Connor: Paternal Affection

‘Of my father there is no sign. And I am glad of it.’

He looked down at the supine form on the barren cot and told himself that he should be feeling something. This was his son, after all. There should be some feeling, some twinge of a paternal instinct. But there was nothing. The man lying in front of him, pale and bandaged about the lower chest, was anathema. He was his enemy. He was one of the other Brotherhood, the one they’d been fighting with for centuries, the one that believed in freedom, justice and peace.

His enemy was one of the Assassins.

His enemy was his son.

He sighed, his hands falling to his sides. O Ziio, if only you had not turned me away, Haytham Kenway thought, his eyes picking up the boy’s similarities to the one woman he had really loved and respected. She’d had hidden strengths, had Ziio: conviction, an imperious will, stubbornness to see her plans through. Her son – their son (he should be honest with himself at least) – had shown that he had inherited as much. But the boy was naïve, believing and trusting those who had betrayed him. Weak men like Washington who had tried to displace, to downplay, his role in burning the village and Ziio along with it. Haytham would never forget the anger in his son’s eyes, the satisfaction of telling his father that his mother had died because of him. So Connor had believed. Until that is Haytham had shown him the truth of Washington’s weakness, his inconstancy. And still even then the boy had refused to listen, blithely continuing along his path of destruction. To Lexington, to the woods nearby in the frontier, to the arrow that had punched into his side as he had been about to kill one of Haytham’s men sent to capture him, to this room in Fort George where he had been imprisoned for the past month. His wound had been treated. He had been looked after. Charles Lee had questioned his Master’s orders, his intentions. Haytham had regarded Lee coldly. He had never explained himself to anyone. He had not been about to start to justify his actions to his subordinate. Yes, he had flung that knife at the hanging that almost was. He had spent months afterwards questioning his impulsive decision.

For you see Haytham Kenway was not a man of impulse. He had been once upon a time when he had been younger, more idealistic. When his life had still had meaning. With becoming the leader of the colonial Templars, that earlier meaning had been supplanted by the rewards of power: obedience, prestige, access to the British resources and the ability to insinuate his men into their ranks.

No, he was not a man of impulse anymore.

That was Connor’s weakness – a heritage that it seemed Haytham had passed down to his son. In a moment of rare bitter reflection when he had seen his son’s mostly lifeless body carried in to him Haytham had admitted that Connor was as he himself should have been but for Reginald Birch and his father’s early death in their home.

Secretly he admired his son’s unwavering conviction and hated such dedication. No man could be so noble, surely. That was impossible, the stuff of fairy tales. In the real world such men suffered, badly, and did not live long. The scars his son bore were mute evidence of the rightness of his belief.

Why, why could the boy not see?

Why did he refuse the truth insisting that his ideas had as much validity, as much reality, as much truth, if not more, than the Templars’?

Why did he force his father’s hand?


"Father."

The deep brown eyes regarded him without fear, without any particular anger or hatred. Rather his son seemed to be expectant, as if awaiting something from his father. But what?

“You should have listened to me, Connor,” Haytham admonished him in a condescending tone. “I tried to show you the error of your ways.”

”Spare me the empty platitudes, father,” Connor cut him off, his voice strong and sincere. This was no weak man talking, the Templar was forced to admit. This was not like the frightened rabbits that he was used to bullying. No, this was a man who clearly knew who and what he was, a man who understood his position only too well. This was an Assassin who clearly expected the worst from the enemy who had captured him so easily. There was a quiet dignity about Connor that cut Haytham to the quick. He was TOO YOUNG to possess such a thing! Too untried by life’s experience to behave as if he were older! Too young!

“Platitudes? I only speak the truth, son.”

”Your truth,” was Connor’s immediate firm reply. “Not the real truth.”

“Why, do enlighten me then,” Haytham sneered, unable to stop himself. They were in truth like two dogs on the same range, forever sniffing at one another and snarling if the one made so much as a twitch of a paw onto the other’s territory. “You who see yourself as guardian of what the rest of us benighted souls do not understand.”

Connor exhaled, his exasperation peaking and then subsiding. His father had not changed, not one bit. He was still afraid of his feelings, of his thoughts. He still denied himself. He remained the Templar leader: a man who did not show his thoughts, let alone his feelings, to the outside world, a man who expected obedience instantly and did not explain his decisions once they were made.

“There is no point, father. You never listen.”

Haytham opened his mouth, his back stiffening. Connor had never learned the value of obedience and it was too late to teach him. He should have just killed him that first time they’d met. Or at the least should have sent his men after him once he’d threatened to kill Haytham. Connor’s anger had been so palpable that night, so cold and yet blazing hot, that Haytham had no longer felt so secure in his own convictions in regards to his son. Connor had read him quite well and that was disturbing. The boy was dangerous, highly dangerous. Lee had been right after all: Haytham should never have succumbed to any feeling for his son, should never have thought of him as such.

“You never let me listen, son,” Haytham said, affecting sadness.

“That is because you are so sure you already know everything – better than others,” Connor said dismissively. “Now, did you come here to gloat or would you like to kill me and end this farce?”

Haytham’s eyes blazed dangerously, his anger stoked. The boy was intransigent, stubborn and wilful to a fault. Something would have to be done. Perhaps Lee would have some ideas, be able to provide some solution to this recurring problem that was Connor.

“As you wish, son.” Haytham turned to go, his steps loud and stiff with disappointment and anger. “But know this: you will not leave here. Alive.”