HAYTHAM

I was elated with hope. Connor brought so many revelations; it took me days to focus on each. Of course, with it came questions: where was Ziio? Could she really be living, or was that just an orphan's wish? Not that Connor was an orphan. He had me.

Well, what luck. The father who never nurtured him.

That statement may have been unfair. In fact, I asked Robert to cook extra for that night, and Connor stayed for dinner. It was an awkward meal, eaten in silence thicker than the soup itself. But it was an experience I'd missed out on. Perhaps it was extending the hand of companionship to my son. I wasn't sure I liked the boy, but by now, we had something in common: Ziio. A mutual bond, I suppose.

We continued to read William's diary. There was little on what actually happened to Ziio, but by the looks of things, she was transferred in March 1764. Molly (Johnson's wife) had not told her husband of her plans to sell 'her housemaids', but as soon as he found out, he'd seemingly sent an associate to buy Ziio back from the slave market and transfer her to the plantation. It all seemed so complex. But why? All for precursor information?

In the end, it made sense. Ziio – in William's eyes – could not be freed; she'd only run her mouth and turn tribes against him. She could not be killed, for she contained vital information that one day she might share. A threat of invading her village would soon have her talking. I shuddered at that thought. How had my men – my men – tried to wriggle this from Ziio? Had they beaten her? Tortured her? Worse?

She was so courageous, to stay silent.

Silent was what I would stay, too. As Connor left that evening, I vowed to feign ignorance to Charles. I would be seeing him in two days – doubtless to tell me what I already knew: that Benjamin had fled for Martinique – which I dreaded. How would I look Lee in the eye, after all he did to Ziio? How could he conceal this information, and why did I never suspect it?

I'd discover this a few days later, when at last I had to face my fears.

Why is it always a tavern?

Once again I sat at a table by the window. The time was three in the afternoon; the early drunkards and late diners huddled in the small space. There was only one empty table, which was swiftly occupied. The irritating chatter buzzed in my ear; I gazed outside the cloudy window.

Eventually, Charles weaved his way through the tables and placed two tankards down. Murmuring a thanks, I watched him sit opposite me and adopt a business-like tone.

"Bad news, Haytham," he murmured.

"Oh?"

"Our suspicions surrounding Benjamin Church were right. His loyalty has indeed shifted to the British Army."

I didn't even bother acting surprised. I simply pulled my tankard closer, sighing. "Excellent. A traitor is the last we need at this moment."

Thankfully, Charles said nothing at this. I hoped it was a sign of his ignorance, of him being unaware of my contact with Connor. Or was he pretending? He has done, for many years.

After a while, he spoke up. "That in mind, it is still possible to track him. I believe he has fled for Martinique by ship."

"Why, though?"

"I don't know," Charles despaired. "It seems odd, I grant you."

"Very queer..." I agreed, not really paying attention. I stared distantly into the window pane, unable to look at him. But how was I to respond? I couldn't send Charles after Church: I'd begun that mission with Connor. I'd have to own up to it in a moment. "Well, unless we take action, I fear that Church is beyond our reach. Vengeance seems so trivial in wartime. I am beginning to wonder if it is worth it."

"Something else you plan to neglect?"

The words sent shots of hatred through my spine. I clenched my fist around my tankard, and bared my teeth. "I don't like that tone, Charles. I suggest you to remove it, 'less I am compelled to remove it forcibly."

Charles submitted, staring into his ale. I couldn't say I hated him for that, because he was right. I'd abandoned many of our projects to focus on more 'practical' pursuits. I couldn't bring myself to despise him, at any rate. Though I knew he was involved in Ziio's kidnap, the reality of it was yet to settle.

"As it happens, I have obtained access to a ship, and plan to follow Church's path for...different reasons."

His eyebrow rose. He opened his mouth to ask how I already knew, but thought better of it. He sighed. "Well, I shan't question your decision, but may I make a suggestion?"

"Hm?"

"That you make haste about setting course," Charles murmured, checking that nobody was listening. "Else the wretched Assassin may get there first. He is bound to thirst for Church's blood; the sooner you reach Church, the better your chances of killing the Assassin, too."

I froze, realisation passing over me like a shiver. I have to confess. I have to tell him. I must've visibly winced, for Charles leaned in closer to read my expression. I knew how he'd react: furiously. Why was I even concerned? Charles had kept truth from me, I'd kept truth from him. I cleared my throat. "Now that you mention the boy, I think it best if he and I settle this courteously."

"Why? Am I to assume that there is some..." He paused, choosing his next word carefully. "History, between you and, erm –"

"Connor."

"Yes, yes," Charles said dismissively. "That was his name."

"Ah, well...you see..." I took a sip of ale, letting the liquid strengthen me like medicine. "There is a matter of great importance surrounding the boy. He...he is my son, Charles."

I hung my head, waiting for Charles to react. Nothing. Why won't he say anything? Or breathe, even? The hairs on my neck were static with trepidation.

"The Assassin? Your son?" he asked at last.

I nodded, head bowed low.

"That explains so much," he muttered darkly. Why was there no anger in his voice? Was he saving it? "Who is his mother?"

"I think you know that already," I spat scornfully.

There was a pause, in which Charles downed almost half a pint. Eventually, he slapped it down on the table, making me look up. But his expression had changed. His icy eyes were squinting, and his mouth hung open. "I see." It began as a whisper, but as he spoke, his voice rose hysterically. "There was more to your private affairs than met the eye. I was right to be suspicious all those years ago."

All around us, people were ogling like fish in a pond. I braced myself in shame.

"You had a guilty secret all along," he snarled. "You raped that Mohawk woman, didn't you?"

That, I did not expect. I'd heard him say some shocking things, but that...that was an accusation I couldn't bear. "What? How dare you! I never –"

But I was stopped by Charles' long finger, jabbing at me like a blade. "I knew it! That savage was more than your heart-throb."

As the chatter dimmed, blood began pounding in my ears.

"She was your concubine."

My breaths were short, shaky.

"Your animal."

My arms were shuddering uncontrollably.

"Your whore," he yelled in the near-silence, "whom you could leave with a half-breed child, that she might raise him in the dirt!"

"I was in love with her!"

One moment, I was sat, spasms of rage shooting through me. The next, I'd jumped from my seat, slamming my hands on the table. The tavern was completely silent. Not a single pair of eyes looked another way. Charles regarded me with ice-blue eyes and scarlet face. But I didn't care. I was blind with fury. To insult Ziio was to insult me. I caught my breath, nostrils still flaring.

"I loved that woman!" I continued. "Somehow, that seems beyond your realms of acceptance, Charles! Go on, enlighten me. How, in your eyes, is it immoral to cherish a person – whom deep down, is the same as you, or I – yet still be acceptable to burn her village, and attack my son?"

"That is completely irrelevant!" It was Charles' turn to flare up, towering over me from the opposite side. "How many times must we remind you? We never burned that filthy little settlement!"

"Oh?" I shouted. "And what of Connor? What did he do to deserve such foul treatment from you?"

"Don't you dare stand up for his sake, Haytham!" he yelled, his chest heaving over the silence. "He is but your offspring. You never gave a damn about that boy."

Never gave a damn. Never gave a damn?
Connor is my son.
My son...and I...I love him.

I couldn't stop myself. I lunged forward, gripping Charles by the collar and shaking him roughly. "If I didn't care about my own son..." My voice was raw. "Then why would he be alive now, Charles? Why the hell would I spare him?"

He growled, regaining balance and snatching at my collar in return. My head throbbed like a war drum, and the silence, the faces around me meant nothing. All I wanted right now was to tear this bastard limb from limb. But I was stopped.

"Excuse me, what is going on?"

While we were sparring, a young woman had approached cautiously. Charles' grip on me slackened; my eyes unclenched. It was the barmaid. On seeing her, it was Charles who reacted first: with a firm shove, I landed in my seat. I looked up at Charles angrily.

"Oh, nothing," he said coolly. He indicated me with fake disinterest. "This man and I were...settling a score."

Settling a score. I wanted to coat those words in gunpowder and hurl them straight back at him. I was never a patient man, but never had I lost my temper like that. I loathed him. I loathed Benjamin, and all the Templars, dead or alive. I hated them.

"I see," the barmaid replied. "Well, if this continues, I'm afraid I will ask you to leave."

"We already are." Through gritted teeth it was hard to conceal my rage. "You! We'll discuss this outside."

Charles looked down upon me, snorting indignantly. I could read him clearly: You just had us kicked out of a tavern. Well played, Master Kenway, well played.

As soon as we were on the street, I carried on pacing. The street – thank God – was almost empty; our horses kicked and stamped at the entrance. I ignored them, though I wanted nothing more than to mount my horse and gallop off. I didn't want to continue this argument. Charles had already pushed me too far. One more step, and I'd fall into a blind struggle of wanting to stab him. I wanted to walk away, and never see Charles again. But I wasn't going to have that luxury. Soon enough, I was stopped by his voice again.

"That's it," he gasped angrily. "I should've known before. It was you!"

I whirled on him. His ageing face was creased in realisation; his fingers flexed, wanting to grab the hilt of his sword.

"You were the man who cut Connor's noose. You were the one who set that scum free!"

"What?" My voice was low, dangerous. "That was the work of –"

"An arrow," Charles interrupted, gesticulating greatly, "followed by an English throwing knife! I saw it, Haytham. I watched it fly passed my head. You! You were working with Achilles to free him!"

I doubled backwards. "No! I –"

"Because of you, Washington lives, and Thomas is dead!" he shouted.

I opened my jaw to fight back, but bit my tongue. He was right: Hickey had died that day...and it was all because of me. I was fuming, such that I had no strength to retort. But I forced myself to watch as Charles leapt towards me, red as a flame.

"Traitor!" he roared. "You're a traitor to this noble cause!"

I gasped as my back hit a cold wall. I jumped to avoid Charles, who took a swipe at me with his hand.

"All along...I was sure...it was the savage..." he heaved, still attempting to strike me. "The thorn in our side. But it was you!"

"How could you think of me so?" I retorted. At last, I caught hold of his wrist. It jerked in my grasp, but clearly it hurt to move. He paused, still heaving as I spoke. "My only concern is for the Order!"

Lies...those are lies.
Lie if you must, Haytham. You. Are. A. Templar.

"You may wish to kill me for it. But what happened to Thomas was no fault of mine. There were guards on every corner. He'd have been struck anyway, by Connor's blade or by musket."

Silence. I could feel the veins pulsing in Charles' hot wrist, faster than mine. That only spurred me on.

"Yes, it was wrong to set my son free, and for that, I repent." And now, I shoved him. "Yet never, ever again do I want to hear 'traitor' on my behalf. Do you hear me, Charles? Nor rape, nor any other despicable crime. Are we clear?"

Lee struggled from my grasp, freeing his hand. He did not respond to my question, but regarded the empty street. Perhaps deciding which way to run? No. He turned back to me, and spat: "Decide who you stand for, Haytham. With me?" Then, he indicated his sword. "Or with them?"

At that point, my anger began to subside. Looking at Charles, livid as a feral dog, hurt me. This man was once my closest friend. My accomplice. My one and only trustee. Now, he was threatening to put me down.

"I thought you trusted me," I breathed in disbelief.

"Then you were mistaken."

My stomach plummeted, finally accepting what had to be said. "That I was. So be it. I am still your master, and you will answer to me whether it takes your fancy or not."

Charles glared, the coldest of stares I'd seen in him for years. Turning his back, he murmured: "We shall see." With a swish of his cloak, he began striding towards his horse. He mounted, and kicked him violently into a gallop. I watched him disappear behind the wall, my chest still heaving.

"We shall see," I repeated darkly.

*shivers*

I admit, I scripted this argument between Haytham and Charles waaaaay before I needed to! (All good fun hehe) well I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing this bit...ooh chills...

Thanks for reading as ever!