Connor: Of Heart and Soul

His breath rattled in his throat. His father held him easily by the front of his torn bloodied robes. They were soaked in thick dark blood that gently seeped from the gunshot wound to his side and sword cut to his chest. His body was a ruin of bruises and injuries and scars. He had not seen thirty summers – and now it appeared would not see any more.
“The Assassins are finished,” Haytham hissed, shaking him and then letting him go. Connor crumpled bonelessly to the ground, his cheek pressed against the cool earth. He could not move. Did not want to move. Had no will. No strength to defend himself when his father’s boot kicked him over onto his side. The bitterness of defeat, of his immanent death, roiled in his mouth mixed with the blood that he could no longer summon energy to spit. It simply slid from the corner of his closed mouth in a red rivulet, slow like lava down a volcano. Haytham’s hand on his gasping chest was a distant, disembodied sensation.

“Freedom is a myth, Connor,” his father was saying. Connor struggled to focus, to respond somehow, in some way. Something to be done…

“You lie…” he managed, coughing and spilling more blood. Even the pain did not matter any more. There was no misery, no ache, no wish even to resist – there was nothing, not a thing at all.

“That..” he gasped, finding and holding his father’s hard eyes. “that… is all you… Templars… ever… do…”

Haytham shook his head, lips a hard line across his face.

“You’re stubborn, boy. I’ll give you that. Determination, resourcefulness – admirable qualities – so far as they go. Your cause is lost – and so you die.” There was just a tiny amount of regret in Haytham Kenway’s voice. The superb gentleman never allowed any hint of his emotions to show: always the self possessed commander and leader of men he was. Or thought himself to be.

Connor’s fist connected with the side of his father’s head knocking off the tricornered hat into the dirt. Haytham had not been ready and so fell sideways, off of Connor who tried to take advantage of his temporary freedom to finish off his father.

But that was not to be. His body betrayed him, refusing to do what he asked of it. His strength failed, his reserves depleted. He was simply too battered to make a move, to end this travesty of a family reunion once and for all. He lay breathing heavily, eyes on the sky above. He was growing cold. Death approached and he did not mind. Such lassitude surprised him but at the same time did not. Faced with the ultimate, he would not flinch. He had not in this life. Nor would he in the next. Haytham Kenway could do what he wanted to his body: his soul would be free at least.

“Connor?” A heavy weight settled on his chest, constricting his lungs further. His unfocused eyes found his father’s merciless gaze. The man’s hands were around his throat but not squeezing. Just holding him down. Just a hold. A simple thing, that. “Ah, I see you live still. Good. When I kill you I want mine to be the last face you see in this life.” The blade of a knife came into the indifferent Connor’s field of vision. He tried to raise his tomahawk but his father easily knocked it out of his hand. It thudded to the ground, somewhere beyond his sight. His arm fell to the ground limp. Even in so little a thing as self defence now he had failed. So what was left?

“Ah, why did you not listen, boy?” Haytham asked shaking his head, sure of his victory now. Connor’s eyes were glazing over, his breathing shallower than ever. He did not have long left. No more time… no more effort… he was finished. He gazed into his father’s eyes and showed no fear.

“The Templar Order,” Haytham was saying, shaking him a little. “Is born of a realization, boy. We need no Creed, no indoctrination,” he scoffed lightly shaking his head. “No teaching by desperate old men eaten up by bitter loss. Your mother knew that, Connor.”
Despite himself the dying Assassin started – the words struck deep. His father was a perceptive man, capable of pulling the right strings. And he had found one here. Connor should never have told him about his mother’s death, should have known it would not affect his father much. After all it had been by this man’s order that the attack had happened, no matter his justifications and denials. Connor knew better.

“Don’t… mention… her…” he managed to say, air whistling in and out with every word. A wind had arisen. It ruffled his hood, chilling the sweat on his face. He did not have long left now. The blood soaked robes stuck to his skin – it was a second skin. They sat heavy on him, the ruined robes. He did not care. Such mundane simple things were of the past. Here, now, at this moment, he was dying. And that fact too was fast ceasing to be of paramount importance.

“And why should I not?” Haytham Kenway retorted, eyes flashing. “I knew her before you did…”

“I… I… knew… her… longer,” Connor replied gaspingly. Gathering the last shreds of his will he rose a little despite his father’s hand on his throat. “If not… for you… she… would… be… alive!”

Haytham snarled, angered despite himself and raised his fist, one hand still clamped around his son’s neck. He was angry at such stubbornness, Connor could see that and cared little. Nothing mattered. Because nothing was true. Not anymore. Not ever again.
Except one thing.

That he still had to do.

Before he passed from here…

Without hesitation, without taking his eyes off his father, Connor drove his hidden blades deep into Haytham’s body. The older man jerked, groaned in surprise, his hand letting go of Connor’s neck. He stared down into the suddenly very bright eyes of his son, saw awareness there – and death, his own, Connor’s – no one would walk away from here. This glade would hold their corpses for all eternity. And perhaps that was for the best… Maybe….

“Goodbye, father.”

Connor saw the light of life leave his father’s face and groaned. The man was heavy and falling on top of him. Connor’s arms shook so badly, his blades still embedded in the quivering flesh, he could not dislodge his father’s cooling corpse… this was too hard… he had not the strength. He slowly agonizingly withdrew the blades and let fall his arms to the chilly ground. He was done. He strained once more to breathe with the added weight – and found it easier. He coughed again, his whole body shuddering. He turned his head aside, gazing into the trees, and the bloody bile spilled from his mouth.

His eyes stared into the night, sightless…

The Wolf was quiescent, its howling stilled at last. It was at rest just like everything else in the glade. It made no move, no sound. It waited. It knew not what it waited for. But the expectation was there, a pregnant silence.

This was far from over.

Of that there was little doubt.


“Connor!”

The voice was distant. Familiar. But distant. He did not wish to hear it. It would hurt too much. To listen. To strive to come back. Too much pain, too many aches. Too many memories – of blood, of cold, of snow and wolves. Of death. He was dead. He should be dead.

“Connor!” Jack’s voice cut through the fog. A weight rolled off him – he had no memory of it or what it was, only that it was too heavy, had restricted his breathing for too long. He gulped air into crushed lungs that amazingly still worked. His mind told him so but could not form a conscious thought beyond that.

“Damn!” Jack cried somewhere above him. “Dr. Morgan, please!”

“I am doing all I can,” came the calm tones of Dr. Morgan, a man Connor had respected and trusted above many others. The tall spare figure sprung up in his mind, clear as daylight. The sardonic features were twisted in concentration.

“I can do little here. Someone, get me a stretcher. NOW!” Dr. Morgan turned back and raised his hand. It was covered in something dark. Connor tried to place the substance. Something told him it was his – his blood… o yes… o spirits yes! He remembered now, all too much… his body twitched, all the pains coming together suddenly all at once. Dr. Morgan’s hands snapped out to hold him.

And then another face was there. A softer face. A feminine face. He focused desperately on it as the name that belonged to the face and the caressing hands escaped his lips.

“Miri.”

She smiled down at him, red hair in a disarrayed braid spilling over her shoulder. Her lips moved but he heard no words. It was enough to hold onto the image of her face, to feel her presence. It was enough so that he could ignore everything else – a lifeline of sorts. He could not move, could not speak. Only the sound of his harsh breathing filled his ears, the sluggish rush of blood through his cold body.

“Miri,” he repeated, a bare whisper of a sound. But she heard. He could see it in her face as it lit up. Her fingers brushed his bruised and broken mouth. Her eyes met his and did not waver. She was willing him to hold on, to live, to keep going – to not give up, to not quit…. And he would not, that much he promised her as Dr. Morgan’s hands dug deeper, explored more of the damage but that was of no moment. Not at all. Not now that she was here.

And Jack.

And Pierre.

His friends. His allies. His fellow Assassins, most of them. His true family. They were a little band now. The Templars had done their work well. Few remained. But those that did were worth ten Templars to one. Like Jack. Like Connor. The fight went on, until the last breath, until the weary arm could lift the sword or axe no more. Until one’s eyes glazed over in death which brought no fear, no denials but clarity, a finality, an end.

He had been ready for it, for this, all these weeks of seeking his father who had run from him, from Fort George all the way out here, to the middle of nowhere, to the edge of winter. He had known he would have to do this, to meet his father in battle and kill him. They stood athwart one another’s way. One had to leave, to die. The other had to stay alive, to continue…

And so it had gone. So it had played out. One remained only. Such was life. Such was the nature of the Creed. Of the Brotherhood. Defeated they had risen again. From the edge of the abyss…

Aye….

Surrounded by his friends. By those who loved him. By those who stood with him – to the end….

Aye, to the end…

Something sharp jerked inside him, a shocking sensation that jolted his whole body, seared clarity right across his brain. His mouth opened in a wordless scream, eyes shut tight. His foot dug at the ground and strong hands held him down. A woman’s voice soothed, words of comfort like those his mother used to speak when he’d been a child and had not known what pain was. But he had found out, o yes, he had. For long years he had been living with the pain of not having saved his mother from the fire, of having allowed Lee to live so long and to plot so much destruction. He had kept the pain inside only unleashing himself when the situation called for it, when enemies surrounded him and he needed a way out, quickly.

He groaned, the world bit by bit coming into focus. His throat was dry. His mouth felt swollen, his tongue useless. The familiar ceiling of the room at the homestead revealed itself little by little, familiar objects coming into view as his head rolled on the pillow. Aye... he was in bed, his bed at home.

“Home..” he muttered, a wave of feeling washing over him. His fingers gathered the blanket in a convulsive fist. He inhaled: smells of wood and wool. He knew these. Grease too: for weapons. His wandering eyes found the mannequin that held his robes, patched and cleaned. His weapons too were there: a small rack containing the hidden blades, the Pitcairn pistols and Captain Kidd’s sword. The tomahawk that Big Dave had remade for him after Achilles’ had been broken in battle rested on a little shelf just under the sword. The bow stave and arrow quiver hung on the wall, sunlit.

It must have been warm outside, he thought shutting his eyes and extending his other senses to take it all in. The window was open, the curtain fluttering gently. Birds chirped outside. All was peace. Aye, outside was peace...

Inside... in his mind, his heart, his soul a weary Wolf raised Its head. His work was not done yet. Not until Charles Lee lay dead at his feet. Not until then would he or his people know peace.

Neither peace. Nor freedom. Nor justice.

Not for his people.

His father was dead. His hand clenched on the blanket as a lump rose in his throat, his chest swelled with the raw emotion. Yes, his father was dead but the war was not over. He had to kill the man. He’d had no choice – or had he? A small voice said that he could have stayed his blade, could have...

What? Surrendered? Let his father kill him? For that had been Haytham’s intention. He’d sent Lee away with the amulet. Stayed behind to ambush Connor, to finish him. And so had begun their running battle giving Lee more time to escape, to hide. So now Connor would have to find the man, find the mad Lee and finish him off. Once and for all.
For the sake of peace, of liberty and justice. He would never be free until Lee was dead. He would never have peace in his soul – not until he delivered the killing blow to the Templars.

“You kill us,” he whispered to the world. “We rise again.”

And that was the Assassin realization – something they shared with the Templars. Adaptability. Resilience. Resourcefulness. Both favoured such qualities – it was the notion behind their use that divided the Templars from the Assassins. He had tried to explain to his father, to show him that people were not brainless sheep – even if sometimes they were or behaved like sheep. But Haytham had refused to see, had become closed minded. After all, he was a Templar and their leader. Had been....

Disregarding the flares of pain in his body, Connor dragged himself out of bed, agonizingly slow. His eyes found the open window – he had to see, to breathe clean air. This room was too closed in. Struggling to draw air, teeth clamped around the incipient moan, aware that this would only aggravate his wounds, the Mohawk Assassin staggered to the window and leaned on the wall beside it. The world spun and he had to hold onto the wooden panelling so familiar to hand and eye after all these years. His home. His family were here. His friends. Achilles, the bitter old man. Jack, his Brother in arms. He even heard Miri’s voice outside and had to smile. A soft spot in his heart. A tenderness that he did not think he’d deserved – still.

He could not see them but felt their presence all around. Even his mother, dead these many years. Perhaps Haytham had regretted her death, had not known... the time for straightening that out was past. They’d not have a chance now to talk about it. Forevermore.

“Mother...” he’d not said the word in so long. His hand strayed to the wolf’s teeth at his throat. He swallowed, tears stinging in his eyes. He’d cried as a child but not as a man. There had been little time and much to do. “Mother... I am lost. Yet, not really. I do not know who or what I am anymore. Assassin, Mohawk.. Connor... so many identities. So many possibilities... so many roads.. that I could have walked. That father might have chosen – had he wanted to...” He fought a sob that was climbing up from his bandaged chest. “I just do not know anymore. I have seen a lot – of suffering, of pain, of laughter, of joy. My choices – were they right? Were they just?” He sucked in air through his teeth. “I did it for out people. I need to kill Lee – for our people. So that they can live on, as they have done. I... sacrificed my life, my body – myself.” His voice sunk to a weary whisper. “So what is left now?” He leaned his sweating face against the wall. “What is left of me? Where does it all end? Where, Mother?”

Tears streaked down his face. He let them come. He needed this, this moment of weakness, of self doubt. He had been strong for so long that now... he had contained himself, controlled the parts that would have meant disaster to his quest. Here, now, he had the time, the freedom to examine himself, his deeds, his life.

“I have failed, Mother,” he said turning away from the window. The bed seemed far away now. The world began to spin again, to waver. He had pushed himself too far, too soon. He had always been stubborn, obstinate – determined as his father had said. His willpower was greater than his weakness. He made it, just.

He fell onto the bed, slowly crawling under the blankets. He was shivering, sweat pouring in hot waves all over his exhausted body. He would make it, somehow. Even this time. When the end was still far away, when failure stalked his heels. Drawing ragged breaths, before oblivion once again swallowed him in its comforting and deceiving embrace, Connor shot words of defiance at the world, a challenge to the Templars. The words of the Creed...
“Nothing is true. Everything is permitted.”