Connor wasn't sure when it had started. He had been ready to hate his father, and in many ways he thought still did.
He was Grandmaster of the Templars after all, a traitor to the Assassins and an opposing force to their cause.

And yet...

He couldn't deny his father had a certain... charisma.

So much so, that of late he'd started to wonder if his death wouldn't be rather... unnecessary?

He'd brought it up with Achilles, asked if Haytham might be spared if Lee was killed. Lee was their true enemy after all, and his primary target.

Achilles had scoffed at such a notion, called it "misplaced sentiment."

"Both men must die," he had said firmly.

Connor had felt a tightening in his chest, a sudden twist of pain in his heart. Must all of his family die? "Achilles-" he began, his voice breaking slightly on the syllables. Surely he'd reconsider if he actually met the man?

He did not believe Haytham was truly a bad man, even if he was on the "other side." The world was not so black and white after all; he'd learnt that the hard way.

"There is nothing more to discuss," Achilles interrupted him, pushing himself back into his pillows.

Connor felt a flash of guilt for pushing his mentor. He was unwell and needed rest. Dying his mind whispered darkly, unbidden.

He stood up to leave, pausing by the foot of the bed to take a long last look at Achilles, before continuing through the doorway.

It would be the last time he ever saw him alive.

Connor liked to watch his father fight.

His was a style of controlled elegance, quite unlike Connor's own untamed ferocity.

They were both deadly of course, in their own way, but Connor had never seen anyone else stay so calm and calculated in the midst of battle.

It should have been unsettling, to see him hold his opponent's life in their hands and cut them down without mercy, nor second glance.

Instead Connor found himself mesmerised as he watched Haytham's blade slash ruthlessly across a redcoat's throat, the man's lifeblood staining the snow.

Connor did not like senseless killing, would never approve of mindless slaughter.

But some days it felt as though his human body was host to a vicious beast, just biding its time. Certain stimuli (the scent of blood, the crash of steel on steel) would inflame the beast, threatening to send Connor into a haze of bloodlust and death.

Many days Connor felt ready to write off Haytham as irredeemable, a hopeless cause. In contrast, that darker, wilder part of him would snarl in approval at the man's actions, acknowledging him as a ruthless killer with the skill to accomplish whatever he wished.

Perhaps he envied him, Connor mused as he watched Haytham clean his blade on the dead soldier's scarlet uniform from where he'd perched on a tree branch. After all, perhaps his path as an assassin would be easier if he was as merciless as the man in front of him.

Perhaps he would shoulder less grief, less guilt.

Connor shook his head to clear it. He had no time for 'what-ifs.' He leapt down onto the cold snow beneath him and made his way over to his father.

"Connor," Haytham greeted him pleasantly, sheathing his sword. "What can I do for you?"

Connor did not care much for small talk and pleasantries.

Connor should not have cared much for Haytham.

And yet it seemed he was drawn to him all the same.

"Achilles wanted me to kill you," he stated bluntly.

"And yet here we stand," Haytham replied calmly, not looking the least bit threatened. "The old man is dead, or so I heard. My condolences," he added, seeing Connor's jaw clench in pain.

"Your condolences mean nothing to me," Connor growled, his grief from the past week changing to anger, threatening to boil over. "He was like a father to me. More than you could ever be."

Connor met Haytham's eyes squarely, broad shoulders stiff with tension. "He was all I had left."

Haytham looked like he was about to make some snarky comment but was interrupted as Connor's fist met his face. He landed flat on his back, groaning as his fingers carefully felt his bleeding lip.

Connor settled on top of him, keeping him down with his weight. "You-" his voice cracked and tears filled his eyes, even as they continued to burn in rage. "What use are you to me?"

He pulled at Haytham's coat, jerking him forward to look him in the face. "Well?" he demanded.

Haytham remained silent, seemingly unsure of how to respond in the face of his son's grief.

A strangled sob escaped Connor lips, rage dissipating and leaving him once again feeling empty. Pulling his father closer, he leaned forward and kissed him, wanting to feel something, anything.

Haytham let him, not reciprocating but not pushing him away either. He sensed that the boy needed this, needed some kind of comfort though he personally doubted he was the right man for the job.

After a moment, he wrapped his arms around Connor and slowly pulled him into a hug.

They lay there together in the snow, silent except for the occasional sob muffled against Haytham's coat.

One of them would have to die in the end.

But not today.

It was in the midst of cannon fire that they met again, and both of them knew that today was the day.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Connor's blood sang in delight as his sword slashed and was skilfully parried. He was as captivated as ever with his father's finesse with a blade.

Their battle was long and difficult and they found themselves having to use every weapon and trick in their arsenal to stay alive.

Tiring now, Connor paused to wipe perspiration from his forehead. "I don't suppose you'd just surrender," he muttered ruefully.

A ghost of a smile flitted across Haytham's features. "Not to you, boy," he replied, already raising his sword to resume the battle.

Several clashes of steel later and Haytham was flat on his back against the cold stone floor, calloused hands tightening around his throat.

Struggling to breathe, he closed his eyes and prepared himself for the inevitable.

Suddenly the bruising grip was gone. Haytham opened his eyes in confusion.

"I-I can't do it," Connor confessed, half-whispering. "I can't lose you too."

Haytham rolled his eyes, then hissed in pain as Connor's fingers carefully brushed a cut on his cheek.

"Must we destroy each other?" Connor asked, soulful brown eyes filled with melancholy.

"We are enemies," Haytham reminded him, but he sensed the battle was over. Connor had no fight left in him, and Haytham simply didn't have the energy to continue.

He sighed in defeat. "I should have killed you long ago."

Connor said nothing, but tentatively pressed his lips to his father's cheek, just shy of the cut.

Both would die, when their time came.

But neither would fall to the other's hand.

At least, not in this lifetime.