Been running into some writer's block recently, so I've been trying to pull myself out of it by writing some other random things for a change of pace. Sadly, though, cranking out this chapter was still akin to pulling teeth. e_e As such, I apologize if this is a little more lackluster and uninspired than usual or... uh... something. /flops around
Oh yeah, there are a few nods to AC: Forsaken here, but it's nothing huge if you've never read the novel before. Anyway, thank you all, as always, for reading! ♥
***
Day One Hundred and Seventy-One Haytham had long considered writing to be his favorite way of unwinding.
Since boyhood, he’d confided in the pages of his journals, leaving his most private thoughts and darkest secrets between their leather bindings. As he grew older, he did wonder about the safety and security of doing so, considering that he’d never bothered to really hide the things, but by the time his journals contained more than the ramblings of a child, the habit was too ingrained into his being to stop--and the number of people he could trust, truly trust, had dwindled. There simply was no one that he could speak to anymore.
Even so, though, the words would not come easily today.
Immediately upon returning to the Kenway residence the night before, Haytham had one of his servants book passage on the next ship to leave for New York City at Connor’s insistence, but he could not fault his son’s need to depart as soon as possible--really, he’d been expecting it. Rogers had again faded into fevered delirium by the time they had come home, so there was no way to know when the execution date was.
It was raining when they left the docks, and it was still raining now, several hours into their journey. Despite the weather, though, Connor had taken his leave to wander the deck; Haytham could only assume that he’d left to gather his thoughts and try to formulate a plan--something he should be doing as well. With the city under Charles’ control, what could the two of them accomplish alone? Oh, he did not doubt their skills, but even so, ability could only counteract the weight of numbers to a certain degree when the odds were stacked so heavily against them.
He could not come up with anything though; his mind was too clouded with other thoughts. Despite that, Haytham stared at the journal opened before him, unsure of how to progress and unable to put anything to paper--unable to clear his mind. He’d written the date and his son’s name at the top of the page before stopping; he knew of the root of his problem at least. Haytham had already written extensively about his son in previous entries, but he had not touched upon the subject of father and son as a unit--or rather, together in this... this... partnership that they had.
Was it some sort of subconscious disgust? Doubtful. Considering all that he had done to the boy thus far, Haytham was of the mind that if he was going to lose sleep over it, then it would have happened long ago. Then maybe it was a fear that others would find his writings and assume things? Again, he doubted that that was the problem: Haytham was the sort of individual who took into account the opinions of others, but he would never be ruled by them.
No, he suspected that his hesitancy to write about them being them stemmed from a feeling he’d once felt in the presence of Ziio--a most unusual sensation of confusion and indecision. He’d recognized the possibility back then of having something more, something incredibly intimate, but Haytham had opted not to act on it until it was too late, until she’d slipped right out of his grasp.
That same hesitancy lingered with him to this day. Time had taught him to be all too cautious about bringing people into his inner circle and past his emotional walls; it was almost like he’d been cursed. On one too many occasions had those he cared for, cherished, loved, left his side: his father, his mother, Reginald, Ziio, Holden, Charles...
Haytham was less than eager to add one more to the list.
Connor had changed him for the better when it came to thinking about the relationship between Assassins and Templars--the things that they shared, the ways in which they differed, the possibilities that could open before him if their forces combined. For this, he was thankful, and for this, he approved of keeping the boy beside him.
When it came to a personal level, though, Haytham was again unsure of where he stood, if his gains outweighed his losses. With each supposed victory, he wondered what he had given to attain it--wondered if he had, in fact, lost to the boy instead. He had never intended to become so attached to his son; the idea had been for the clinging need to be one-sided, so as best to make use of Connor’s skills and abilities--not for the feeling to be mutual, or worse yet, to be one-sided on his part.
Haytham was supposed to be above the mess of emotions that ran between them. So where had his plans gone so wrong? When had he fallen for his own trap? He was falling madly, deeply in--
The sound of approaching footsteps had Haytham jerking his head up and instinctively shutting his journal, and a moment later, Connor stepped into their shared cabin without so much as a word of warning or greeting. The boy’s gaze swept over the notebook in front of his father and the quill in his hands before sweeping away; a faint rustle of fabric told Haytham that he was removing his soaked cloak and coat, and the slap of wet clothing against wood signaled that he’d tossed it away somewhere.
“You shouldn’t have gone out in such weather,” he said quietly, carefully stowing away his writing materials. “Are you trying to catch a cold? I hope you realize that I won’t be rescuing your men on my own.” Connor grunted behind him in answer, and Haytham sighed.
So, the awkwardness between them lingered.
He still felt rather ashamed about his own behavior, the desperation that he’d allowed to bubble to the surface, and to add to his displeasure, Haytham felt some residual anger toward Connor for having bolted like that, especially after all of the liberties that he’d granted the boy. It left a rather bitter taste in his mouth, and if he allowed himself to dwell on the matter, he would have recognized the feeling as jealousy--jealousy over the fact that, even now, his son cared for his men so much that he’d tear after anyone who would do them harm while armed with nothing but his fists.
--A matter that he had to resolve when they reached port.
It would have been easier to just return the boy’s equipment to him, but a part of him did not want to. Like his Assassin robes, those tools were reminders of things that Haytham did not like, did not approve of, so it made sense, did it not? It made sense to want to gift him with new things--things that would remind Connor of him. Oh, he knew all too well that his son was not the type to be won with trinkets, but it would make Haytham feel better at least.
“Have you thought of what you want to do upon our arrival?” he eventually asked, turning in his chair to get a better look at the boy. Connor had taken a seat on a barrel, arms folded loosely across his chest, and he calmly met his gaze, his voice steady and matter-of-fact.
“I will save my brothers. It is that simple.”
Haytham had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, that much is obvious. I assume that you have some idea of what to do before and after as well? Or have you already forgotten that your friends are being held at Bridewell Prison?”
“You do not need to come with me, if you are finding this to be troublesome. This is not your battle, nor is it your problem,” Connor replied, biting the words out with a low growl, and Haytham wished that he could say that it wasn’t, that he could ignore the two prisoners they’d come for; they were, at worst, his sworn enemies, and at best, irritants in his side. The only reason why he cared (if this vaguely annoyed emotion could even be called that) was because the boy did, and, well, he was here to make sure that his son didn’t accidentally get himself killed during the rescue attempt.
“You have made it my problem,” he muttered under his breath. Haytham drummed his fingers against the table and sighed. “Look, even if the other Assassins appear, you’ll be outnumbered, and I doubt you’ll have much time to coordinate anything with them. Blending with the crowd can get us in, but what is your exit strategy? Where do you intend to hide them?
“And before you suggest it, we are not taking them to my residence. I’ve enough trouble with just one Assassin under my roof, thank you very much.”
“I do not think they would accept your hospitality, even if you offered,” Connor replied, the faintest hint of a wry smile pulling at his lips. “The frontier is vast. They can take refuge there for the time being, but their final destination should be the Homestead. They will be safe there.”
“They?” Haytham lifted his eyebrows. “You do not intend to go with them?”
At that, the boy gave his father a puzzled look before shaking his head. “I am staying with you. You said that we would hunt for Lee together.”
It was difficult to not cringe a little with the boy’s wording, but he nodded his head in agreement. “Yes, I... I suppose I did.”
If Connor picked up on his discomfort, he did not act upon it, instead plowing onwards, as if suddenly taken by inspiration. Perhaps his trip up to the deck had cleared his thoughts some, the rain washing away his agitation and replacing it with crisp and clear focus. Haytham’s own preoccupations continued to gnaw at him, but it helped a little that he could turn his attention to something else for the time being.
“We will need horses to reach the outskirts of the city and a means of taking out the hangman’s noose.”
“Throwing knives work better than a fired shot,” Haytham added idly, and when the boy gave him that inquisitive look of his, he merely smiled. As realization dawned upon him, Connor lifted a hand, touching it to his throat. For a moment, it looked as if his son would ask him additional questions, but Haytham cut him off before another word could slip out of his mouth. “They’re easier to conceal than a musket in any case, and they’ll no doubt be keeping a close watch on the rooftops after what happened at your execution.”
His son gave him one last curious look before nodding his head. “We have a plan.”
“The bare bones of one. I’d prefer to have something a little more detailed to go off of.”
“Then let us work.” Connor dragged his barrel over to the table and took a seat, and in that moment, Haytham knew that he wouldn’t be getting a wink of sleep that night. He’d brought it upon himself, but it was necessary to save the Assassins--necessary to make sure his self-sacrificing son didn’t get himself killed in the process.
Haytham had saved the boy at Bridewell once before; he prayed that he wouldn’t have to do it again.
Fill: The Re-Education of Connor (Kenway) [ 15 / ? ]
Oh yeah, there are a few nods to AC: Forsaken here, but it's nothing huge if you've never read the novel before. Anyway, thank you all, as always, for reading! ♥
***
Day One Hundred and Seventy-One
Haytham had long considered writing to be his favorite way of unwinding.
Since boyhood, he’d confided in the pages of his journals, leaving his most private thoughts and darkest secrets between their leather bindings. As he grew older, he did wonder about the safety and security of doing so, considering that he’d never bothered to really hide the things, but by the time his journals contained more than the ramblings of a child, the habit was too ingrained into his being to stop--and the number of people he could trust, truly trust, had dwindled. There simply was no one that he could speak to anymore.
Even so, though, the words would not come easily today.
Immediately upon returning to the Kenway residence the night before, Haytham had one of his servants book passage on the next ship to leave for New York City at Connor’s insistence, but he could not fault his son’s need to depart as soon as possible--really, he’d been expecting it. Rogers had again faded into fevered delirium by the time they had come home, so there was no way to know when the execution date was.
It was raining when they left the docks, and it was still raining now, several hours into their journey. Despite the weather, though, Connor had taken his leave to wander the deck; Haytham could only assume that he’d left to gather his thoughts and try to formulate a plan--something he should be doing as well. With the city under Charles’ control, what could the two of them accomplish alone? Oh, he did not doubt their skills, but even so, ability could only counteract the weight of numbers to a certain degree when the odds were stacked so heavily against them.
He could not come up with anything though; his mind was too clouded with other thoughts. Despite that, Haytham stared at the journal opened before him, unsure of how to progress and unable to put anything to paper--unable to clear his mind. He’d written the date and his son’s name at the top of the page before stopping; he knew of the root of his problem at least. Haytham had already written extensively about his son in previous entries, but he had not touched upon the subject of father and son as a unit--or rather, together in this... this... partnership that they had.
Was it some sort of subconscious disgust? Doubtful. Considering all that he had done to the boy thus far, Haytham was of the mind that if he was going to lose sleep over it, then it would have happened long ago. Then maybe it was a fear that others would find his writings and assume things? Again, he doubted that that was the problem: Haytham was the sort of individual who took into account the opinions of others, but he would never be ruled by them.
No, he suspected that his hesitancy to write about them being them stemmed from a feeling he’d once felt in the presence of Ziio--a most unusual sensation of confusion and indecision. He’d recognized the possibility back then of having something more, something incredibly intimate, but Haytham had opted not to act on it until it was too late, until she’d slipped right out of his grasp.
That same hesitancy lingered with him to this day. Time had taught him to be all too cautious about bringing people into his inner circle and past his emotional walls; it was almost like he’d been cursed. On one too many occasions had those he cared for, cherished, loved, left his side: his father, his mother, Reginald, Ziio, Holden, Charles...
Haytham was less than eager to add one more to the list.
Connor had changed him for the better when it came to thinking about the relationship between Assassins and Templars--the things that they shared, the ways in which they differed, the possibilities that could open before him if their forces combined. For this, he was thankful, and for this, he approved of keeping the boy beside him.
When it came to a personal level, though, Haytham was again unsure of where he stood, if his gains outweighed his losses. With each supposed victory, he wondered what he had given to attain it--wondered if he had, in fact, lost to the boy instead. He had never intended to become so attached to his son; the idea had been for the clinging need to be one-sided, so as best to make use of Connor’s skills and abilities--not for the feeling to be mutual, or worse yet, to be one-sided on his part.
Haytham was supposed to be above the mess of emotions that ran between them. So where had his plans gone so wrong? When had he fallen for his own trap? He was falling madly, deeply in--
The sound of approaching footsteps had Haytham jerking his head up and instinctively shutting his journal, and a moment later, Connor stepped into their shared cabin without so much as a word of warning or greeting. The boy’s gaze swept over the notebook in front of his father and the quill in his hands before sweeping away; a faint rustle of fabric told Haytham that he was removing his soaked cloak and coat, and the slap of wet clothing against wood signaled that he’d tossed it away somewhere.
“You shouldn’t have gone out in such weather,” he said quietly, carefully stowing away his writing materials. “Are you trying to catch a cold? I hope you realize that I won’t be rescuing your men on my own.” Connor grunted behind him in answer, and Haytham sighed.
So, the awkwardness between them lingered.
He still felt rather ashamed about his own behavior, the desperation that he’d allowed to bubble to the surface, and to add to his displeasure, Haytham felt some residual anger toward Connor for having bolted like that, especially after all of the liberties that he’d granted the boy. It left a rather bitter taste in his mouth, and if he allowed himself to dwell on the matter, he would have recognized the feeling as jealousy--jealousy over the fact that, even now, his son cared for his men so much that he’d tear after anyone who would do them harm while armed with nothing but his fists.
--A matter that he had to resolve when they reached port.
It would have been easier to just return the boy’s equipment to him, but a part of him did not want to. Like his Assassin robes, those tools were reminders of things that Haytham did not like, did not approve of, so it made sense, did it not? It made sense to want to gift him with new things--things that would remind Connor of him. Oh, he knew all too well that his son was not the type to be won with trinkets, but it would make Haytham feel better at least.
“Have you thought of what you want to do upon our arrival?” he eventually asked, turning in his chair to get a better look at the boy. Connor had taken a seat on a barrel, arms folded loosely across his chest, and he calmly met his gaze, his voice steady and matter-of-fact.
“I will save my brothers. It is that simple.”
Haytham had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, that much is obvious. I assume that you have some idea of what to do before and after as well? Or have you already forgotten that your friends are being held at Bridewell Prison?”
“You do not need to come with me, if you are finding this to be troublesome. This is not your battle, nor is it your problem,” Connor replied, biting the words out with a low growl, and Haytham wished that he could say that it wasn’t, that he could ignore the two prisoners they’d come for; they were, at worst, his sworn enemies, and at best, irritants in his side. The only reason why he cared (if this vaguely annoyed emotion could even be called that) was because the boy did, and, well, he was here to make sure that his son didn’t accidentally get himself killed during the rescue attempt.
“You have made it my problem,” he muttered under his breath. Haytham drummed his fingers against the table and sighed. “Look, even if the other Assassins appear, you’ll be outnumbered, and I doubt you’ll have much time to coordinate anything with them. Blending with the crowd can get us in, but what is your exit strategy? Where do you intend to hide them?
“And before you suggest it, we are not taking them to my residence. I’ve enough trouble with just one Assassin under my roof, thank you very much.”
“I do not think they would accept your hospitality, even if you offered,” Connor replied, the faintest hint of a wry smile pulling at his lips. “The frontier is vast. They can take refuge there for the time being, but their final destination should be the Homestead. They will be safe there.”
“They?” Haytham lifted his eyebrows. “You do not intend to go with them?”
At that, the boy gave his father a puzzled look before shaking his head. “I am staying with you. You said that we would hunt for Lee together.”
It was difficult to not cringe a little with the boy’s wording, but he nodded his head in agreement. “Yes, I... I suppose I did.”
If Connor picked up on his discomfort, he did not act upon it, instead plowing onwards, as if suddenly taken by inspiration. Perhaps his trip up to the deck had cleared his thoughts some, the rain washing away his agitation and replacing it with crisp and clear focus. Haytham’s own preoccupations continued to gnaw at him, but it helped a little that he could turn his attention to something else for the time being.
“We will need horses to reach the outskirts of the city and a means of taking out the hangman’s noose.”
“Throwing knives work better than a fired shot,” Haytham added idly, and when the boy gave him that inquisitive look of his, he merely smiled. As realization dawned upon him, Connor lifted a hand, touching it to his throat. For a moment, it looked as if his son would ask him additional questions, but Haytham cut him off before another word could slip out of his mouth. “They’re easier to conceal than a musket in any case, and they’ll no doubt be keeping a close watch on the rooftops after what happened at your execution.”
His son gave him one last curious look before nodding his head. “We have a plan.”
“The bare bones of one. I’d prefer to have something a little more detailed to go off of.”
“Then let us work.” Connor dragged his barrel over to the table and took a seat, and in that moment, Haytham knew that he wouldn’t be getting a wink of sleep that night. He’d brought it upon himself, but it was necessary to save the Assassins--necessary to make sure his self-sacrificing son didn’t get himself killed in the process.
Haytham had saved the boy at Bridewell once before; he prayed that he wouldn’t have to do it again.