Disclaimer: I don't own anything!

Warnings: ALL the angst, canon character death, spoilers for AC: Rogue and III. Implied male/male sexual content.

Based on this prompt from Writer's Digest: Write a letter to someone in your life that has passed away. You can tell that person the things you wish you'd said, tell that person some of the highlights of your life, whatever you want. If that's too difficult, have one of your characters from your novel (or short story) write a letter to a character he or she lost.

Notes: I won't lie, I cried while I was writing this. This prompt is plain evil. Also, it's not beta'd so sorry if there's errors. I'll give it another look over later. I'm aware the timeline is off, but that's just how it happened. ...So it's a little AU.

Connor didn't like to think about it much. Honestly, if anyone actually asked him, he'd deny it to his dying breath. But, whenever he was nearby, he would always make an effort to visit Haytham's grave. Never during the day, of course – only at night when he was relatively sure he wouldn't be seen. The truth of it was that he was ashamed to be caught there; he felt like he had no business being in that sacred place. Haytham may have been Connor's father, but he was also his greatest enemy. He understood the man's true goals and purpose after reading the journal he'd left behind, but it changed nothing. Yes, he would have done some things differently or apologized for more than a few of his ignorant assumptions, but he still believed in the path he'd chosen as an Assassin.

Connor pulled his hood down over his head and jumped over the fence surrounding the small cemetery, rather than bothering to walk to the entrance proper. There were still people about, even at the late hour. Though, Connor knew by now that the city never really slept. It was a cold winter night, and Connor's breath rose in clouds before him. He shoved his hands under his armpits for warmth as he sloshed through the nearly knee-deep snow. He noticed another set of footprints leading to Haytham's grave and frowned.

Who else would be there? Connor had killed off all of the allies Haytham was closest to... Hadn't he? That being said, he was more than a little surprised to see a slightly damp parchment envelope on top of the nondescript headstone, weighed down with a rock. It had Haytham's name neatly scrawled on the front. Curiously, Connor took it and carefully broke the red wax seal bearing the Templar cross overlayed by a wolf. It felt wrong to do so, but if Connor still had an active member of his father's circle to bring down, then so be it.

Somewhat guiltily, he began to read...

Dear Haytham,

I still haven't found that blasted box. It's not for lack of trying, but sometimes I secretly hope I never will. I feel like it's the only purpose I have. I promised I'd find for it you, and there are days where that oath is the only reason I keep carrying on. I have a lead, though. It's not another dead end; I'm sure of it this time. Either way, things are getting worrisome in France. I'll have to head there soon. There's another revolution on our hands, it seems. So far, this one seems weighted in the Order's favor. Hopefully that holds, but honestly I don't care anymore.

I'll still serve the Order; I always will. I can never go back, not after betraying the Assassins, not after how many of them I've hunted down and eliminated. That's behind me now, though. I've been working on finding the pieces of Eden, seeing to it that they aren't misused by either side of this damned pointless war. Still, I can't regret stopping you from killing Achilles that day. Even if a lot of what's happened since may be my fault based on that decision, I will always believe in mercy. So did you, I think, after all you were the one who ordered me not to kill Connor. I will, of course, never do so. ...Even if I want to sometimes, because he took everything from me the day that he killed you.

I visited Ziio's people recently as well. They are thriving in their new home, even if they no longer guard the sacred ground that was their life and livelihood. The Clan mother wished you good health; I could not bear to tell her of your fate. At least, if nothing else, I think we've done right by them as best we could, given the circumstances. I can't stop Washington's men from burning this village too, but I hope they leave them be for a little while at least. I pity Connor, truly. I know he only acted to protect his people, and it was his own ignorance and refusal to so much as try to understand our position that will one day be their downfall. In his crusade to save them, he only brought about their demise.

I think of you often. To say that I miss you would be a gross understatement. It's silly, but the hardest thing is sleeping alone. All these year later, it still feels too cold, too empty without you. There's a hole in my life where you should be – barking orders to my crew while the bunch of lob-cocks forget that you're not their damn captain. ...Or tangled up with me in the cabin on a cold night on the North sea. I dream of you constantly, and sometimes I could swear you're still beside me on board the Morrigan on stormy days. I hope that's true in some way, because the thought that perhaps you're still with me in spirit is one of the few things that gives me comfort lately.

I'm starting to break, I think. I don't know what I'll do when I find that damned box. It feels like it's the only thing I'm living for, because it was something I swore to do for you. When I find it, the last thread holding us together will be gone. I'm close, too; it'll be in my hands soon enough. But what happens then? You won't be there to order me off on another mission. I'm the one giving the orders now. Well, not that there's many of us left in the colonies to give orders to. But that's why I'm here, really. To say goodbye. I'm leaving for France come dawn, and I doubt I'll back. There's nothing left for us here, not now anyway. Perhaps in the future.

I never was the praying type, but I hope I meet you again when my time here is up. Losing you always felt like a nightmare, like the ones of Lisbon that you'd wake me up from and remind me that my work had prevented that horror from ever happening again. And that I was safe with you, and not... Am I ever going to wake from this bitter loneliness? No. I don't think so. Perhaps, I deserve it really. I killed everyone that I had once called friends, brothers even. This must be my punishment, on top of how much it hurt me to do it in the first place. It is worse than death to be without you. However, there's not a thing I would change. If there was, I suppose I would have made sure to tell you that I loved you at least a few more times.

Farewell then, Haytham. Writing this somehow makes it seem so final, even though I know you've been gone for years. I've finally given up on waking up from this particular nightmare, it seems. There's nothing else for it, I suppose. I will go where the winds take me, doing the Order's work, and one day hopefully they'll lead me back to you. This is truly goodbye, then. May a swift breeze fill your sails, and may the fair weather hold.

Yours always,

Shay

Connor carefully refolded the letter and slipped into one of his pockets. He had no idea who Shay was, but he had head heard of the Morrigan. Faulkner had told him that she had once belonged to the Assassins, but her captain turned out to be a traitor. He hadn't said more, just shook his head sadly and said that they'd both be lucky if either of them turned out to be half the sailor he'd been. It had been the Morrigan that led the last assault that finally took out the Aquila. Her Captain had the chance to kill everyone on board, but he let them flee to lick their wounds instead, ordering the Navy's frigates to hold their fire.

Conner had tried to ask Achilles once, and the old man hadn't spoken to him for a week as a result. When he'd come around, the only thing he said was that the Morrigan's captain had betrayed them for good reasons. ...And that it was he who had been too blind to see the consequences of his own actions. That was all Connor could get out of him though, stubborn as Achilles was.

He wished the aging mentor was still living, so he could ask more. Instead, he resigned himself to the fact that there never would be answers. Perhaps it was for the better. What would he do? Find Shay and apologize for actions that he did not regret? Say he was sorry for the fact that he'd metaphorically ripped his heart right out of his chest? No. He'd do the only thing he could that felt right, hold onto the letter and bury it near Haytham in the spring when the ground thawed.