i know i should be working on other things but i just couldn't help it! this is my first dip in the assassin's creed fandom and i hope the water is fine. and by water i mean the quality of this story. this is my first time playing with these characters so let me know if you guys think im spot-on, way off, or i still need to work on it. hope you enjoy!

disclaimer: exactly that.

Robert Faulkner was not a religious man. Despite his pious mother forcing him to church every Sunday when he was a boy, thoughts and motivations to devote himself to a higher deity lost its weak foothold on him when he discovered his passion for the sea.

As a young man in the King's navy, Faulkner took to the lifestyle of a sailor like a fish to water. He drank booze until he lost his senses, chewed and spat tobacco on ships' filthy decks, learned the colorful language of the old sea dogs, and danced terribly and sang loudly almost every night when one sailor would grab a fiddle and another started up a shanty. He never prayed to God when they were hit by a storm, never thought to thank him when he was promoted to first mate, even after he was able to buy his own ship.

Oh, but how he cursed God when Commander George Washington went mad with power and ruined everything the Revolution had worked and bleed for. He cursed God as the 'King' went on a rampage with his followers, killing any who opposed him, who refused to bow to him, taking control of the colonies the way a snake strangles a mouse. Faulkner raged and swore at God when the Bluecoats took the only thing he had left to care about- his ship, his swift and sleek and beautiful Aquila, what he slaved his entire life to obtain, and had only kept for a few short years.

At this point, with America and seemingly the entire world going to hell, Robert Faulkner was torn of the fantasy that there was a god. And if there was, he was punishing them and laughing at their misery.

But as the old, weary captain stood on the main deck of his ship, gray eyes trained on the Boston dock a good distance away, watching the young Mohawk warrior cut through the Bluecoats like stalks of wheat and providing an escape for the remainder of his crew, Faulkner began to think that maybe this was a gift from God, having this Native on their side. Or maybe a gift from the Devil; the young man certainly did not move like a human. He fought like a demon.

A few minutes before, he barely knew the Native. He just showed up with Franklin and offered to make miracles happen. There was no way that he alone could kill the Bluecoats that we're guarding the Aquila and cut her ropes without alerting the whole goddamn wharf! But he did. And when Faulkner and his crew made that mad dash for the ship, for freedom, there was no way they'd be able to fight their way through that army. But Ratohnhake:ton did and it was thanks to him that they made it to the end of the wharf alive.

When the young man ordered for them to swim while he held them off, Faulkner didn't argue with him. If he wanted to commit suicide, then he'd let the crazy bastard do so. In a war, the rebel needed to look after himself and not form any attachments to his fellow fighters, for they could die the next moment. What was the point of having friends or allies if they were only going to leave you all alone to fight a losing battle by yourself? As talented as this warrior seem to be, he wasn't invincible.

Yet he couldn't tear his eyes away as Ratohnhaké:ton wielded his tomahawk against a soldier with a knife, parrying the blade away and kicking the man in the knee, bringing him to his feet and finishing him with a slice to the throat. An officer's sword came for his unprotected back. Faulkner couldn't help but shout a warning even though he was too far away to do any good. Not that he needed to. With uncanny speed, the Native blocked the blow and jabbed at his opponent's chest. The officer fell, blood blooming like a rose across his front. Where did that blade even come from? Faulkner was sure that Ratohnhaké:ton wasn't holding it before.

Two Bluecoats ran for the dock's edge as more sailors dived into the sea and swam for the ship. They lifted their muskets and aimed for the hapless men in the water, ready to shoot them down like ducks in a pond. They never got the chance. Ratohnhake:ton was on them like a wolf. Literally. Faulkner was pretty positive he sobered up this afternoon yet he still had to be drunk. He could have sworn he saw a wolf leap on the soldiers and tear out their throats.

Faulkner turned and shouted at his men to ready the cannons. So he had been wrong in the fact that the warrior would be defeated easily; in that case, he'd do his part to help him, though his assistance may also kill him. The cannonballs and gunpowder were in place and the barrels aimed for the dock. Faulkner threatened the men manning the weapons that if they hit the only thing standing between them and execution, he'd personally throw them overboard to be picked up by the Bluecoats. Then he shouted the order to fire.

Even with the lethal cannonballs colliding with the deck and sending up a spray of deadly splinters, the young Native moved like air, like water, fluid and unstoppable. It was like he sensed the incoming attack well before it happened and moved around it accordingly, missing him by mere feet. His enemies were many yet none could lay a finger on him. From one moment to another, he seem to disappear from sight only to dive on them from above, a lethal bird of prey. How in the hell did he do that?!

Faulkner was heedless of the escaped sailors that climbed onto the Aquila, engrossed in the battle on the docks. Or should he call it a massacre? Ratohnhake:ton was surrounded now; this had to be the end to the young man. He fought amazingly but there was no way he could escape death when it covered every corner. Faulkner waited for the great beast to be felled, like so many brave men who had stood against Washington.

As if the Native had called them (and Faulkner was now convinced that he had), three misty white wolves materialized from nothing and lunged for the soldiers. The three-pronged attack freed Ratohnhake:ton up to finish off the remaining two soldier. As suddenly as they had appeared, the wolves were gone, evaporating, leaving only the bodies of the men they killed behind as evidence of their presence.

The last of the sailors were already swimming like hell and almost to the ship. At the same time, the waves of soldiers had reached its end. Faulkner waited for Ratohnhake:ton to jump into the sea and join him on the Aquila. Yet the Native was tense, as if expecting another fight. Something was wrong. The captain called off the next barrage of cannonballs, yelling, "Hold yer damn fire!"

Finally he saw what was amiss. It was that bastard Israel Putnam with more soldiers, all pointing their muskets at Ratohnhake:ton and keeping their distance, no doubt not wanting to end up like their comrades.

Putnam shoved another man to his knees, bringing his flintlock to point at his prisoner's head. The man was dressed like Ratohnhake:ton, his skin a deeper shade of copper, blood pouring from a wound on his head. He must be a friend, someone from the same Mohawk clan, for the wolf-hood Native did not make a run for the ship but stood frozen like a cornered animal. Putnam shouted at him. Faulkner couldn't hear from where he stood, but it of no doubt that the madman wanted the young warrior to give himself up or he'd execute his prisoner. The other Native shook his head, telling Ratohnhake:ton to flee and was struck by the butt of Putnam's gun. Any second now, Washington's right hand man was going to shoot the Mohawk.

Run, Faulkner thought to himself as he watched Ratohnhake:ton. It's no use! Leave him and save yourself! There are not enough men like you, the rebels need more men like you. Despite what he thought of the Native before, Faulkner couldn't watch the young man die. After seeing him fight, perhaps he was the only one of them that stood a chance against the monster called King Washington.

The wolf-hooded Native turned back to glance at the Aquila. For a second, their eyes locked. Faulkner saw no fear or uncertainty. His stare was almost emotionless but the young man's lips twitched into a small, wolfish smile. Or it was more like a snarl.

To his horror, Ratohnhake:ton fell into a crouch. Was he really surrendering so easily? Was he so daft to think that Putnam would let either of them live?

Then to his shock and utter amazement, the young man disappeared.

Putnam's eyes widened and he swore furiously, shouting at his men to keep an eye out. Where the hell did he go? The captain's trained eyes caught the briefest shimmer in the air, a reflective glimmer that moved swiftly towards Putnam like a stalking predator.

He almost missed it. If he hadn't had his eyes on the general he would not have witnessed how Ratohnhake:ton materialized in front of Putnam and slipped a flashing blade into his chest. Down went the notorious general that now laid in a pool of his own blood. Once again, the weapon that had ended him had disappeared from the Native's hand as smoothly as Ratohnhake:ton had slipped from visibility.

The last thing Faulkner saw was the way the warrior stood over his dying enemy, listening to his final words. The captain forced himself to ignore them. He had a job to do: get this ship underway and out of Boston harbor. The men scurried to follow his orders, running up the masts and releasing the sails. Wind filled the canvas, snapping at the fabric. Through his feet, Faulkner felt the vessel began to move. He steadied the ship with the wheel, the wood smooth and familiar beneath his palms. He could already feel the call of sea racing through his veins. How he had missed the ocean and the only female in his life he cared for!

Gunshots broke him out of his reminiscing. Looking back at the docks, he saw Ratohnhake:ton and the other Native racing down the wharf for the water, bullets flying past them. Either the Bluecoats had terrible aim or the Natives had supernatural powers because they weren't hit once. Well, he knew that at least one of them did have supernatural powers. Still, they would be shot like fish in a barrel as soon as they dived into the water.

"Get those cannons aimed for the docks again!" he shouted at the crew below, remembering that he had called off the last fire and the weapons were still loaded. "The crazy bastard covered our escape, now we want to return the favor!"

The crew cheered in affirmation as they lit the cannons. The weapons fired at the docks, scattering the soldiers that scurried to avoid the cannonballs. By now, Ratohnhake:ton and his friend were already in the water and swimming as fast as possible for the ship.

They made it, no worse for wear, though the other Native looked like he was going to collapse. Ratohnhake:ton held him steady as Faulkner shouted for the ship's doctor to tend to his wounds. The wolf-hooded young man gave the doctor his space and joined the captain at the Aquila's wheel. By now, the ship was cutting through the waves, sending up surf as she sailed away from the hellish city called Boston. Wind whipped through Faulkner's gray hair, carrying the scent of salt and fish.

Ratohnhake:ton made no comment as he stood next to him, and the captain observed him from the corner of his eye. There was blood all over his person but none of it was his own. He barely seemed winded by the fight. Even more peculiar was the way he stood on the ship, steady and sure, despite the way she bucked and bowed over the rough sea. Like he had been on a ship before and was well acquainted with her movements. When would a Native have the opportunity to do that?

That was just one of the many questions he had about the mysterious warrior. But did he even want to know how he managed to take down all those men? How he moved with the speed of a demon and slaughtered them from out of thin air?

The Native, who had been staring ahead out to the vast ocean, now turned toward him, pinning him with intelligent brown eyes. For a second, they flashed gold and Faulkner wondered if it had been a trick of the light. Maybe that entire battle had been a trick of the light.

"We're heading for New York," the captain said, even though Ratohnhake:ton had not asked and probably already knew their heading. The older man felt the need to fill the silence. "From there, we'll join up with Jefferson's rebels and find a way to kill the Mad bastard."

The Native only dipped his head in response. Faulkner had to ask, he just had to know! "Remember when I said that my sailors knew how to fight? I was wrong. They couldn't hold a damn candle to you. Putnam...how did you do that?"

There was a few moments of silence, the younger man not meeting his gaze. Faulkner waited with bated breath. Finally, Ratohnhake:ton turned to him, his eyes haunted and accented by the dark lines painted on his face.

"There are some things that shouldn't be sought for, spirits that should be left alone," he said, his voice low and hollow. "You're a superstitious man, Faulkner. Do you think it takes someone inhuman, someone who's crossed a line, to defeat a man that's already a monster? Or do you think that they too have no place in this world and should be ridden of?"

The two men stared at each other silently, neither breaking their gaze. Ratohnhake:ton suddenly lost the image of a relentless, confident fighter. His powerful shoulders took on a hunch like they carried a great weight. His entire body held a story of someone who had seen too much, and who fought for far longer than his age gave away.

Yet for all of that, his stare was still steady and assessing. A wolf's stare. Something that was not entirely beast but not entirely human either.

"I think with all the shit that is happening in this country," the captain finally replied evenly. "The world won't crumble if she has another monster. And if he could kill the King and maybe change things for the better, than he should get more than what he thinks he deserves."

The wolf cocked his head curiously. "And what is that?"

"A peaceful life."

At that, the young man snorted but Faulkner could see the small tug on his lips and the contemplative expression. Suddenly, the captain realized something of which the warrior said earlier.

"How in the hell do you know that I'm superstitious?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Ratohnhake:ton began to walk away, ignoring his question. "I must go check on Kanen'tó:kon. Keep the Aquila headed for New York, no matter what."

Faulkner watched the Native with the wolf-hood prowl away, moving like the beast he wore, like the beast he was. He muttered a prayer, something he hadn't done in a long time. Whether Ratonhnhake:ton was a gift from a god or a servant of a devil, the old captain of the Aquila was just glad that he was on their side. Damn Washington to hell. The King better beware.

just a short and sweet one-shot. i was replaying ToKW and i was at the climax of episode 2: the betrayal. at that moment i was an absolute beast. not to brag but i was in the zone and nothing could touch me, and i thought, damn i wonder what a spectator would think of this display of epic beastness? thus this idea was born. hope i didnt bore any of you and that all characters were in character.

please leave a review! :)