Connor: the Liberty of Death

“What is your name?” the gasping boy on the ground asked. The tall black-haired well-dressed man laughed heartily at such spirit and bent, hands on knees.
“Charles Lee,” he introduced himself, lightly, his eyes holding those of the boy who regarded him with anger. The child's eyes were glinting dangerously and Lee found himself feeling a chill snake its way down his spine. This boy meant trouble, perhaps even meant to kill him. The next moment he dismissed the thought: silly really, to think that a four year old boy could make deadly promises... and yet... again that sense of familiarity tagged at him. Where, WHERE had he seen the boy's face before?
“Why do you ask?” he spoke, pushing the nagging feeling aside.
“So I can find you,” the boy replied, the dark promise reflected now in his tone.
Lee laughed again, unable to help him. What a fine pickle this was! A BOY, barely out of his linens, threatening HIM, a man grown! Incredible! Such pluck!
“I look forward to our next meeting then,” Lee invited jocularly and bowed in mockery, hand over his heart.


Charles Lee, the Grand Master of the Templar Order after the death of his master, Haytham Kenway, gazed at the young man across from him. The young man who would kill him. The young man who had made a promise long ago and now was keeping it to the letter. The young man whose entire life had been devoted to his destruction and the destruction of his Order. The young man who now raised the bottle of whiskey to his lips and drank never taking his eyes off the older man was an Assassin. No, THE Assassin. The one who had dared to dismantle all of his and Haytham's patient work with his ideas of justice, freedom and independence. The Assassin who had spent his young life searching for the man he had believed to have burned his pathetic little village. The bitter irony was that it had been Washington, the Commander in Chief, who had used him without telling him about the horrible deed. And even after that, after Haytham had revealed the man's treachery – what does the boy do but continue to aid Washington? At Monmouth, at West Point – all by this one young man who sat there so close to him, bleeding his life out. His robes, his arm, his hand all were covered in blood, some of it congealed, some fresh. He had not taken the time to look after himself, so intent had he been on catching up to Lee, on keeping his promise.

Lee sighed. There was nowhere to run. They had come to this pass, to this end. In a tavern in Monmouth, this year of Our Lord 1782. So long. So far. And yet not far enough, not long enough. The bitterness that flashed across the older man's face quickly dissipated. There was no point to it now. It was all over. After Haytham there could be no other. He had been the soul and the mastermind of the Order. He, Lee, was but a pale shadow.

And with the setting of the sun, a shadow disappears.


The tavern was empty. Connor was grateful for that. For this one deed he did not need any witnesses. Lee's death would be quiet, not public. He had run the old hound down, made many sacrifices in the process. He knew this was the end. With Lee's death his work would be over – or would it? Deep down in his mind a doubt lingered, sown by Achilles' death not so long ago. The letter that the old man had written confessing his affection that he had not dared to show for his pupil who really had been the son he'd lost. Connor grimaced, pain lancing through his body. He had not long left now. He had bled copiously refusing all treatment. His determination to finally catch up to Lee and end him had trumped everything else. He HAD to finish Lee or he'd never be free of him – nor would the colonies, the United States of America they were, be safe from the Templars' machinations.

Slowly, as in a dream, the Assassin leaned forward to perform his last duty. Grasping the unresisting old man by the back of his neck he dragged him closer, his strength slipping away faster. Eye to eye, the two enemies gazed at one another one last time...
The knife slid smoothly into the heart of the Grand Master of the Templar Order who offered no resistance whatsoever. There was no point. There was no reason for it. Not anymore. The game was played out. He had lost. The Assassin had won. And so all the plans, all the striving and struggles had been for naught. In the end, Death claimed every one – even the Assassin. In time.


Gasping, dragging the air in and out of his labouring lungs, Connor made his staggering way out of the tavern. On the porch he leaned on the door lintel, the amulet clasped tightly in his hand. Shivering, he managed to push it into one of the pockets and secure the flap, then almost fell on his way down to the path that led to the main road which would take him out of town. His horse, hitched to the post, he left behind. He had not more strength to climb, only to put one foot in front of the other. Any extraneous considerations were pushed aside to give place to one thought: home, rest.
He would not make it home. He knew that. Had known from the moment his weakened foot had stepped off the ship that had brought him here. He had deliberately ignored his state, his will pushing him, dragging him at times, to find Lee, to chase him down and kill him. Now that it was done, over, he could rest... probably under a tree... yes, that oak there... should do...

His weaving steps, wavering from time to time, brought him to the wide bole and the out-spread roots of the old tree. Around about grew more such trees and pines in profusion – a spot well concealed from the road. Like a dying animal, he only wanted solitude, peace and quiet as he passed. He knew he must. That he would. There was no other way... the amulet would disappear with him – forever lost. Never recovered safe at some future date.
He was tired... so tired now... only rest... sleep... yes....

He fell against the tree, the sounds of the nighttime forest a lullaby to his ears – familiar and comforting. He would never rise again. And did not want to. Easier to sit here, one leg stretched out before him, his bow by his side. His heart laboured, each beat shuddering through his frame, tolling death that approached. He did not care. His work, such as it had been, was done. He was done. He had no more to give. His promise he had kept. His people were safe, for the present moment. His life did not matter. So many others had sacrificed theirs – why should he not do the same? He was no different from the Patriot men and women who had given their lives to the cause of liberty. He too had given up much: the chance at a quiet life, a family, a woman to love...

That last thought stirred the embers of life deep inside him. Regret filled him, tears springing to his eyes as he looked off into the moonlit dark. There had been a woman, once. He had loved her and still did. They had not parted well. They had fought, his determination coming between them. He regretted the harsh words he'd used, aware that his time was slipping away fast and Lee with it. He wished he could take those words back. But now....

A tear rolled down his painted cheek. The war paint had become grimy long since, lending his face an even more frightening appearance. The pallor of his skin only added to the horrifying effect. No wonder so many people had simply jumped out of his way. He would have laughed at the memory had he been able to. Laughter was pointless. He had never been one for levity.

His hand scrabbled at his pocket, feeling the amulet safe there. He could rest easy here. His tasks were accomplished. In the next life that was to come soon he would meet the old man again and tell him of his adventures. The old man would listen as he usually had done and then approve or more often disapprove.

“I said I would haunt you, old man,” the dying man muttered to the night, his lips stiff and barely moving. His chest heaved again. “Perhaps you would not be so old when next we meet.” His body convulsed again. “Maybe... your family... will be there too... Mother.” He swallowed, his eyes fixed on no point at all. “Mother... I will see you... once more. Kanandonkon, my friend... I am sorry... I never meant for... it to go so far... I just... could not...” He gasped with the grief so long suppressed that now came flooding back in these his last moments. “I could not... stop myself... Lee had come between us.. had poisoned your mind... I... Sorry. I should have stopped him before...” A sob escaped him, heaving his whole body. Such guilt swamped him that for some time he could not see through the tears, let alone think of anything. He had killed his best friend, the man he had known since childhood, the boy he had taught to hunt and feel a measure of self-respect. He had kill him. It mattered little that Kanandonkon had been trying to kill him. He had been misguided, mistaken – and Connor had reacted on instinct. And that was no excuse. There was never any excuse. There had only been necessity – of survival, of carrying on his mission, his self-appointed task. The obstacles in his way had to be swept aside, dealt with... it cut to the quick that Kanandonkon had fallen twice: once to Lee's lies and second time to his Blade. The guilt of this crime he would carry to his grave, here under the oak tree.... Maybe it was better this way, at least the pain would be gone....

“Please,” he begged of the spirits, of any being that could hear him. “Please end this...”


The little clearing was quiet. The soft breeze rustled the branches of the trees. An owl hooted in the night, calling to another of its kind. They hunted, silently, gliding from tree to tree. A mouse scuttled between the bushes, escaping the searching ears of the owl just in time. A fox trotted by, sniffing out a trail of some rodent it wanted to eat. A deer, sleepless, stalked the grasses looking for food.

Other than that all was still.

Under the giant oak a man was dying, far from home, hearth and family. He was alone, forgotten by the events, by time. He had been alone by choice, by obligation. For such was the Assassins' dole: they were always alone, in the end – only the man and his true Blade and the target. A triangle, a trinity – that made one alone. A paradox that the dying Assassin shrugged aside. It did not matter. Such hairsplitting had lost its import. He had enjoyed arguing the finer points of philosophy with Achilles and Pierre. And now, they would do it no more. It had become trivial, unreasonable.

There was only one truth left: that he would die in this place, die together with Lee, his enemy, the destroyer of all he had held dear. That was the one satisfaction he could receive, the only boon this life would grant him.

He thought of his father, dead by his hand. The man had been cold, careless of his inferiors, assured of his own superiority of ideals, unwilling to bend the rules for others who were perceived as standing in his way. He had appeared inhuman, made of unfeeling stone. He had cost his son a lot: mental anguish not the least of his gifts. But now, Connor could feel no anger, no hatred. The slate was wiped clean. He felt only regret at what might have been but for Haytham's stubbornness, his obstinate refusal to see that freedom was not chaos but peace.

“Father,” he croaked in a dry whisper, sensing his blood coursing slower and slower through his veins. He was getting colder and did not care. “Father... if you had only listened... so much might have been different. It is too late now... perhaps... always was too late...”

His eyes slid shut at last, his struggles to stay awake in vain. Blissful oblivion had crept closer and closer with each indrawn breath, his energies finally depleted entirely, Connor the Assassin gave himself up to the warm enveloping darkness, his thoughts scattered in tatters, his memories obliterated.


In the moonlit clearing under the gently whispering oak tree sat a man whose head had fallen forward onto his chest. He did not breathe. He did not stir.

Not for a long time because everything had ceased to be of importance and nothing was true anymore as a new day dawned over the green-clad land.