Connor: Family and Freedom 3

“Enough,” Connor said striding into the hold of the ship where Church had holed up. “We came here for a reason.”

“Different reasons it seems,” his father growled, his bloodied fist hitting the supine man once more. Haytham got up, his anger clear on his face. Church’s face was a disaster: his lips had been split open by the force of Haytham’s blows, his betrayal having stung the Grand Master on a personal level. And like a cobra Haytham had struck back fast and furiously, unleashing his pent up anger at his misfortunes on the man who had betrayed him.
Connor knelt by the gasping man and laid one hand on his chest. He felt contempt for the traitor. Church had betrayed his ideals, albeit they were Templar ideals. But even worse than being a traitor, Church was a cowardly thief who’d stolen supplies that belonged to those who fought for freedom and justice, who paid with their lives so that their children might one day live free of tyranny.

And this man had robbed them.

“Where are the supplies you stole?” Connor asked him bluntly in a tone that brooked no argument, no pleading of innocence. There was nothing to plead.

Church, bleary eyed from the beating, his blood stained face barely recognizable, raised his head a little. “Go to hell,” he whispered defiantly.

And that was the last mistake he ever made.

Connor, his patience at an end – all the slights from his father, all the snide remarks from strangers who’d only seen his Native features and so judged him a savage, all the weeks of fruitless chasing with only his father for company – all of that came full circle now. That this coward should dare to defy him. This was too much. He had to pay.

Coldly, without taking his eyes off Church’s ruin of a face, Connor engaged his Hidden Blade, aware of his father watching. His lips twisted in contempt, the young Assassin thrust the sharp blade into the coward Templar’s side.

The man gave a single cry, blood spilling from his broken mouth. Connor’s towering anger made his voice inhuman, cold like ice. He took the dying man by the front of his coat and shook him just slightly. The Assassin’s face was so close to Church’s that he could see the lines of worry around the older man’s eyes.

“I ask again,” Connor said letting a little of the growl seep into his tone. “Where are the supplies?”

Church took a deep breath as death approached. He had nothing to lose – he’d already lost. It’d been a mistake to run from Haytham. The man was the Devil himself who could track anything or anyone down sooner or later. The man was uncanny.

“On the island yonder, awaiting pick up,” he whispered shivering. He felt blood draining from his body with each breath. It was a strangely warm liquid. He did not feel chilly in the slightest. Perhaps the anger of his young enemy warmed him somewhere deep inside, he reflected. “But you have no right to them. They’re not yours.”

“No,” Connor admitted freely. “Not mine. Those supplies are meant for men and women who believe in something bigger than themselves,” he explained to this traitor Templar while his father impatiently stared out of a porthole, tapping his foot. “Who fight and die that one day they might be free of tyranny such as yours.”

Church laughed. A boy. He was dealing with a boy. An idealistic fool – a savage no less. O this was rare! To be killed by a naïve stripling!

“Are these the same men and women who fight with muskets forged from British steel?” he asked, smirking. “Who bind their wounds with bandages sewn by British hands?” He sighed, his eyes never leaving the young man’s face. “How convenient for them,” he added with heavy irony. “We do the work. They reap the rewards.”

Connor sneered.

“You spin a story to excuse your crimes,” he told the bewigged Church. “As though you’re the innocent one and they the thieves.”

“It’s all a matter of perspective,” Church breathed, his chest rising and falling sharply. He had not long left now. His shivering was becoming worse, his words almost incoherent. “There is no single path through life that’s straight and fair and does no harm.” He chuckled. “Do you truly think the Crown has no cause? No right to feel betrayed?” He sighed again, shuddering now, his lips growing numb. “You should know better than this, dedicated as you are to fighting Templars who themselves see their work as just.” His eyes strayed to the blue-cloaked man he had once called Master, whose orders he had carried out without question. They had been almost friends – until this. Church felt regret, but only for a moment. Haytham was evil, evil that he had tried to run away from. Without success it appeared.

“Think on that,” he admonished the Assassin. “the next time you insist your work alone befits the greater good.” The cold of death was so close now. Connor let him go. Church fell to the ground, swallowing blood and other body liquids that he did not have the strength to let spill. “Your enemy would beg to differ….” He gathered himself for one last effort, his eyes already taking on that glassy look. His last words dribbled off into silence. “And would not be without cause….”

Connor stood up, looking at the dead man who appeared smaller now that his life had been spilled onto the cargo floor, a dark puddle of blood staining the dry wood and his coat. As usual after a kill Connor felt hollow, empty, incomplete somehow. He’d taken a life. A necessity, yes. The last resort, yes. He’d had little choice. The Templars had to be stopped – and dead men could not steal or plot treason. It saddened Connor for the Templars were simply men who believed differently, who did everything to ensure their success – perhaps did too much that was cruel and wrong, at least in the Assassins’ eyes. They believed in order and purpose – laudable goals which would lead to enslavement of the free will and control. That was wrong. The Templar methods were wrong. And so they had to die.

“Your words may have been sincere,” Connor told the dead man in Mohawk. “But that does not make them true.”

He became aware of his father next to him. Haytham laid a strangely comforting hand on his shoulder, a gesture of a friend, an ally, not of a man who did not respect him in the slightest. Yet again Connor was forced to reassess this complicated man he called father.
“You did well,” Haytham approved. “His passing was a boon for us both.” He turned to go, his usual manner reasserting itself now that the moment had passed, never to come back.
“Come on,” he invited, confidently striding for the hatch. “I expect you want my help retrieving everything from the island?”

A retort sprang to Connor’s lips. His father as usual sought to cheapen the moment, to show that he was not affected, that he did not feign feeling. A leader of men after all did not show emotion. Otherwise he’d lose his command.

Getting a grip on his constant irritation with his father, Connor followed.