Reader!anons, you all are making your writer!anon turn into a giant pile of goo on the floor, okay? To the two anons who read this whole thing in one sitting, I applaud you and thank you for your enthusiasm, and I am honored (and absolutely delighted!) that something I've written would prompt such a response. And to the anon who had been lurking around before, thank you for following this story since the start! Annnnd thank you for breaking from the norm and commenting! I am most flattered that you would do that for me. *^*
And last but not least, to the first anon who commented, it was hard killing off Jamie. I've actually shied away from character death several times already for this story, but it just... had to be done this time. :( But um, yes, I hope I don't disappoint with the rest of the fic. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your lovely comment!
So now that I've rambled enough... The next part, from your slow writer!anon to you lovely, lovely reader!anons. ♥
***
Day One Hundred and Eighty-Seven Escaping Bridewell Prison turned out to be easier than escaping the city proper. The confusion surrounding the gallows gave both men enough cover to slip out unnoticed, but once they were out on the open streets, there wasn’t really any good way to hide the fact that they were carrying around a dead man.
Walking the horses gave too many individuals the opportunity to gawk and draw attention to them, while galloping their rides through the streets was hardly any better, snarled with people as they were. By the time they’d managed to get halfway down the block, they had no choice but to trample all in their path in the hopes of escaping the droves of militia that were now on their tail. The frontier was their only hope of escape, and it was toward that destination that they rode.
Time and time again, Haytham was tempted to tell the boy to leave the Assassin’s body behind. It hampered his riding, which slowed him down, and it also meant that traveling by foot and escaping to the rooftops were not really viable options either. It irritated him to no end, but to see the determination on his son’s face made him swallow whatever words of protest that sat at the tip of his tongue; Haytham had done enough damage in the boy’s life, and for once, he would not try to do more harm.
It was only when the soft embrace of twilight enveloped them that they were able to shake off their pursuers after many hours of looping, circling, and backtracking through the forest. They had ridden largely in silence, what few words they shared were terse and to the point; this was, Haytham felt, more than just because they were being chased. The expression Connor wore was frozen in a mask, and he seemed a touch too focused on the task at hand, like he was trying to mask another emotion behind his concentration.
He would not pry though, would not do anything aside from press a hand to the boy’s shoulder when they at last stopped for the night. Haytham assumed that he was still mourning the loss of his brother, even if he had put up a brave front while they had still been in the city; the woods did, in a way, have a way of making a man feel sentimental.
He, too, could feel its effects upon him, and he hated it. Haytham could think of nothing but bronzed skin beneath his fingertips, proud eyes, and soft lips beneath his own. It did not matter how much he tried to work on their next plan of action; his thoughts would continue to turn toward his son until at last he gave up, allowing himself to wallow in his feelings.
They would eventually bury Colley at the base of the tallest tree in the area, and they did so in near silence, with Connor murmuring something in his native tongue as they settled the earth over the freshly dug grave. Haytham was not a religious man and had no idea if the Assassin was, but he hoped that the individual had found peace, somewhere and somehow.
When the task was completed, Connor thanked him again for allowing him the time to do this--to give his brother a proper burial despite the risk that it put the both of them at--and Haytham had merely smiled, bittersweet. Pain was still etched in the features of the boy’s face, but there was nothing he could do to erase it. For too long, he was not the father that he should have been, and while their relationship was patched now, he was still not the father he should be and never would be, given all that had transpired between them.
What comfort he could give would be found in gentle caresses and soft kisses, but it felt... wrong at this moment. So, he did nothing.
By the time they arrived back in Philadelphia, Haytham felt as if he had gone mute, seeing as he’d hardly spoken for days now. The sounds of the city were loud and grating upon his nerves after the quiet of the woods, but his mood lightened a little when he saw Mrs. Langley waiting for them in the open doorway of the Kenway home.
--Even Connor managed to crack a smile when the woman came over and pulled them both into a fierce embrace.
The joy, however, was short-lived. No more than a few hours had passed since their return that his son came to seek his company in the privacy of his bedchambers, his expression serious and his gaze revealing a sorrow he still would not voice. “I must return to the Homestead,” he said quietly. “Lee will not be satisfied with the results from Bridewell Prison.”
The words, “And he will want to finish the job,” hung unsaid in the air.
“And?” Haytham turned away from his dresser, hands automatically moving to fold behind his back; he had been expecting this. To be quite honest, he was surprised that Connor had not taken them straight there. Perhaps he had needed time for his grief to stew, for the anger he felt to rekindle his need for action. Well, it didn’t matter; the time had finally come. “What will you do?”
As much of a fiasco as the execution had been for them, Charles had fared no better. One of the Assassins was now gone from this world, but he’d failed to kill the rest whom he flushed out, and now? Now the general had no more cards to play, no more victims to put out on display and draw the Brotherhood to him. No, if he wanted access to them, Charles would have to go to the Assassins--to the Homestead, which was, logically speaking, their last stronghold.
“I will kill him,” Connor replied simply, arms folding across his chest as if daring Haytham to challenge him.
He rolled his eyes and made a soft, irritated noise. “Do you think he will march there alone, boy? Do you think that he’s that much of a fool?
“He has many men of the Order at his disposal. He has led armies. What will you do against such odds?”
“My brothers--”
“--Are battered and lost. Will you still send them into battle when their best hope is for a quick and painless death?”
“We have won against greater odds before,” Connor countered, the volume of his voice growing with his irritation now. “Do not try to stop me, father.” Those words came out as a snarl. “Lee will die by my hands.”
Anger welled up within him, flaring like it had when he’d stopped Connor from riding for New York. Again and again, the boy insisted on doing everything on his own, and Haytham could not help but feel a touch offended that he did not think to ask him for assistance, especially given all that he’d done for that worthless Brotherhood of his thus far.
“Your memory is poor. Must I remind you again that we share a common enemy?” he muttered, giving his son an irritated look. “He will come at you with as many men as he can muster, so I ask you this: why do you not do the same?”
“I cannot ask the Homesteaders to fight. There are only the seven--” Connor froze for a moment, gaze dropping toward the ground. “There are only the six of us. Who else is there?”
“You forget the men I have at my beck and call.”
The boy lifted his eyes, brow creased and lips curled into a frown. “I do not understand.”
“It’s quite simple,” Haytham answered, taking a step closer to his son. “You need men to help you protect the Homestead, and I--” He pressed a hand to his chest and forced a smirk to his lips. “--command the other half of the Order. Surely you don’t need me to explain the rest.”
“Your men would never fight for an Assassin cause.”
No, they wouldn’t. On this matter, Haytham had to agree wholeheartedly with his son, but the difference was that he already had a plan in mind. True, he’d be gambling a little here, relying entirely on his son’s fiercely loyal heart and unfailing desire to protect those he cared for, but it was because of those very things that he could not help but feel surer of this plan than many others he’d put together over the years.
“But they’ll fight for a Templar one.”
When Connor said nothing, Haytham looked down at his hand, fingers toying with the silver ring he found there. With a quiet sigh, he removed it and then grabbed the boy’s wrist, turning his palm upwards before depositing the item there.
“An Assassin takes on many guises to accomplish his goals,” he said, slowly curling Connor’s hand into a fist for him. “Think of this as one of them.”
He didn’t want to help the Brotherhood, not really, but to save them was to earn his son’s unswerving aid in finding and disposing of Charles. To have the boy be a Templar--a real Templar--would have filled him with an unspeakable warmth and happiness, but right now, Haytham would have to be satisfied with this lie that he himself suggested.
Pressing his hands against the boy’s arms, he pat them gently before moving away, pausing briefly to glance over his shoulder. “May the Father of Understanding guide us, hm?”
Fill: The Re-Education of Connor (Kenway) [ 17 / ? ]
And last but not least, to the first anon who commented, it was hard killing off Jamie. I've actually shied away from character death several times already for this story, but it just... had to be done this time. :( But um, yes, I hope I don't disappoint with the rest of the fic. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your lovely comment!
So now that I've rambled enough... The next part, from your slow writer!anon to you lovely, lovely reader!anons. ♥
***
Day One Hundred and Eighty-Seven
Escaping Bridewell Prison turned out to be easier than escaping the city proper. The confusion surrounding the gallows gave both men enough cover to slip out unnoticed, but once they were out on the open streets, there wasn’t really any good way to hide the fact that they were carrying around a dead man.
Walking the horses gave too many individuals the opportunity to gawk and draw attention to them, while galloping their rides through the streets was hardly any better, snarled with people as they were. By the time they’d managed to get halfway down the block, they had no choice but to trample all in their path in the hopes of escaping the droves of militia that were now on their tail. The frontier was their only hope of escape, and it was toward that destination that they rode.
Time and time again, Haytham was tempted to tell the boy to leave the Assassin’s body behind. It hampered his riding, which slowed him down, and it also meant that traveling by foot and escaping to the rooftops were not really viable options either. It irritated him to no end, but to see the determination on his son’s face made him swallow whatever words of protest that sat at the tip of his tongue; Haytham had done enough damage in the boy’s life, and for once, he would not try to do more harm.
It was only when the soft embrace of twilight enveloped them that they were able to shake off their pursuers after many hours of looping, circling, and backtracking through the forest. They had ridden largely in silence, what few words they shared were terse and to the point; this was, Haytham felt, more than just because they were being chased. The expression Connor wore was frozen in a mask, and he seemed a touch too focused on the task at hand, like he was trying to mask another emotion behind his concentration.
He would not pry though, would not do anything aside from press a hand to the boy’s shoulder when they at last stopped for the night. Haytham assumed that he was still mourning the loss of his brother, even if he had put up a brave front while they had still been in the city; the woods did, in a way, have a way of making a man feel sentimental.
He, too, could feel its effects upon him, and he hated it. Haytham could think of nothing but bronzed skin beneath his fingertips, proud eyes, and soft lips beneath his own. It did not matter how much he tried to work on their next plan of action; his thoughts would continue to turn toward his son until at last he gave up, allowing himself to wallow in his feelings.
They would eventually bury Colley at the base of the tallest tree in the area, and they did so in near silence, with Connor murmuring something in his native tongue as they settled the earth over the freshly dug grave. Haytham was not a religious man and had no idea if the Assassin was, but he hoped that the individual had found peace, somewhere and somehow.
When the task was completed, Connor thanked him again for allowing him the time to do this--to give his brother a proper burial despite the risk that it put the both of them at--and Haytham had merely smiled, bittersweet. Pain was still etched in the features of the boy’s face, but there was nothing he could do to erase it. For too long, he was not the father that he should have been, and while their relationship was patched now, he was still not the father he should be and never would be, given all that had transpired between them.
What comfort he could give would be found in gentle caresses and soft kisses, but it felt... wrong at this moment. So, he did nothing.
By the time they arrived back in Philadelphia, Haytham felt as if he had gone mute, seeing as he’d hardly spoken for days now. The sounds of the city were loud and grating upon his nerves after the quiet of the woods, but his mood lightened a little when he saw Mrs. Langley waiting for them in the open doorway of the Kenway home.
--Even Connor managed to crack a smile when the woman came over and pulled them both into a fierce embrace.
The joy, however, was short-lived. No more than a few hours had passed since their return that his son came to seek his company in the privacy of his bedchambers, his expression serious and his gaze revealing a sorrow he still would not voice. “I must return to the Homestead,” he said quietly. “Lee will not be satisfied with the results from Bridewell Prison.”
The words, “And he will want to finish the job,” hung unsaid in the air.
“And?” Haytham turned away from his dresser, hands automatically moving to fold behind his back; he had been expecting this. To be quite honest, he was surprised that Connor had not taken them straight there. Perhaps he had needed time for his grief to stew, for the anger he felt to rekindle his need for action. Well, it didn’t matter; the time had finally come. “What will you do?”
As much of a fiasco as the execution had been for them, Charles had fared no better. One of the Assassins was now gone from this world, but he’d failed to kill the rest whom he flushed out, and now? Now the general had no more cards to play, no more victims to put out on display and draw the Brotherhood to him. No, if he wanted access to them, Charles would have to go to the Assassins--to the Homestead, which was, logically speaking, their last stronghold.
“I will kill him,” Connor replied simply, arms folding across his chest as if daring Haytham to challenge him.
He rolled his eyes and made a soft, irritated noise. “Do you think he will march there alone, boy? Do you think that he’s that much of a fool?
“He has many men of the Order at his disposal. He has led armies. What will you do against such odds?”
“My brothers--”
“--Are battered and lost. Will you still send them into battle when their best hope is for a quick and painless death?”
“We have won against greater odds before,” Connor countered, the volume of his voice growing with his irritation now. “Do not try to stop me, father.” Those words came out as a snarl. “Lee will die by my hands.”
Anger welled up within him, flaring like it had when he’d stopped Connor from riding for New York. Again and again, the boy insisted on doing everything on his own, and Haytham could not help but feel a touch offended that he did not think to ask him for assistance, especially given all that he’d done for that worthless Brotherhood of his thus far.
“Your memory is poor. Must I remind you again that we share a common enemy?” he muttered, giving his son an irritated look. “He will come at you with as many men as he can muster, so I ask you this: why do you not do the same?”
“I cannot ask the Homesteaders to fight. There are only the seven--” Connor froze for a moment, gaze dropping toward the ground. “There are only the six of us. Who else is there?”
“You forget the men I have at my beck and call.”
The boy lifted his eyes, brow creased and lips curled into a frown. “I do not understand.”
“It’s quite simple,” Haytham answered, taking a step closer to his son. “You need men to help you protect the Homestead, and I--” He pressed a hand to his chest and forced a smirk to his lips. “--command the other half of the Order. Surely you don’t need me to explain the rest.”
“Your men would never fight for an Assassin cause.”
No, they wouldn’t. On this matter, Haytham had to agree wholeheartedly with his son, but the difference was that he already had a plan in mind. True, he’d be gambling a little here, relying entirely on his son’s fiercely loyal heart and unfailing desire to protect those he cared for, but it was because of those very things that he could not help but feel surer of this plan than many others he’d put together over the years.
“But they’ll fight for a Templar one.”
When Connor said nothing, Haytham looked down at his hand, fingers toying with the silver ring he found there. With a quiet sigh, he removed it and then grabbed the boy’s wrist, turning his palm upwards before depositing the item there.
“An Assassin takes on many guises to accomplish his goals,” he said, slowly curling Connor’s hand into a fist for him. “Think of this as one of them.”
He didn’t want to help the Brotherhood, not really, but to save them was to earn his son’s unswerving aid in finding and disposing of Charles. To have the boy be a Templar--a real Templar--would have filled him with an unspeakable warmth and happiness, but right now, Haytham would have to be satisfied with this lie that he himself suggested.
Pressing his hands against the boy’s arms, he pat them gently before moving away, pausing briefly to glance over his shoulder. “May the Father of Understanding guide us, hm?”