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counterstroke[ his name is ratonhnhaké:ton.
not a name haytham would have chosen, but a good name, a strong name given to him by his mother.
haytham hasn't spoken with ziio in many years, not since the day she discovered him lingering near the borders of kanatahséton. she peered down at him from the branches of a tree with a brow raised and her lips pursed, and he tried to speak with her, to ask about their son, a young boy of maybe three years, but words failed him then as they always had in the past.
he'll never forget her look of carefully restrained disappointment, or the coldness in her tone when she told him that he needed to leave and not come back, not ever.
so he didn't. not ever.
years later, haytham's grown old and tired, and the son he never met turns out to be the man, the assassin, thwarting all of his order's plots and all of haytham's years of hard work. he shouldn't be surprised, and he isn't; his past has a way of finding him again and again and again, relentless in its pursuit of him.
the boy lands himself in bridewell prison alongside thomas hickey, much to haytham's chagrin. hickey is of little concern to haytham; charles will see to his escape soon enough, once the rumors of his traitorous plot to murder george washington are put to rest.
but the boy, connor — he's a different concern, and one that haytham must see to.
the security in the prison is tight, but nothing that haytham can't handle. he has the advantage of an earlier visit, and of knowing where each guard is posted on every corridor leading to connor's cell, making navigating easy. two guards patrol every area, and haytham lets the first four live only to kill the remaining two, their bodies shoved carelessly into a storage room to be discovered by the next patrol.
he says nothing as he kneels to work open the lock of connor's cell, nothing when he creaks open the cell door with a pained grimace, nothing when connor stares at him from his spot on the bed.
nothing until the staring turns uncomfortable, and then haytham sighs, leveling his son a hard look. ]
Come along, boy. Quickly. [ haytham throws a glance over his shoulder and impatiently gestures connor forward with the sweep of his hand. ] We haven't much time.
not a name haytham would have chosen, but a good name, a strong name given to him by his mother.
haytham hasn't spoken with ziio in many years, not since the day she discovered him lingering near the borders of kanatahséton. she peered down at him from the branches of a tree with a brow raised and her lips pursed, and he tried to speak with her, to ask about their son, a young boy of maybe three years, but words failed him then as they always had in the past.
he'll never forget her look of carefully restrained disappointment, or the coldness in her tone when she told him that he needed to leave and not come back, not ever.
so he didn't. not ever.
years later, haytham's grown old and tired, and the son he never met turns out to be the man, the assassin, thwarting all of his order's plots and all of haytham's years of hard work. he shouldn't be surprised, and he isn't; his past has a way of finding him again and again and again, relentless in its pursuit of him.
the boy lands himself in bridewell prison alongside thomas hickey, much to haytham's chagrin. hickey is of little concern to haytham; charles will see to his escape soon enough, once the rumors of his traitorous plot to murder george washington are put to rest.
but the boy, connor — he's a different concern, and one that haytham must see to.
the security in the prison is tight, but nothing that haytham can't handle. he has the advantage of an earlier visit, and of knowing where each guard is posted on every corridor leading to connor's cell, making navigating easy. two guards patrol every area, and haytham lets the first four live only to kill the remaining two, their bodies shoved carelessly into a storage room to be discovered by the next patrol.
he says nothing as he kneels to work open the lock of connor's cell, nothing when he creaks open the cell door with a pained grimace, nothing when connor stares at him from his spot on the bed.
nothing until the staring turns uncomfortable, and then haytham sighs, leveling his son a hard look. ]
Come along, boy. Quickly. [ haytham throws a glance over his shoulder and impatiently gestures connor forward with the sweep of his hand. ] We haven't much time.
