HAYTHAM

Do you remember when I spoke of the loyalty? The unknown rush of family connection I felt, on first seeing my son? This time, it was different. And I wasn't sure I liked it.

This time, I was so stunned – by the boy and my own stupidity – that I felt none. The way he surveyed me was enough. Enough to sever any connections to him at all. His scarred, bloody lip curled in hatred. Pure, unwavering hatred. That in itself was unnerving. This boy, whom once I trusted, and wanted so badly to meet, was the enemy. The Assassin.

Why had I not realised before? Why had I not – when this enemy emerged – investigated? Was I just lazy? Ignorant? Selfish? All of the above?

Ratohnhaké:ton's eyes flashed to the amulet around my neck. I shivered. His presence was like being surrounded by shipwrecks: eerie, but fascinating. But I couldn't stay here. I couldn't contemplate why my son seemed to loathe me. Besides, I needed to think. The stench of the prison rose like steam on a marsh. It was watering my eyes.

"Deal with this, Charles," I huffed. Even Lee was perplexed by my stare-out with the boy. With the image of him strong as the smell, I walked briskly to the door.

How? I thought on reaching the outside. How could such a boy become an Assassin?

Of course, his mother had always encouraged Assassin morals. Of course, his tribe were in Achilles Davenport's pocket. That stubborn old dog was still alive. The only Assassin left, and one that could do no harm...so I'd assumed. Now look at what he's trained up.

Even so, I was unsure of what to think. The image of the boy was still fresh in my mind. I sized him up against the boy I'd seen in 1760; against my own face; against Ziio. He was the image of her. Granted his hair had come from me. Although, by now my once jet mane was stiff, like silver straw. I wondered if Ziio's hair was the same by now. She would still be beautiful, naturally. If only I could see her...

There was so much I wanted to ask Ratohnhaké:ton. Random memories crossed my mind, such as his mother, and each one posed a question. How was Ziio? Did she know where he was? Where I was?

I hoped not. She'd think the devil of me, seeing what I'd done. In these sixteen years, I'd been more brutal than ever. Not a single obstruction was spared of his life. Innocents killed? I'd simply stand back; watch it happen. Why would I care? Without the affection I felt while with Ziio, I was a demon. I was robbed of my humanity through years of slaughter.

"Charles?" I asked, when he finally arrived outside.

"Yes?"

I posed this next question carefully: "What did you say the boy's name was?"

Charles looked at the brick wall. Clearly my son's name meant little to him. "Connor. At least, I think so. Why?"

"Never mind." I busied myself fixing my tricorne hat: the same I'd had for years. One of the first things I did on meeting Ziio was adjust it. First impressions mattered, back then.

Connor. Who had nicknamed him that? Achilles? Ziio? Well, it was certainly simpler than Ratohnhaké:ton. Pronounce that, I dared not. I supposed that made him Connor Kenway. Hm, the surname suited him.

Again, carefully: "Does...does he have a surname?"

Charles' blue eyes narrowed. Was I trying his patience? "Not one that I know of."

Phew. That was what I wanted to hear. Charles couldn't know that my blood was in the boy's veins.

"Not that it matters, of course," he continued, walking along. "He will be tried without a name."

I froze inside. Tried? Of course. Connor was accused of the counterfeit. Surely the sentence wouldn't condemn him? Not to the gallows, at least.

Why do you fret? You only saw him once.
He will be fine.

"What are the charges? Just counterfeiting?" Attempting casualness, my voice was an octave higher.

"Well," Charles puffed dramatically, chest raised, "this is the issue. Thomas and I were discussing this moments ago."

"Do tell."

He leaned in closer. "If we were to pin Washington's plot on the boy, we could have him hanged. And there." Charles indicated his neck, then pointing it to the sky. "A threat is gone."

Inside, I felt my throat tighten. My whole body tensed. But outside, I showed no signs of worry. I blinked in acknowledgement. "I see. Would that be at all possible?"

"Easily. And then we can finish what we started." Charles drew his finger across his throat. "Thomas'll have to kill him quietly. Washington, I mean."

Oh my god. He wants me to sign Connor's death warrant.
Your own son. Confirm his execution. What sort of monster are you?
I can't do this...I can't...

"There must be another way," I said, hiding the urgency. "If the boy is in prison, he is no threat. Is it necessary to...?"

Charles shook his head. "You've seen what he can do, Haytham. Johnson! Pitcairn! Both fallen at his hand. What if he ever walked free?"

I pictured Connor again, in that cage of a cell. His eyes – though they shimmered with the grace of Ziio – were livid. The way they flashed angrily at me, I knew he'd pounce if he weren't behind bars. But why? What had he learned? Had he ignored anything his mother had said? It didn't fit. None of it fitted.

"Haytham?"

"Hm? Sorry."

"What do you say? Shall I speak with the jury?"

I admired Charles' suggestion. He was doing the right thing. In his eyes, I hated Washington as much as the redcoats. Sending Connor to the gallows was a practical and legal solution. He was a pain in our arses anyway, what, with the deaths of Johnson and Pitcairn. 'What is the problem?' my colleague's bright eyes said.

The problem is, Charles, that I'm being put on the spot here. I have no excuse not to ratify Connor's execution. I must. But, you see, I can't. I have a beating wreck inside my chest. You may have one, too. It's called a heart. Whatever remains of mine tells me I cannot. I cannot allow my son to die. That is why he must live, Charles. Live like the memory of his mother.

Of course, I was none too keen to say this. With a deep sigh, I spoke the words of a criminal: "Yes. Do it."

"Very well." Charles nodded dutifully, before patting me on the shoulder. "I will meet you at the inn later."

Well done, Haytham. Try and work your way out of this one.

There would be time to figure that out later. One thing was for sure, and with every step through New York back to the inn, I had a new mantra.

Connor isn't going to die.

Hey guys!

In Oliver Bowden's version of events, Haytham and Charles' conversation is a lot more dramatic, with Haytham bunching up Charles' cape and shouting at him. That's not gonna happen. Not at this stage in the game!

Anyway, how many of you have read Bowden's 'Forsaken'? It's really well written and I love the way he presents Haytham. But as this is a story about him and Ziio, I think he needs to be softer around the edges. I hope that's not a problem.

Enough bluffing from me. I hope you enjoyed!