Author's Note: Oh, how the sadness of the original storyline depresses me…to the point of tears.

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine.

In the day that passed, Connor could not shake the feeling that something terrible was about to happen. He wondered if it would be something to do with his father. What else could it be? But, then again, their…relationship…wasn't showing any signs of undue stress. His mind grew restless and agitated.

"What is the meaning of this meeting at Valley Forge?" Achilles asked. His deep, raspy voice was normally a comfort to Connor, but currently it did no good.

"We are to warn Washington of the plans of the British." Connor knew his master would pick up on the chosen pronoun.

"We?"

Of course. "My father will be accompanying me."

Achilles leaned on his cane, narrowing his eyes as he studied his not-so-young apprentice. "You like the man," he accused suddenly, jabbing the stick at Connor's chest. "Don't try to deny it, boy. There's a strange light that comes into your eye whenever you mention him."

The Assassin chose his words carefully. "His moral compass is not as crooked as you would think, Achilles. If he weren't—"

"The Grandmaster of the Templars?" the old man interrupted.

Connor shot him a glare and continued. "If he weren't so blinded by Charles Lee, I think he could see reason." Hatred swelled in his chest just thinking about that cruel, rat-faced man. He unconsciously rubbed the place where Lee's hand had closed around his throat so many years ago.

"I think you ought to reconsider who is blinded by who."

"You don't understand, old man," Connor snapped, letting some of his temper go before he could stop it. "If you knew my father, you would."

Achilles scoffed. "You barely even know him."

The truth of the words speared Connor. His hurt immediately morphed into anger. "I'm leaving," he growled, exiting the parlor and opening the front door. He meant to slam it, but Achilles' hand caught it.

"Let's hope this meeting serves to rid you of your unruly attitude," he called after his apprentice, who was already trotting away on horseback.

The ride to Valley Forge was quiet, save for the pounding of hooves and the occasional yips from packs of coyotes. Connor wrestled with his thoughts the whole way there. Did he know his father at all beyond his position in life? He finally settled on yes, he did; his father was the type of man that you could learn a lot about just by observing him.

Said man was leaning against a fence when Connor arrived.

"Evening, Connor," Haytham greeted. His tone was genuinely kind.

"Hello, Father." Connor could have sworn that the ghost of a smile passed across the Grandmaster's lips. They began the long walk up the steep hill leading to Washington's tent.

After a minute or two, Haytham spoke. "We should be sharing what we know with Lee, not Washington."

Always in the way, the Assassin thought bitterly, picturing his father's right-hand man. "You seem to think I favor him," he replied, referring to Washington. "But my enemy is a notion, not a nation. It is wrong to compel obedience, whether to the British Crown or the Templar Cross." The men stopped and faced one another. "And I hope in time the Loyalists will see this too, for they are also victims."

"You oppose tyranny, injustice. These are just symptoms; their true cause is human weakness. Why do you think I keep on trying to show you the error of your way?" The Templar's last statement sounded more like a plea than he meant for it to. He wanted badly for his son to come to see things his way, for them to become a true team. In a perfect world, they would be unstoppable.

But the world was far from perfect. "You have said much, yes," Connor said, "but you have shown me nothing." Nothing other than how to kill those who don't need to die.

Haytham had to admit that there was truth in that. "Then we'll have to remedy that then, won't we?"

Connor felt another stab of foreboding when a strange look came onto his father's face as he walked ahead. It was almost as if he was dreading something to come as well.

The Grandmaster let his son take the lead as they approached the tent where Washington was bent over some kind of map. His nose wrinkled at the very sight of the buffoon.

"Sir," Connor greeted meekly.

Washington looked up. "Hello, Connor," he replied with an easy smile. "What brings you here?"

"The British have recalled their men in Philadelphia. They march for New York."

"Very well." The Commander put his hands behind his back and looked away, thinking of how to best react to this news. Haytham, meanwhile, snooped through the papers littering the abandoned desk. "I'll move our forces to Monmouth. If we can rout them, we'll have finally turned the tide."

Haytham picked up a letter. "And what's this?" he interjected, making a show of holding it up. The shift in Washington's demeanor was immediate; a mixture of fear and anger darkened his countenance, and he made to grab the letter.

"Private correspondence!" he hissed. The Grandmaster swooped the paper out of his grasp. Pathetic reflexes for the leader of an army, he thought disdainfully.

"Oh, of course it is. Would you like to know what it says, Connor?"

The horrible feeling in the Assassin's gut reached a new height. Slowly, he nodded. "It seems your good friend here has just ordered an attack on your village." Connor's eyes whipped to Washington, who didn't dare meet them. He silently begged any deity who was listening for this not to be true. "Although 'attack' might be putting it mildly. Tell him, Commander," Haytham invited.

Washington looked up as though at knifepoint. "We've been receiving reports of allied Natives working for the British. I've asked my men to put a stop to it."

"By burning their villages and salting the land? By calling for their extermination, according to this letter." Haytham kept eyes on his son's countenance the entire time. He was surprised when his heart ached for the betrayal and hurt on Connor's face. The Grandmaster grimaced at the thought of what must be said next. His son wasn't stupid—he'd figure out that Haytham had known the truth about Ziio's death since the beginning.

Haytham steeled himself. "Not the first time, either. Tell him what you did fourteen years ago."

The Commander immediately went on the defensive. "That was another time," he snapped. "The Seven Years War."

Connor's mind flurried like snowflakes in a winter storm as he made sense of what was being said. His father had always known about his mother's death, the Assassin realized. He'd just never told him the truth.

"And so now you see what happens to this 'great man' when under duress." Haytham felt his anger rising; anger that the killer of the only woman he'd ever loved was standing right before him. Anger that the same man was using his son as an errand boy for his own advances. "He makes excuses, displaces blame. Does a great many things, in fact—except take responsibility!" the Templar shouted furiously. By the end, he and Washington were nose to nose. He was dangerously close to engaging his hidden blades and plunging them right into the bastard's chest.

"ENOUGH!" Connor roared, ensuring that a full-blown brawl did not come to pass. "Who did what and why must wait—my people come first."

Haytham took a calming breath. When he spoke, his voice was still deepened from the power of his rage. "Then let's be off."

"No." Connor held up a hand, and the Grandmaster stopped dead. He had to force himself to spit the words out of his knotted throat. "You and I are finished."

Haytham couldn't quite describe the awful feeling that dissipated his anger completely and threatened to tear open his chest. "Son—" he began to plead.

Connor had no doubt that the twisted hurt on his father's face was very real. No man was that good an actor. But he had a promise to his people to uphold, and damn anything that would stand in his way. "Do you think me so soft that by calling me 'son' I might change my mind?" The Assassin forced his voice to be a granite wall of confidence, for—right then—he was exactly that soft. "How long do you sit on this information, or am I to believe you discovered it now?"

Haytham looked away, guilt clouding his eyes. This goodbye would be anything but painless, he realized as his son continued.

"My mother's blood may stain another's hands, but Charles Lee is no less a monster, and all he does, he does by your command!" Connor wondered if his father knew that Lee had nearly suffocated him that same day his mother died fourteen years ago.

Both men made to stop him, and he turned viciously like an animal trapped in a corner. "A warning to you both—choose to follow me or oppose me, and I will kill you."

The Grandmaster knew it was no coincidence that his son was looking him straight in the eyes as he delivered the warning. He saw anger and pain swimming in his son's gaze, and he wished horribly that he could change the way things were. He watched him mount a horse and gallop away into the trees.

As soon as he was out of sight, Haytham shoved Washington out of his goddamned way, mounted a horse, and took off after Connor.