Note: All dialogue and journal excerpts are taken from ACIII and AC: Forsaken. I don't own anything.
I gripped the quill tightly between my fingers as I rushed to finish my last journal entry.
The bombardment had begun just a brief moment ago, but I knew it would not be long before Connor made it here.
Gritting my teeth, I regretfully inked, in my most beautiful script, the very thoughts I would have wanted to speak to Connor in person.
I hope that that Connor, my own son, will read this journal, and perhaps, when he knows a little about my own journey through life, understand me, maybe even forgive me. My own path was paved with lies, my mistrust forged from treachery. But my own father never lied to me and, with this journal, I preserve that custom.
Smiling sadly at the last few sentences in the journal I have kept since childhood, I closed the notebook and slipped it into my robes.
I thought of Charles. Surely he would have made his escape safely by now. I was relieved, knowing that by the time Connor arrived, Charles would be long –
"Where are you, Charles?!"
"Gone," I said, finishing my own thoughts and answering the Assassin that had just staggered into the courtyard.
Connor turned around, but a tad too slow. Already I was running and before he could even brace himself, threw a punch in his face. I quickly followed up with a knee to his chest and an elbow to the back of his neck.
He fell onto his knees, but quickly recovered and sent his knuckles towards my groin, then a punch to my face. A few more punches later, I found my left arm being twisted behind my back, held by a bloodied Connor.
"Come now, you cannot hope to match me, Connor!" I struggled to say.
"Aagh!" he growled as he drove my twisted arm deeper into my back, sending pain down my joints.
"For all your skills, you're still but a boy – with so much left to learn."
Enraged, he shoved me, and stabbed my left forearm with his blade. I let out a cry in pain, and staggered away from him.
"Give me Lee!" he demanded.
"Impossible. He," I grunted, "is the promise of a better future. The sheep need a shepherd."
"He has been dismissed and censured. He can do nothing for you now."
"A temporary setback," I replied calmly. "He will be restored."
Facing Connor now, I drew my sword. A faint smile formed on the edge of my lips.
Yes, I knew I would enjoy this last fight with Connor, just as I had enjoyed fighting alongside him.
He saw that I had drawn, and his hand went to grip the Assassin's tomahawk that was strapped to his side. He was ready.
My breathing quickened in anticipation. A final duel between a Templar and an Assassin. Between father and son.
And then I realized how much this was really all that I had wanted. To spar with my own son, like my father had done with me when I was a child. And it was this realization that weakened me, for at that very moment I confirmed my own determination that I had since the very beginning: I shall fall to Connor's blades.
I dashed towards him, blade lunging for his flesh. He deflected my sword skillfully, tomahawk angled perfectly to strike back. I parried him, quite effortfully, as the old wound in my side had begun yet again to send excruciating pain through my torso with every swing of my blade, every step I planted, every little movement I made.
Our rallying continued, I myself still having the upper hand, save for when Connor desperately used the environment around us as his weapons. The glass bottle he smashed into my head bloodied my face, obscuring my vision; the barrel he kicked me into damaging my back greatly, further slowing my movements.
I was losing more and more strength by the second. Soon, I shall fall. Yet still I remained determined to fight, like a true warrior, hoping to show my son the same teachings my father had once shown me, that one must fight with pride and honour, no matter what the circumstances.
Suddenly, a cannonball flew through the air, landing barely inches from me to my right, its impact sending both Connor and I flying.
I lost consciousness for a brief moment of several seconds, and opened my eyes to see Connor crawling towards me.
"Surrender," he groaned, "and I will spare you."
"Brave words," I replied gravely, "from a man about to die."
I turned and pinned him to the ground, his eyes glaring weakly into mine as my left hand found its way around his neck.
"You fare no better," he retaliated, eyes blazing.
"Even when your kind appears to triumph, still we rise again." I began to choke him, tightening my grasp on his windpipe as he gasped for air almost desperately.
"And do you know why?" As I spoke, I realized how easy it was for me to kill him. A single flex of my arm and the Hidden Blade I obtained so long ago from an Assassin would kill the one before me. But I did not. "It is because the Order is born of a realization."
No, I refused to kill my son with the Hidden Blade that is the pride of his kind. Nor would I allow myself to fight my last battle without showing the pride of a Templar.
"We require no creed. No indoctrination by desperate old men." I lifted my right hand that had been pinning down his left arm. Perhaps I did have a death wish.
"All we need is that the world be as it is." I thought of Ziio. How regretful I felt to have to face our son in this manner, to have it all go down like this. "And this is why the Templars will never be destroyed!"
I looked closely at Connor, taking in his face; those eyes, sharp as his mother's, and his nose and mouth bearing the resemblance of myself and my father… Truly he is my son. A Kenway. And I did love him as a father. If only things could have ended another way…
I tightened my grip once more, and, before I had the time to react, his left hand had plunged his Hidden Blade deep into my neck.
As though in a daze, my right palm went gingerly to the cold wound in my neck. Feeling warm blood gushing onto my hand, I took a look at the blood that stained my entire palm, the same blood that was now trickling over my robes, and knew my life was at an end.
I was glad.
To have fallen to a man no lesser than myself.
I stood, staggering a few steps back. Already my vision was beginning to grow dim.
"Don't think I have any intention of caressing your cheek and saying I was wrong," I said weakly, straining with every word. "I will not weep, and wonder what might have been. I'm sure you understand."
My legs finally gave, and I dropped onto my knees. Connor now stood before me, but my vision was too far gone. The rapid loss of blood prevented me from seeing my son's face just one final time.
"Still, I'm proud of you in a way," I admitted, praising him. "You have shown great conviction. Strength. Courage. All noble qualities…"
Really, the same qualities I have inherited from my father and Connor from me. I was very proud of him.
I thought of the first time we met at the old church, where I readied a blade at his throat, asking for his last words. Why had I not slain him then? Even before that, he would have died without my having done anything. And yet, I chose to act, to save his life, to let him live. Why?
Unable to find a satisfying answer, or even an explanation to the affection I harbored for him, I gathered up all of the strength I had left in this old, tattered body of mine. These words would be my last.
"I should have killed you long ago."