a name it must have been. The white shadow of Blackbeard, the man who set his hair on fire to frighten the rats who lived at sea. Do you really think my father respected anything other than himself? Respected Jenny? Me? If he did he wouldn't have left in the first place."
"Respect? Respect? Let me tell you the story about James Kidd and respect. Or Stede Bonnet or Blackbeard or Ah Tabai. Losing his way isn't the same as finding his way, and when he found his way he was everything you try to be: thoughtful, deliberate, attentive... And what do you have to show for yourself, eh? A rat's nest of followers, aye, any number of women to bed, money and alliances and power and intelligence, but you're still a little boy angry that his dad up and died when he was a lad. Do you even realize you've put your own son in the exact same position! Have you no sympathy for the pain you've inflicted on your own blood?"
"You might be right," Haytham said in a deceptively polite voice, almost sarcastic. "Save the fact that I never knew he existed! Charles had to tell me after Thomas' death just who Connor was, and only as of a few days ago do I even realize how he knew? Do you want me to get on my knees, beg forgiveness that Diio never bothered to mention she was pregnant? Ask that I be absolved from all my imagined slights?"
"Are Eddie Kenway's any less imagined?" Faulkner countered.
"Enough!" Ratonhnhaké:ton said, his voice echoing out over the deck, causing several crew members to look up from their work. "Both of you! Enough!"
The two older men seemed to only just realize the scene they were making, and Faulkner the damage he was doing. All anger disappeared like smoke, and he looked down. "Sorry, captain," he said, embarrassed. "Let my temper get the best of me. It'll not happen again."
"No, it will not," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "You are to be below decks for the rest of the day."
"What?" he said, surprised, before catching himself and looking even more ashamed. "Aye captain," he said.
"You as well, Raké:ni."
Haytham said nothing, looking at his son for a long, long time, before he simply turned and left. Faulkner stayed a moment longer, reaching out to touch the young native's shoulder, and disappearing as well. Only then did Ratonhnhaké:ton let go of the breath he had been holding, shakily sucking in air as he tried to process what had just happened, what he had just learned about not only his father but his grandfather. It was work to remove his vice-like grip of the helm and leave it to another, and once he was free he climbed up to the crow's nest, where all he could hear was Tekawerahkwa, Breath of the Wind, and reach for stillness. He prayed to Iottsitíson, asking for guidance, opening the eagle of his mind and trying to be receptive to her voice. Wisdom, he needed wisdom to make sense of all of this. To decide what to do with this, how to feel about any of this. He stayed up there until well after dark.
It was the third week into the voyage, when Haytham's patience began to wane.
"I told you this was a poor heading," he said in an irritated voice, "Church is surely days ahead of us now."
Faulkner was increasingly quick to come to Ratonhnhaké:ton's defense. "Have some faith in the boy! He's yet to disappoint!"
"Well the bar's not been set very high now, has it?" Haytham retorted, apparently still sore from the argument earlier in the voyage.
"Do you want to go to the brig?" Faulkner demanded.
"We are closer than you think, Father," Ratonhnhaké:ton said quickly, trying to head off another fight and also irritated with the older man. Tekawerahkwa was pushing at the Aquila's sails, a sure sign that they were close. They were only a day's sail from Martinique, and Faulkner had an uncanny knowledge of all the smuggler ports and beaches.
One of the Clutterbucks saw it first, Connor trying to keep the two men at his side from killing each other. "Ship ahoy!"
Everyone perked, getting ready for anything, waiting order. Connor edged starboard, asking the bald eagle in his mind to awaken, trying to get a sense of the ship. "Is it the Welcome?" he called out, seeing if anyone could tell.
Faulkner held a hand over his brow, squinting and leaning out over the rail. "Aye!" he shouted. "And she's dropped anchor."
"Bring us in for a closer look, son," Haytham ordered. Ratonhnhaké:ton was becoming increasingly tired of being ordered around by his raké:ni, but he did so regardless, easing to half sail and inching his way up to the sloop's port. Nobody was on the deck, the sails were up, anchor down, no sign of activity or life. She was a ghost ship, empty of everything.
"It seems the ship has been abandoned," Ratonhnhaké:ton said softly, wondering what to do next.
"Church always was a slippery little bastard," Haytham cursed under his breath. Ratonhnhaké:ton was not used to hearing his cultured father swear, and was surprised to hear such vulgar language.
Then, "Enemy ahead! They're making to flee!"
All eyes snapped to the port, and there beyond the rocks of the cove was a schooner, sails just dropping down to catch the wind, turning their aft to them just as Clutterbuck had said. The eagle shrieked in his mind and he knew. "After them!" he shouted. "Full sail! Give me everything!"
"Full sail!" Faulkner repeated, "Go get that wind! Don't lose her!"
It was a flurry of activity to get the sails open while Connor pulled at the helm, shoving the rudder to adjust his heading just as Tekawerahkwa graced them with her wind, shoving them forward and nearly into the rocks the schooner was ducking behind. Ratonhnhaké:ton compensated quickly, his eagle still open and using everything that Faulkner had ever taught him about reading the wind and feeling a ship. They missed the rocks by inches, some of the men cursing at the close call, but now they had speed and the Aquila was truly the fastest ship around. They gained easily two hundred meters in the span of fifteen minutes, and the schooner saw that it was in trouble.
"How is it you came to captain a ship, given the way you sail?" Haytham shouted, looking aft at the rocks they had missed. "Perhaps someone with more experience should take the wheel?"
Ratonhnhaké:ton ignored him, mind utterly focused on his task, emotions still as he focused on his goal. The schooner was small, nimble, and used that to its advantage, ducking in and out of rocks the Aquila could not hope to steer through, forcing Ratonhnhaké:ton to take wider channels, hugging the coast and shallower waters, ducking sandbars and rocks alike. He called for half sail, needing more control over maneuvering. Faulkner's face was sagged in open awe as he watched his ship navigate the gauntlet, gulping and cursing at every near miss as the young native moved through it all with no damage.
"By God you're better than Saint Elmo's Fire!" he said.
Ratonhnhaké:ton cleared the rocks and hit more open waters. The schooner had gained ground, but not much, and the crew immediately pulled the half sail for Tekawerahkwa to push.
"Speed, Connor!" Haytham growled. "We need more speed! It's almost as though you want him to escape!"
"You don't give orders here, Kenway!"
It was a half hour later when the schooner – Ratonhnhaké:ton never did get the name – ducked into a narrow channel of water between some cliffs. The Aquila was too big to follow, and the young native moved starboard, again towards the shore, his eagle seeing the currents and the wind and making some quick calculations.
"Goddammit!" Haytham cursed again. "We're going to lose him!"
"What other choice have we?!" Faulkner countered. "Those rocks would crush us!"
"The current here is swift," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "We still have a chance."
For an hour they navigated the shallow water, switching from half to full sail as Tekawerahkwa demanded, everyone silently hoping that they had not lost the schooner completely. Faulkner called for some nautical maps, trying to see where they were and calculating how fast they were going. Haytham paced back and forth, patience nearly at an end and looking positively murderous.
"There," one of the Clutterbuck's called out, "The edge of the cliffs!"
Ratonhnhaké:ton called for the cannons to be ready, pulling at the wheel and listening for every breath of wind; then all at once the cliffs were gone and there was not one but half a dozen schooners guarding a frigate. An ambush!
Scattershot erupted from two of the schooners, everyone ducking for cover except Ratonhnhaké:ton, pulling the Aquila to starboard. "Port side!" he shouted, "Round shells! Fire!"
The crew followed the orders effortlessly, already loaded and ready to fire. Thirty seconds to aim was all they needed and as one the half dozen cannons exploded into action, sinking three of the six schooners in one impressive volley. The other three were more spread out in the small bay, harder to take out, and the frigate was trying to lower their sail.
Haytham was furious. "Church is using the ambush as cover. Sink him before he escapes! Send that bastard to the seafloor!"
"No!" Ratonhnhaké:ton shouted back, still maneuvering the Aquila. "I need his ship afloat. The cargo must be saved. Port side! Chain shot! Starboard, scatter!"
"Stop him, Connor! You should have listened to me! He's nearly away!"
"Starboard! Fire!"
The scattershot crippled one of the schooners, and once they were out of the way Ratonhnhaké:ton had the perfect angle. He didn't even need to give the order, the Clutterbucks were masters of their craft and had seen immediately what the young native was trying to do. The chain shot fired, sailing through the air and embedding itself in the mast of the frigate, ripping through sails and shredding several lines. Perfect. A glance starboard saw that they were loaded and ready to fire. He angled the Aquila, calling for half sail and aiming to maneuver between the two schooners. The two ships saw the play and happily partook, thinking a double broadside would cripple the brig easily. Instead, as they got close, Ratonhnhaké:ton ordered swivel guns, and with a bloodthirsty cry the crew happily followed suit, taking careful aim and shelling lead at the helm of both ships, causing havoc as everyone tried to duck the onslaught. With no one at the respective helms, the ships veered wherever the current took them, and in two volleys the ships were crippled.
With a sigh of relief, Ratonhnhaké:ton turned the ship around and began sailing back to the frigate. They would have to time it right, the ship might try to fire as they slid up. He gave a nod to Faulkner, the old salt more than aware of the danger.
"Men, prepare to board-"
But Haytham, apparently tired of waiting several hours for the natural course of a naval battle, came up on Ratonhnhaké:ton and brutally shoved him aside, taking the helm and spinning hard to port. No longer were they carefully angling for the best point of entry, but now instead going full tilt, to ram the ship. Faulkner moved to take the wheel but Haytham pulled a gun on him.
"What are you doing?!" the native shouted, the sudden shift of the ship sending him careening to the rail.
Haytham's face was black with hate. "Ending this," he growled.
The bowsprit whistled over the deck of the ship before the bow itself careened into the broadside, the crunchy noise of shattering wood burgeoning everywhere. Haytham – insanely – let go of the wheel and ran over to the rail, leaping off and landing on the deck of the frigate in a tight roll. Ratonhnhaké:ton saw little after that, turning frantically back to the helm. Faulkner was already there, shouting for anchor.
"Secure the ships!" Ratonhnhaké:ton shouted. "Secure the ships!"
"Hook us in!" Faulkner shouted, trying to save the situation. "Bring her close! To arms! To arms!"
The Clutterbucks were already handing out muskets, ropes were swinging out to hold the two ships together, battening down tethers and beginning to swarm the crew on the other side. Ratonhnhaké:ton jumped to the other ship, forcing himself to ignore the fighting. He needed to get below deck. Who knew what madness his father intended after that.. that... that stunt. He breezed through the colliding bodies and shouts and curses and shots of muskets, tamahaac in hand as he finally found a way below deck. He kicked at the barricaded door several times before one of the Clutterbucks fired at the doorknob, destroying the lock while the other brother took an axe to the hinges.
Below was... empty. What did Church do with the cargo?
He moved through the empty hull, seeing scraps of boxes but no sign of true supplies. As he navigated the dim light, letting his eyes adjust to the dark, his eagle helping where it could. The sounds of fighting above slowly disappeared from his consciousness, and his eagle drew upon a different sound.
The sound of hate.
"So here we are, face to face at last, my 'friend.' It's been quite an adventure – let me tell you – working my way through your nasty little tricks and traps. Clever! Some of them, anyway. I'll give you credit for that. And for the quietude with which you pulled it off." A pause. And then, louder than a cannon: "We had a DREAM, Benjamin! A dream you sought to destroy! And for that, my fallen friend, you will be made to pay!"
Ratonhnhaké:ton burst through the door, seeing his raké:ni punching at the swelled and unrecognizable face of Benjamin Church, his face contorted with rage, teeth bared and breath in short, hot-blooded gasps. His fist was covered in blood, motions jerky and vicious. This was the true Haytham Kenway, all control stripped away, in all of his ugly glory. This was the man who was responsible for creating Ratonhnhaké:ton.
He was repulsed.
"Enough!" he shouted over the man's hate. "We came here for a reason."
The glare he gave was bloodthirsty. "Different reasons, it seems." Haytham gave one last punch before getting up, shaking his knuckles and powering away.
Ratonhnhaké:ton knelt down. Church was a mess, blood everywhere, several teeth were missing, one eye swollen shut. It was not just his face that was injured, his breath was bubbly and wet. All the frustration, the desperation to find him, the anger, it all faded away, and all the young native felt was pity.
"Where are the supplies you stole?" he asked softly.
Church struggled to get a breath. "... Go to hell."
Ratonhnhaké:ton pressed his hand on the man's chest, putting pressure on the collapsed lung and causing more pain. "I ask again: where are the supplies?"
Church gasped for air. "On the island yonder, awaiting pickup. But you've no right to it. It isn't yours."
"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton agreed, "not mine. Those supplies are meant for men and women who believe in something bigger than themselves. Who fight and die that one day they might be free from tyranny such as you."
Even dying, Church scoffed. "Are these the same men and women who fight with muskets forged from British steel? Who bind their wounds with bandages sewn by British hands. How convenient for them. We do the work. They reap the rewards."
Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. "You spin a story to excuse your crimes. As though you're the innocent one and they the thieves."
"It's all a matter of perspective," Church said, holding his side, gasping for air. "There is no single path through life that's right and fair and does no harm. Do you truly think the Crown has no cause? No right to feel betrayed? You should know better than this, dedicated as you are to fighting Templars – who themselves see their work as just. Think on that the next time you insist your work alone befits the greater good. Your enemy would beg to differ – and would not be without cause."
As with his other targets, Church's words rang true, and Ratonhnhaké:ton knew he would spent many nights pondering them. He was never unaware of the British position in this war, their feeling that this was just a collection of rowdy children throwing a tantrum, and it was not without some identifiable justifications; but it was the fundamental belief that the colonies were children, to be mastered instead of loved, was the fundamental problem. Still, his first duty was mercy, and he extracted his hidden blade, giving a swift death. He spoke in his native tongue.
"Your words may have been sincere, but that does not make them true," he said.
Back on deck, the Aquila had won, Faulkner making rounds and shaking hands. Haytham was there as well, perfectly put together, hands behind his back, as if he had not just performed savage brutality on a former ally.
"You did well," he said softly, with... pride. "His passing was a boon for us both. Come on. I expect you'll want my help retrieving everything from the island?"
His positivity was bitter in Ratonhnhaké:ton's mouth, and he looked to Faulkner, uncertain what to do. They talked briefly as the frigate was looted of what little booty it had, everyone wanting to salvage every possible supply that could be returned, Ratonhnhaké:ton explaining what had happened below. His growing fear, increasing a little more with every encounter, was the he was just like his father: cruel and brutal. His first kills, at thirteen, had been in berserk fury. He had slaughtered people he thought were atenenyarhu before he understood the truth of what he was doing. Even now, with the understanding that killing people was not the answer, that did not stop him from crippling anyone who stood in his way – even now he felt no remorse for what he had done in the warehouse in New York, it was a fight for survival. He could easily picture himself breaking bones just to get a point across, and now he had seen Haytham do that very thing just to feel satisfaction against a man who had betrayed him.
… Ratonhnhaké:ton had been no less cruel in his words to Achilles.
Were they any different?
Faulkner was beside himself to hear the young native's fears, and as they found the supply dump the old salt's gaze at Haytham grew increasingly irate. Faulkner oversaw the loading, but he told Connor to stay on deck, not to help the men. That wasn't a captain's place. And Faulkner talked. A lot. Very quietly, and very gently. Connor knew it was to make him feel better, little anecdotes and histories of people Faulkner had known, ways to compare that Connor would never be the same as his father. But that didn't change all the similarities he saw. Haytham had given a piece of himself to create Connor, certainly those similarities had come from that. And Ratohnhake:ton frowned heavily at the very thought.
Loading the supplies took three hours, but when they were done, Faulkner had one last thing to say.
"It's a good thing this place it a smuggler's cove," he called down to Haytham, voice falsely cheerful. "It's even better Church said all these supplies were waiting pickup. You'll be here only two or three days."
Haytham and several crew members blinked. But the Clutterbuck brothers both started to smile, as well as the higher ranked members of the crew.
"What?" Haytham said, surprise breaking his stoic face.
Slowly, one by one, the rest of the crew nodded in approval as they whispered to one another and figured out what was going on.
"You're done, Kenway," Faulkner said. "You've done more than enough damage to this ship, to her crew, and to our captain. I'll not let a Jonah albatross like you on this ship. Find your own way back to the Colonies."
Connor turned, and looked to Faulkner, surprised and so very grateful for a chance to get away from his father and just think about everything. Leaving Haytham behind might be cruel, but it wouldn't be brutal with pickup imminent.
"You can't be serious," Haytham said, tone dismissive and incredulous all at once, already proudly stepping forward to get on board.
"He can," David Clutterbuck said, voice cold and pistol out before Haytham even made it ten feet within the gangplank. "Unless you want to go up against the entire crew?" His brother stood at his shoulder, and one by one everyone on the beach stood against the Templar, each and every one of them silently daring the grandmaster to challenge being left behind. Haytham's face was closed off, distance.
"You ain't no father," Faulkner continued. "A father is more than just donating a bit of blood to the creation of life. A father is there for his kids whenever he can be, provides to make life easier for them, to teach them all the things it takes to be a man. You ain't no father, Kenway. You're just a blood donor."
Haytham said nothing, staring up as the crew all boarded and lifted the gangplank. Then he finally nodded.
Faulkner turned to Connor. "Captain Davenport," he said crisply, "awaiting your orders."
Connor, against his will, felt his eyes water. Turning, he walked to the helm, shouting orders to get the ship underway.
Author's Notes: (aka justifying Haytham part 2). We said in the last chapter's notes that Haytham is emotionally damaged goods, and it becomes blatantly apparent here. So many fanfics are enamoured by Haytham and want him to be the good guy they try to justify him being a Templar in name only, of not following the Rite, of doubting Templar ideals. And, honestly - at the beginning of the game this might have been possible. Ziio would have been a good influence on him once she wormed her way passed the emotional distance he held everyone to, but the fact of the matter is that that didn't happen. Haytham is instead hurt even further by the events of finding Jenny, learning about Reginald Birch role in his father's death, and his own near death and Holden's suicide. However much we are critical of Mr. Bowden's work, the amount of emotional upheaval Haytham goes through in that book is enough to hurt him beyond repair: in other words, he gives up on humanity as every Templar does and submits himself to putting himself above everyone and right the wrongs that were done to him.
Haytham is brutal in his language in the game - most especially in this memory - and moreso, he is unrepentant, even at the end later. Rogue enforces this with his confrontation with Adewale - which actually adds another layer that he held Edward in contempt, and from there it doesn't take much for his character to take shape.
But honestly, justifying Haytham at this point is moot, because half of this chapter is shameless self-gratification as we take one of our favorite things to do, character development, and PLAY. This chapter is glorious because is covers so many things: philosophy, history, Haytham, Connor's very messed up feelings, Eddie Kenway, all in the name of character development. Nobody leaves this chapter unchanged, everyone learns something for good or ill, and we get to compare and contrast two characters that are intimately tied to one another. There is no small amount of revelry here, it is intense and emotional and downright worldshaking for Connor's POV, disquieting and insightful all in one breath, and for Connor who has so continuously run away from his feelings about his father it's almost too much for him to take and remain sane. We worry that we took it too far (and this doesn't even get into later memory sequences) but at the same time we couldn't quite help ourselves.
We hope you enjoyed.
Next chapter: The story of Shay Cormac. As if we haven't done enough to Connor...
Pour no frères et sœurs en France: Nous sommes avec vous. Nos coeurs, nos esprits, nos prières. Vivre la France! We would have written that sooner, but we put in the chapter notes Friday night after beating AC Syndicate. We woke up in the morning to learn what happened... There's a person we gamed with on AC Unity, we only know him through the game; no email, no name, nothing. We've left six messages in the game but we haven't heard from him... Though honestly no one's playing Unity now that Syndicate is out, and who's even gaming now with all that's going on in France? Still... Nous sommes avec vous!