Just a short thing I wrote based on some lovely Assassin Ziio fanart by tumblr's rhymewithrachael. The link is here: post/88620482103/au-where-connor-dies-in-the-fire-and-ziio-becomes

In Another Life

This new Assassin – always hooded so their face obscured – was a force of nature, they said. The likes of which the Order had never seen before.

The Brotherhood was supposed to be long dead. Achilles was the last surviving member, and with his lame leg, he was no longer a threat. But did he manage to train someone? If so, who was it? Who found and convinced the tired old man to teach them his long-dead ways?

The Templars didn't know, if only because this new Assassin cut down anyone and everyone who stood in their path. They were lithe, graceful – but impossibly brutal as well. The bodies left behind were often times barely recognizable.

The Colonial Rite's numbers began to dwindle, and soon the Grand Master found only himself and Charles Lee still standing. Haytham Kenway's underlings – and his comrades as well, loyal to their last – were gone.

And still he knew very little about the Assassin's identity; only that they fought with purpose and ferocity.

They were incredibly dangerous.

Haytham finally, after years of waiting, met the Assassin one bitterly cold night. They approached him, hood still drawn-

But Haytham recognized that walk.

No. It couldn't be.

Could it?

There was no time to find out. The Assassin rushed toward him, tomahawk arching through the air. He hurried to block the attack – only to find that their hidden blade was drawn and pressing into his side.

Haytham stepped back. Ignored the sharp pain just below his rib cage. He swung his sword, parried another strike, slipped away.

The Assassin was fast. So fast.

And yet this dance was familiar as well.

Haytham struck out with his hidden blade. This time it found its mark. The Assassin faltered, clutching at their arm, blood blossoming beneath the white sleeve.

Haytham stabbed again. Missed. Blocked. He was losing blood faster than the Assassin was; he felt himself flagging, slowing down. He wasn't as young as he was when he fought and stopped Achilles.

The Assassin seemed to sense this as well. They leapt, grabbed him by the shoulders. Haytham twisted violently and shoved the Assassin to the ground.

Now was the time. He ripped off their hood. Exposed their face.

Her face.

Haytham stopped, his hidden blade hovering over the Assassin's neck.

Her face.

Ziio stared back at him. Ziio. My God, he thought she'd died so long ago, when George Washington set her village ablaze. Why hadn't he gone back for her? Why? Perhaps he could have stopped her from becoming an Assassin.

Could have stopped her from killing everyone he knew and held dear.

Her eyes weren't the same as before. Love was replaced by a hatred so strong that it hurt to look at. Her lips were drawn tight in a frown.

She saw his hesitation. Saw the way his blade stopped inches from her throat.

"Ziio," he started, brows pressed together.

She never gave him a chance. Ziio fought out of his grasp and drove her blade into the space just above his collarbone before he could regain himself.

Haytham stumbled back. His expression was muddled; it was impossible to tell if he was confused, or upset, or resigned.

Kaniehtí:io felt little. She had stopped loving this man so many years ago – long before this journey began. Killing him did little to soothe the pain in her heart, to fill the hole left by her – not their – son's death in that fire. It didn't matter if the Templars caused it or not; she would have had to kill their Grand Master anyway.

Now there was one less Templar. One less man who might try to buy her land and her people.

"Ó:nen ki' wáhi," she said to him, her voice hard and utterly emotionless.

Goodbye.