Hey Guys, me again

So as I may or may not have previously stated, I was really disappointed when Connor didn't end up in Rogue or Unity, and I was also really disappointed when we were kinda left hanging with what happened to Shay at the end of his game. So, with that in mind, I made a little story of what I think might have happened between the two. It's set two years after the end of AC3, and I wanted to make it as realistic as possible, but I don't know how well that worked in a universe with ancient world building aliens who give magic vision to a select few guys. But hey, whatever.

As always, I don't own Assassin's Creed. I do, however, own...wow, I wrote my intro to TiaFIHW on this page without even realizing it. That was really subconscious of me. Yeah, anyways, don't own AC. On with the story.

March 8th, 1785

It was overcast. It had rained the night before, which turned into a mist by the morning, forcing all life in the frontier to retreat back to their homes with wet pelts. The wilds of the frontier were drenched from last night's downpour, making the environment soggy and frankly very unwelcoming. The humidity had risen as dawn faded away, and the entire forest had simply turned hot and sticky. Considering it was so close to spring, it was almost unbearable, but anyone who knew the parts well knew that the weather in the frontier could turn as quickly as it could revert back. A dampness hung in the air in a fog, the feel of it lingering on Connor's skin as he stepped cautiously through the undergrowth. The Assassin held his bow in his hands, an arrow nocked but not drawn, as he ducked under a tangle of bushes. On the other side was the elk. Connor could see the scratches where he had cut it with his hidden blades, and one arrow still awkwardly stuck out of its hindquarter, creating a slight limp. The creature was drinking, its' antlers brushing against the water of the small stream.

Slowly, Connor drew the arrow back, the feathered end brushing against this cheek. He adjusted his aim slightly as the elk finished its drink and straightened up, sniffing the air. Connor hoped it didn't know he had returned, else he would lose the elk for good.

The arrow flew from his hands, going fast and straight, carried by the wind. It pierced the animal's neck, and the animal finally went down, crying out. Connor at first felt a little sympathy for the thing, but the stinging cuts on his shoulders snapped him back to reality. He hoped that Ellen desperately needed these elk furs as much as she said. Some client, wealthy and arrogant, demanded elk fur rugs as if they simply grew in the frontier, giving Ellen a three week deadline to meet his terms. Unfortunately for her, Myriam was too busy taking care of her newborn child Mason. Thus, Connor offered to fetch the things for her rather than forcing her to pay out of pocket. Ellen insisted on returning the favor, like she always did when he performed these sorts of acts, but Connor steadfastly refused her. It wasn't a problem, after all—Connor liked the opportunity to stretch his legs with so little going on. The Assassin hadn't foreseen that the elks were very difficult to find in these parts at this time of the year. They had moved back to the eastern parts of the frontier, but the weather was still very cold and the elks were jumpy and easily startled. Connor had nearly gotten trampled by three of them already, with plenty of scrapes to show for it, and he still had yet to meet Ellen's quota. Still, this was a start. He'd have to take to the treetops next.

Connor slipped his bow back over his shoulders as he approached the elk. It was dead by now, the arrow in its throat most likely severing it's airway. As he unsheathed his hidden blade and grabbed the hilt, Connor knelt down.

"Nia:wen," he whispered, and proceeded to skin the elk.

At last, after a long time of careful skinning and trimming, Connor hung the elk fur on a low branch of a nearby ash tree. It was a good size and quality, to his luck. The elk carcass was left behind: the wolves could scavenge it later. Connor hung the fur up gently, making sure it was spread out evenly, and sat against the tree. The hunter brought out some of the remaining food he had taken, a few rabbit legs, and proceeded to eat them. Nothing seemed better to the Assassin then a long sleep, but it was still midday, and he still had a while to go.

Connor got up and stretched his back, feeling his muscles in his back flex against the pressure. It felt good, he reflected. No soreness. No tenderness. He was back to full strength at last.

The days had been peaceful since the Templars had been scattered. As the brotherhood rose up again, their enemies had fled to the furthest corners of the country, even overseas. Connor and his growing number of apprentices fought to keep control, but the task was much easier than expected. Each time a sign of Templar influence popped up in the newly formed states, the Assassins simply unearthed it at the roots and cut it off. Without a proper leader, the Templars were floundering under the iron heel of their eternal enemies. Becoming mentor to the order had its growing pains, but the others were willing to cooperate and listen to Connor, much to his relief. Eventually, he left a portion of the work as mentor to his former apprentices, who seemed much more adept to the situation. Dobby Carter in particular was a favorite among the students, her humor and quick wit matching her skill with a sword. Connor and Aveline de Grandprè, the Assassin in the southern parts of the newly formed country, communicated on a regular basis. Her news was good as well, if not quiet. The wound to Connor's side that nearly cost him his life had not pained him in two years and his hair, once cut into a thin strip, had grown back in full. It seemed as though things were finally starting to settle back to normal. He had nothing but scars to show for all the men he had hunted and all the lives that had been lost to his duties.

The Homestead had grown much over these past years as well. Myriam and Norris were still happily married, just having their second child after their daughter Manon was born. Terry and Godfrey's boys were busy helping in their father's lumber mills, increasing their production almost twice over. The Mile's End was almost always packed, and Connor still received Corrine's care packages as thank you's every few weeks or so, filled with various treats and pies. Even Ellen's daughter Maria, now eighteen, was finding happiness somewhere, as young men had had started to arrive on the homestead to court her on a regular basis. They all seemed like fairly decent boys, but Ellen was still understandably nervous, given her past. Thus, she enlisted Connor and Big Dave to make sure each boy knew the stakes of breaking her daughter's heart. It embarrassed Maria to no end. There was one kind bloke in particular that Maria seemed smitten with, but he still always blanched whenever he spotted the Assassin or the blacksmith from a distance. Every time Connor and he locked eyes, the boy would politely yet firmly insist to Maria that they continued their walk in another direction.

Connor heaved a sigh as he relaxed his muscles. Perhaps it was time that he looked for a woman in his life. But immediately, the thought raced from his mind and scurried back into a crevice. He was thirty: there was still plenty of time to find someone to share his later years with. Besides, making sure the Assassins were prosperous was a far more important task then courting a lady. Chasing after someone would only distract him, and he wouldn't be able to show her the affection she probably craved and deserved.

Casting one last glance back to the elk fur across the branch, Connor headed deeper into the forest. Here, in the middle of the forests deep in the wilds of New York, no one would even venture out in fear of getting lost or freezing to death, but Connor knew the territory well. So long as he took shelter every night, he could stay out here for weeks at a time and have no fear of losing his way.

The Assassin ducked under a low branch and scanned the ground for tracks. There were some from a rabbit, the poor thing probably having to work over the piles of leftover snow, leaves, and mud just to make it a few meters. Wolves had been here recently, having marked some stump to show their territory. There were some hooves, but they were far too small to be an elks, perhaps some wayward deer. Connor gritted his teeth in irritation; he would have to try for a different direction and hope for the best. He cast a glance up, and the Assassin could see the clouds begin to darken.

It is probably just best to wait out the storms before Ellen's furs get ruined.

As Connor listed off the nearest shelters in his mind, something rustled behind him.

The Assassin spun on his heel, one hand on his tomahawk. The trees around him revealed nothing. No twitches. No shaking. Nothing to indicate something was following him. Connor glanced around, keen eyes narrowed. Nothing seemed off colored against the damp greens of the forest. He relaxed after a few moments, but the feeling of uneasiness refused to dissipate. Connor shrugged it off reluctantly and began to head back the way he came, his right hand still hovering over his tomahawk.

The further he walked, the stronger the feeling became. He could feel some sort of eyes upon him, though he couldn't tell from where. Connor was so used to relying on his instincts that ignoring them for this long was feeling like a grave mistake. The hairs on the back of his neck rose up and stood on end. He checked his sides constantly, but the undergrowth gave no signs of life hiding in its' depths. Connor unconsciously realized that his pace was slowing down with each second.

It was only when Connor heard the sound of something being loaded did he stop again.

It was certainly the sound of a gun being prepared to fire. Connor knew that sound anywhere. He looked around wildly—surely the person would need to see him to get a good shot? But when he was certain that this assailant, whoever they were, was not on the ground, a rush of realization came over him. He felt his eyes lift up off the ground and stare into the treetops.

A dark figure was perched in the trees, hidden by budding foliage and twisting branches. Connor could see the shiny muzzle of a gun being aimed his way. There was a flurry of cursing, and Connor knew what was coming next.

The Assassin quickly rolled away from his former position. When he stood up and glanced back, there was a small dart where he had once stood, sinking into the mud. That wasn't possible though…after all, Connor hadn't heard the gun fire. He stared in amazement, so caught up that he forgot about his opponent.

The unknown man, taking advantage of Connor's momentary distraction, jumped down from the trees and landed squarely on his shoulders. Connor grunted in surprise as he felt himself fall to the ground, the assaulter on top of him. The Assassin gritted his teeth in frustration; he was never this slow or unbalanced against his enemies. He heaved up, but the man held him down evenly, his mass rivaling the Assassin's own. The gleam of a blade hovered only a few centimeters away from Connor's nose. Anger surged through the native's muscles.

With a vicious twist, Connor summoned his extra energy and threw his body weight to the right. The attacker let out a growl as Connor rolled on top of him. The dagger flew out of the assailants hands, and the man barked another curse in his anger. Connor balled his fist and tried to strike his own blow, but his attempts were thwarted as the other man caught it with one hand. Connor clenched his teeth and pushed closer, but he suddenly felt a prick on his wrist. It became much sharper after a heartbeat, and Connor was forced to draw back and stumble away, holding his now bleeding forearm. The other man pulled himself off the ground with, much to Connor's shock, a hidden blade retreating into it's sheathe.

Connor began to pace as he drew his tomahawk, and the other man followed his example. It was only now that Connor could get a good look at the man. In a strange sense, he reminded Connor of his own father, Haytham. He was certainly much older than the younger Assassin, age showing in his slow movements and scarred skin. The man's dark hair was tied up tightly and lined with streaks of gray, his angled face was wrinkled with age. He wore a brown cloak, straps crisscrossing over his chest and back. Various talismans were hooked onto the leather, some Connor recognized and some he didn't. There was a sword strapped to his side, and four holsters for pistols. The most peculiar weapon of all was the gun strapped to his back, too small to be a musket, too thick to be a pistol. As the man stared at him and narrowed his eyes, the scar over his eye rippled.

Connor furrowed his brows and shook off his still hurting forearm. The man bent down and picked up his dagger, sheathing it. Still they paced, like wolves. Connor had half a mind to just shoot the man and be done with it, but he knew he could never do that. He had too many questions.

"Who are you?" Connor dared to speak first.

The man stopped and straightened himself, an amused smirk replacing his former expression. "You mean that the old man never did tell you about me?" he asked, his tone almost nostalgic, but there was a hardness to it. "Nor your father? I admit, I expected Haytham to at least mention me. I'm rather hurt, to be quite honest, Connor."

Connor gritted his teeth but didn't respond. The man's response only left him with more questions than answers. He knew Achilles? And his father? And somehow, this man who he had never seen before in his life knew him as well.

"You knew Achilles?" he started with the first one.

"Oh yes," the man replied with heavy sarcasm, drawing his sword. "Did he ever tell- oh who am I kidding, of course he didn't. Sweeping his failures under a bed like a coward. He never told you, Connor, about Lisbon? And the artifacts? And all those lives? Never did tell you who was responsible for the dismantling of the Assassins all those years ago? Nor his former apprentice who only wanted to better the people and prevent unnecessary death caused by the very man you learned from?"

"You speak strong words for a man past your prime." Connor dared to growl. The mystery man's—Connor could only assume he was a Templar at this point- eyes widened at his challenge.

The man smirked. "Oh, I may not be young, but past my prime is hardly the phrase I would choose to use." Connor and the Templar stepped closer to each other, tightening the circle as he continued. "I come back from France after God knows how long, only to find most of my allies and brothers, if not all of them, dead by the Grandmaster's own son? I dare say, Connor, you've made a name for yourself even overseas. The French Assassins were quite fond of you, I think. And your father, oh, don't get me started on Haytham."

"Are you a Templar?" Connor dared to question. He already knew the answer. Still, the men paced ever closer.

"My name is Shay Patrick Cormac," the man finally revealed. "I was your father's right hand man, and one of the most fearsome sailors in all of the eastern seaboard. Of course, you would have never heard of me—Achilles never mentioned his failures, especially not to you. So of course, when I come back to find Haytham, Charles, the whole lot of them dead, I want to find out who did the work. It took me a long time to find you, Connor. I'm not letting you get off that easy."

The two of them were so close, Connor could count his wrinkles. Shay's left hand suddenly reached out, finding the handle of one of his pistols. Connor, instinct rushing through his body, swung hard with his own weapon.

The pistol fired, but not before Connor whacked it out of his hands with a heavy swing. The bullet became embedded into the bark of a nearby tree, far from hitting its mark. The pistol itself flew off into the bushes, and Shay had to duck as Connor lashed out with his hidden blade.

The two of them swung hard at the other, sword on tomahawk. Connor rolled to avoid Shay's blows, and the other man stepped in every direction, almost erratically, like he was insane. Connor had to admit, for his age, Shay was still a formidable fighter. Unlike many other Templars he faced, this one actually knew how to wield a sword and dagger. The Assassin refocused on landing a hit, and was increasingly more frustrated when he didn't.

But then, Shay jumped out of Connor's reach. As Connor stepped closer cautiously, Shay placed something around his nose and mouth, and with one sweeping motion, he pulled out his rifle and aimed it directly at his foe. Connor backed off almost as quickly as he advanced, waiting to see what would happen. That thing wasn't a normal gun, but even with that in mind, Connor could never have predicted what would have happened next.

Shay aimed the rifle to the ground, and thick smoke exploded through the end. Connor leapt back desperately but he was quickly enveloped in a thick fog that made his eyes water and burned at his throat. He doubled over in a coughing fit, and he heard Shay's voice calling out, taunting him. Connor spun, but he couldn't pinpoint the origin in the thick smoke.

"Is this all the great Assassin has to offer?" Shay called out scathingly, his voice cutting through the air. "I would've thought Haytham's son had more fight in him, but it seems you're just like all the rest of the Assassins. You're dishonest and foolish, and you believe that what you're doing is the right thing."

"I do not know what you speak of, but it is the right thing," Connor growled back, spinning on his heels.

Shay's voice was harsher now. "So you believe that the death of thousands of people were justified? That they deserved to die for the sake of some old wives' tales, some ancient artifact that should've been left alone? The Templars, boy, sought to protect the better people."

"By controlling them?"

"They do not know what is good for them! The Assassins sought to expose and exploit that! The Templars sought to keep peace, and you've killed them all! That old man filled your head with lies, Connor. It's time I silenced them."

Connor closed his eyes. The thickness of the fog was not relenting, and Connor had no hope of ever finding Shay in this deluge. The older man would surely find him first. Seeing no other choice, he gripped his tomahawk hard and reopened his eyes.

The world had shimmered and grown dark, outlines of black trees faintly shown through the gray smoke that was still erupting from Shay's smoke bomb. Connor spun, squinting his eyes with his second vision. And then, movement to his left caught his attention. A figure, a red figure, was coming out of the mist. Its sword was raised above his head and he was approaching him slowly, careful not to make noise. Connor was certain Shay had no idea he could see him.

Quick as a spark of lightning, Connor spun and swung with his tomahawk. Shay, unprepared and left defenseless, took the blow right to the chest. The Templar coughed blood, a look of astonishment on his face, and collapsed to the dirt. By now, the fog was starting to clear, and Connor's vision reverted to normal. Shay lay on the ground, blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth. He reached out a hand to the Assassin, but it fell to the dirt, useless.

"I see," Shay coughed, a small smile creeping onto his face. "You can do it too. Your father had that ability, and I should've only figured you'd inherit it. Damn…I should've known."

"Stop speaking," Connor growled, bending down so he could look the Templar in the eyes. "Whatever plans you had left for the Templars, they are over."

"Ah, but you see, Connor, they are never over." Shay's eyes, quickly fading, sparked suddenly. "Like the sun follows the moon, the Templars will rise again. Remember that, Kenway. Your bloodline is not one of peace. My time with your father has taught me that. Mark my words, my brothers will kill you and your friends, if not this year than the year after that, or the next. You will never know tranquility for the rest of your days if that is the last thing I do... God damn you…Connor…"

Connor snorted, but still felt the force of those words. Shay sighed at last, and his head rolled back. The Templar was dead, blood still seeping out of his chest. Connor stood up, staring at the body. "I may not live in peace, but now the rest of the world will, with you gone," Connor spoke Shay's last rites in his native tongue. He sheathed his tomahawk and limped back the way he came, uneasiness following in his wake. Shay Patrick Cormac was left on the ground, finally gone, a pious look spread across his face.

-()-()-()-()-

Not really surprising, people at the Homestead were amazed when Connor returned to the property cut up and looking like he had received the beating of a lifetime. Connor, who had experienced far worse things in his life, passed it off as a wild elk stampede and presented Ellen with his solitary pelt, promising to return with more once he recovered. Diana was in a fit, wrapping his cuts and wounds while harping on him with the ferocity of a cougar. Connor endured it all, but just wished she was done. He had more important things to do, much more important. Still, Dr. White would flay him with a rusty scalpel should he leave his wounds untreated, so he allowed Diana to slave over him for two hours before returning to the manor, those gray clouds opening up to pour down rain over the land.

Once home, the Assassin immediately headed for his study. Connor thumbed through the different spines on the bookshelves until he at last found what he was looking for. It was a small brown book, pages earmarked and the cover peeling away with age. Haytham's journal. Connor had read his father's words over and over again when he had first acquired the thing and there never was a mention of a Shay Cormac. So what had happened? And why hide it?

The Assassin settled himself into his desk, thumbing through different pages of his fathers' words. Edward, Tess, Jenny, Birch, Charles, Ziio. Still, no Cormac. Something didn't add up.

Finally, just after the mentioning of Haytham's arrival in America and meeting his mother, Connor found his answer. Well, not really an answer. Pages had been torn right out of the journal, their edges still planted in between the spine. Connor pressed the sides of the book down and counted them. There were about fifteen pages missing in total. Thirty missing pages of information that Connor was never going to recover. They were long gone by now, probably, burned to ashes or scattered far and wide to trusted friends. Connor leaned back in his seat and rubbed the bridge of his nose, noticing how low his candles had burned and dripped wax over his desk. He had sat there for a long time, and his eyes felt out of focus.

"Connor?"

Connor jumped childishly as Patience Gibbs appeared in the doorway. She watched him as he recollected himself after having scared him with an amused smile on her face. "Stephane and Clipper and I are going to the Miles End for dinner. They were wondering if you'd feel up to coming."

Connor quickly closed Haytham's journal, feeling nothing but disappointment. "I think I will pass tonight," he told her evenly. "Tell Stephane and Clipper-"

"-not to worry? Don't fret, I will."

"You know, I really wish you would stop doing that."

Patience flashed him a broad smile as she held up her charm. When she had first arrived with Aveline de Grandprè, she was doing this, always finishing his sentences and leaving the two girls in fits of laughter before Connor was finally able to decipher what was going on. That was the last time they had seen Aveline face to face. "I make no promises." she quipped, disappearing from the doorframe. Connor was once again left alone, and he sighed and leaned back in his chair as thunder rumbled outside his window, masking the sounds of Patience walking down the stairs.

Slowly, the Assassin got up and replaced Haytham's journal back on his bookshelf, lost in thought. As he headed back to his room, he paused with his hand on the doorknob. Something about Shay's last words bothered him, more than they should have. Connor had heard his fair share of final statements from Templars, but Shay's put him on edge more than any of the others combined. What were they again?

Like the sun follows the moon, the Templars will rise again. Remember that, Kenway. Your bloodline is not one of peace. My time with your father has taught me that. Mark my words, my brothers will kill you and your friends, if not this year than the year after that, or the next. You will never know tranquility for the rest of your days if that is the last thing I do.

Connor snorted. Such an empty threat. Shay must've known how decimated Connor and his apprentices have left the Templar order in America. He had said it himself. Even Aveline's news of Templar influence was about as boring as stone. But then again, what about overseas? Was that what Shay had been talking about? After all, he did mention returning from there after some time abroad. And there was something about France, and their brotherhood. Connor had never really given much thought to the state of the brotherhood across the ocean. He was always so focused into the fares of the American order that the thought of European Assassins had never crossed his mind. He wondered what Shay had done over there in his time of travel: explore, or kill.

Slowly, Connor retracted his hand. He climbed down the stairs, threw open the door, and walked outside in the torrential rain. Hardly able to see, and relying on memory of footsteps if anything, the Assassin eventually made his way to The Mile's End, where upon reaching it, he stepped inside, completely drenched.

Big Dave and Norris were sharing a beer at the counter and exchanging news. Oliver and Corrine were rushing around, serving sailors. Terry and Godfrey had drawn quite a crowd with an arm wrestling competition they had going on. Lance was testing some of the new tables he had recently built for the tavern's couple. Across the way, tucked into the corner, were Stephane, Clipper, and Patience, with Dobby leaning against the wall behind them. They were all merrily drinking, clinking their tankards together and laughing. Upon catching sight of their leader, however, they fell silent, and Connor approached them with a growing feeling of amusement.

"Salut, my friend," Stephane was the first to speak as Connor dragged a chair over and settled himself into it. Connor returned his old partner's friendliness with a nod.

Dobby pushed herself off the wall and was now standing behind Patience. "What brings you up, Connor?" she questioned skeptically. "I thought you told Patience you weren't up for the tavern tonight."

"I really still am not," Connor confessed. Patience smiled and rolled her eyes, taking another sip. As she put her tankard down and Clipper nudged her shoulder, Connor continued. "But I have been doing some thinking recently, and I believe we need to start thinking of going elsewhere."

"We already have people springing up across the eastern coastline," Clipper pointed out, "Do you want to go westward? I mean, if we do, who knows what we'll find out there."

"That was not my intention." Connor reiterated. "Things are good here. I think it's time we communicate with our brothers over the sea. I've decided that we should perhaps plan a trip across the ocean, to re-communicate with our brothers in Europe."

Silence greeted him. The four of them exchanged a glance. Even Patience, with all her gifts of predicting the future of his words, looked astonished.

"Well," Stephane spoke first, sounding equal parts hesitant and excited. "That is all fine, but what of the order here? We cannot simply leave it unguarded."

"A trip like this will take time to plan, enough time that we can extend the order even further here. Besides, not all of us will go. Only a select few." Connor was just spitting out the words as he went along, but the more he spoke, the more seemed to make sense. He should've thought of something like this sooner. "I think it would be worth the effort."

"What of sailors?" Clipper chimed in, looking reasonably more anticipatory.

"The men of the Aquila can sail across the ocean. They have fared harder voyages."

"And location?" That was Dobby. "We cannot just sail the open ocean and pray we hit land."

"I have some old maps in the basement. I don't think they are that dated. We could use those."

The four of them exchanged one more glance. And then, he saw Patience grin widely.

"It might not be such a bad idea…" Dobby murmured.

"Sound's fun." Clipper decided.

"You're the boss. If that's what you want, then I'll lend my hand." Stephane stated.

Four pairs of eyes fell on Patience, who shrugged. "I don't know what happened in those woods, Connor, but if this is what you want, then count me in."

The three others cheered, and raised their tankards, to which Patience cheered too. The four of them drank deeply as the storm roared around them. Connor leaned back in his chair, exhausted. What a night it had been. And what a year it was going to be.

Sorry, Shay fans, for doing that. I really didn't want to, as I do think that Shay is one of the more well-rounded three dimensional characters in the series, but I still think that Connor would whoop his ass any day. And I loved writing Patience, because I loved her in Aveline's DLC and she doesn't get near enough attention as she should. I think she has...like, three fics floating around with her in them? Anyway, I digress.

The journal-ripping-out-pages thing was inspired by a comic I saw a long time ago (I think it was called "Burned") that I can't remember who it was by. If you made that comic, PM me, and I'll give you the credit you deserve because that was some amazing artwork.

Thanks for reading and please follow, fav, or review if you enjoyed!

Edit:

Good news! I dig some digging on my Tumblr account and found the illustrator of the comic I was talking about above (and boy was I waaaaaaaay off). It's called "Bonfire of the Creed" by Sunsetagain. Go check out their artwork: if you follow AC on Tumblr, you've probably seen some of it. Glad I finally found the artist though: it didn't feel right not giving them credit.