A/N: Hello all, I'm back—did you miss me? I'm terribly sorry about the absence from this wonderful site for so long, as the break was not planned. Alas, I've returned and I'm trying something a little different this time.

Pairing: Evie Frye/Connor Kenway

Warnings: AU fanfiction, dark!Connor (I'm serious, he is not a good person in this story), character purposefully OOC, this is going to get deep and dark people; I'm not even kidding.

Song I listened to while writing this: Nightmares By The Sea by Jeff Buckley.

The darkness crept onto the sky, swallowing the last remnants of the purple, pink, and red hues of sunset. With it, the chill grew sharper, and Connor pulled the robes tighter about himself. Though his breath fogged plainly in the twilight, the cold did little to bother him. It was getting to her though.

Connor had been tracking, losing, and then re-tracking her for the better half of two days. Her determination made him smile, and he certainly admired her resilience. A lesser woman would have collapsed due to the frigid conditions alone, not even considering the injuries he'd gifted her during their last altercation, but no; not her.

He bit his lip as he watched her shiver by her small campfire, her lips pale, almost blue, and her small blanket clad shoulders shaking. Her dark hair was slipping chaotically from its signature braided up do, and he could still see the colorful bruises marring the left side of her face. He felt a twinge of annoyance upon seeing the blemish, as he was the one that had put it there not a week ago. Even then, with what he had done, her beauty was still uncanny. It was almost unfair, how lovely she was, resting there like a fallen goddess, like a Snow Angel.

He decided to wait—good things come to those who wait, after all—and settled back into the rough bark of his tree. When the darkness fell completely, when her guard fell completely, then he would go and retrieve his lovely little Assassin. He might even make it interesting, as things usually were when they concerned her. He knew daddy dearest hated it when he prolonged the mission, but sometimes Connor liked to play with his food before he ate it. He blamed his violent upbringing for that.

The flames licked at her frozen fingers with delicious vigor. Evie knew, somewhere in the part of her mind that wasn't clouded by painful frost, that having a fire at night, even a small one, was dreadfully stupid. It could be spotted from a distance and it may attract predators, if it hadn't already. She couldn't help herself though, rationalizing her actions as thus: she was more valuable as an alive Assassin than a dead one, and if she didn't have warmth she would surely perish of hypothermia. Her knowledge of Eden, and the realizations her last mission brought to light concerning the pieces, would not be lost to the oblivion of death, not if Evie had anything to do with it. She would deliver the information to the Brotherhood. She would.

A long, high pitched howl emanated from the dark barren trees surrounding her, and Evie couldn't help but think the noise was one of the loneliest she'd ever heard. The wolf called out again, and no howls answered it in return, the sound rising and falling in a haunting melody, a song it sang all alone.

On instinct, Evie clutched her blade's hilt tightly. A lone wolf she did not fear, but the possibility a winter-ridden, meat-deprived pack could be nearby seemed to loom on the horizon. Every move she took reminded her of her ill-healed injuries, and she dreaded to think of how she would fare against a gang of starving, feral beasts. Evie morbidly hoped they would be as weak as she.

All she had to do was survive long enough to reach the Davenport Homestead. First though, Evie thought slowly, bleakly, she might rest. Part of her, the functioning part, screamed no no no no—stay awake. But the other part, the exhausted, complacent part, was larger, and it won by majority vote. Already dazed, Evie slumped over slowly onto the frigid ground, her coarse blue blanket wrapped haphazardly around her torso and hips.

The cold seeped into her as if she were connected to it, all the way to her bones. Luckily, Evie didn't feel much of anything at this point, and decided to slip deeper into the comfortable numbness. She couldn't remember why she hadn't wanted to close her eyes earlier anyway; sleep now seemed like the most attractive option. She could always go to the Homestead in the morning after all, when it was warmer and easier to see her surroundings.

She closed her eyes. She heard the lonesome wolf howl once again. She heard the wind whipping about her head. She felt something nudge her side roughly. Her eyes shot open.

Above her towered a smiling man, except his smile was not mirthful but rather menacing, and in his hand he held a sharp tomahawk, gleaming with the color from her fire. He was not just a man. He was Connor Kenway, son of the Grand-Master of the Templars, and he was the one who had almost beat her to a pulp not five days ago. The ribs he'd fractured ached from the mere memory.

"You!" she spat, springing to her feet, dizziness stabbing through her.

"Me." He smirked slowly, narrowly escaping the long, serrated edge of her dagger, the point slashing through the air where his throat had been.

Evie cursed, realizing she was at a clear disadvantage. Connor took a step back, and although he slipped into an easy fighting stance, she could tell by the lazy grin he bore he was acutely aware of that fact as well.

Quickstepping, Evie unsheathed her other dagger, and in rapid succession she slashed at the Templar: his face, throat, chest, abdomen. In turn, he blocked and dodged every blow and swipe with lithe, trained movements—well, almost every blow. While she lashed out at his stomach with her left dagger, she swung forward toward his face with her right one, the sharp point catching the innermost edge of his eyebrow. She slashed deeper and whipped it backwards, the skin above his eye ripping like soft cloth. Blood wept from the laceration, pouring into his vision.

Leaping back once more, Connor pressed a sleeve to his wound, wiping the red away so he could see. Almost in the same movement, too fast for her to register, he knocked Evie's legs out from under her. Wasting no time, he positioned himself on top of her, his hidden blade poised threateningly at her throat. It was cold, resting lightly, yet so very heavily, on her flesh.

He grinned wickedly, white teeth flashing. Blood still flowed down his face, running through his left eye like crimson tears. The dark droplets fell onto Evie's chest, staining her robes.

With a rough hand, he grasped her jaw, forcing her face away from him. Evie clenched her teeth and bit her tongue, heart pounding frantically against her ribcage, the harsh ground biting into her back. Wincing, she felt him run his cool gloved fingers over the large tender bruise situated on her cheekbone, and then, slowly, he brought his own cheek to the sore area, nuzzling his bloodied face to her bruised one. She could feel it clinging to her skin even after he pulled away, leaving behind a sickening warmth.

"You are lucky I'm not feeling vindictive, or I might try to even the score," with his free hand, he dabbed at his eye, smearing the blood even more. Smirking lazily, he pressed his blade into her neck more deeply, making a small cut to her throat, "I'm rather fond of that face, but there other, less important things we can carve up, aren't there?"

"Go to hell, Kenway."

Connor sighed contentedly, dragging his thumb across Evie's bottom lip. Leaning down, they were nose to nose.

"I fully intend to, and," he said, whispering, "I'm taking you with me."

He pressed a hard kiss to her mouth, blade cutting her throat; hand pulling her hair. Evie struggled, trying to turn away from him, but Connor held her firmly in place until they both dearly needed air.

Gasping, she spat off to the side, shuddering, seething, and shaking with pure rage. Grinning, Connor removed his weapon from the torn skin of her neck and grasped her shoulder, pulling her up with him. She stumbled as he yanked her arm behind her and twisted it at a painful angle. It hurt little compared to her wounded pride as he marched her out of the clearing through the banked snow. Evie was so angry, so livid, she couldn't utter a word, but instead think only of a whirl of violence. She wasn't cold anymore; she wasn't even tired. She was positively murderous.