"Battlestations! Man the cannons!" Connor shouted, the crew running around frantically.

"Our Man O' Wars and frigates are armed with the most advanced modern weaponry. This ship can't survive the attacks from that fleet..." Haytham stated quite bluntly, swallowing a lump in his throat.

Mr. Faulkner eyed him before rushing off for the captain.

"Captain!"

"FIRE CANNONS! What is it, Mr. Faulkner?"

"I was just with your father. We have to flee Captain! The Aquila can't-"

Connor cut him off, "We can do this. We have to get to St Lucia! It's right there." Up ahead, barely visible, perhaps a mile or so away, was land. St. Lucia.

On the other side of the Aquila, Haytham sighed in frustration. Had the Templars been guarding the place? Had this been a planned ambush, or simple turn of fate that the fleet should run into them here?

The ship trembled again as cannonballs exploded against the hull. There was no time for recovery, more were headed their way.

"BRACE!"

Chain shots were shot in defense, tearing apart the sail of the frigate and the Aquila barely avoided being rammed by the other.

The next few moments were a blur, a mix of cannon fire and swivels.

Soon enough the Aquila was wrecked and they'd only managed to sink a single frigate. It was quickly becoming clear; odds of victory were pretty much nonexistent, but as Connor made the decision to flee, it was too late. The Man o' War cut them off, and Connor steered the Aquila after it, determined to ram from the backside. The plan quickly met its failure, for in the Man o' War's wake it left... a blazing oil fire?

There was no time to steer away and avoid it. The Aquila sailed straight through it. Flames engulfed the sides of the Aquila, thick smoke obscuring their vision from every angle, embers sparking fires to the sail.

Through the smoke... Templars appeared, piercing the chests and stomachs of innocent crew members who fell with pained cries, shock etched into lifeless faces. Those on the farther side had enough time to draw their own weapons and fight back.

"Mr. Faulkner, help the others evacuate!" Connor shouted as he withdrew his sword and hidden blade. Quickly he took down two Templar officers that attacked from above.

"Aye!"

Mr. Faulkner left his side just as the Captain of the other ship boarded the Aquila, angry gaze fixed on Connor. A gas mask hid the lower half of his face. For a moment they stood there, two captains glaring daggers at one another before the Templar urged him to come forth, to attack first.

Connor bared his teeth and thrust his sword, but was blocked. He barely dodged the Templar's blade from slicing his throat open. After several back and forth attacks and blocks, Connor began to cough. The smoke was thickening. His head was pounding; he couldn't focus on the fight. The Templar Captain was well aware of his opponent's disadvantage and began to strike more vigorously, forcing Connor to the edge of the ship.

With the last of his strength, Connor thrust the hidden blade, aiming for the Captain's chest, but the man caught his wrist. Connor found himself violently jerked forward, a hand fisting his hair, smashing his head against the railing before he was shoved backwards, losing his footing as he stumbled and fell overboard.

They wouldn't win this fight. There was no way.

Haytham regained his footing and made haste to the lower deck. Rushing to his quarters, he grabbed his bag with the journal and the Belial within. That's when the smell of the oil fire hit him. The Aquila shook and groaned and smoke filled the halls as Haytham returned to the upper deck.

The crew had managed to sink one of the Templar frigates, but even with that...

The Man o' War ahead of them had left a trail of oil fire in its wake, of which the Aquila was sailing right through. Everyone was in a panic, the air was thick with black smoke and Haytham could barely breathe or see anything. Connor, the crew, none of them could've expected this. The oil fire was still new in naval warfare, and the Templars reserved it for desperate missions.

Eyes grew wide as the realization dawned on the ex-grandmaster.

Running into that fleet was no accident. They were sent, no doubt, by Charles Lee to eliminate the threat; to kill Connor and his crew and stop them from obtaining the next artifact – the Choronzon. Which meant Charles had known exactly where they were and what they were planning.

In his shock, he didn't even see the frigate rushing towards them until they were rammed, sending everyone to the ground once more. Shouting followed as Templars boarded the ship; swords clashed, here and there a pistol fired. Only one thought ran through Haytham's mind.

Connor wasn't shouting orders anymore.

Where was he? What the hell was he doing?

A Templar rushed out of the smoke towards Haytham, but was met with the blade of a sword instead as it pierced his chest.

Haytham coughed and was forced to grab the mast as the ship began to roll, tilting enough for small objects to plummet into the water. He could barely see; the smoke obscured everything from his sight. All around him there were shouts, cries, the clashing of swords.

Connor had not been in his quarters, hadn't been below deck at all. Haytham treaded carefully, sword drawn in defense as he grabbed the rail with his free hand and made his way towards the wheel.

Mr. Faulkner, covered in blood, was fighting the Templar Captain, determinedly parrying several attacks. Yet it was not enough, the Captain too skilled. Haytham plunged his sword into the man's chest with a grunt before he'd even seen him coming.

"Get the bloody hell off the ship! She's sinkin!"

"Where's my son?"

"I don't know! I haven't seen the lad since we were rammed! You need to take that artifact and get out of here!"

"Not without my son, damn-it!"

Ignoring several more protests, he continued past Mr. Faulkner, grabbed the railing of the stairs. He pulled himself up, grabbed the wheel. Using it for support, he looked out at the other ship, at the water. There was no sign of Connor anywhere. The first waves of panic began to set in, and he called out the boy's name over and over.

A Templar came at him, shouting, but was silenced as Haytham forced a hidden blade through the man's face. His body jerked and spasmed, and Haytham pushed him away, letting him plummet into the water.

A loud groan pierced the air as the ship tilted further, and Haytham found himself standing on the railing, watching as the water edged closer and closer. It was tinted red with the blood of dozens of innocent people...

Mr. Faulkner, along with the remainder of Connor's crew, was on the last of the johnboats. As they reached shore, they rushed into the cover of the trees. Connor however, wasn't among them.

The remaining Templars retreated, heading back onto their own ship. A couple came up from below deck, shaking their heads when asked if they'd retrieved the 'object'. Haytham watched in silent anger as these unfamiliar faces disappeared, completely unaware to the amount of innocent blood now stained their hands; for no better reason than they'd wanted some tiny chunk of precursor metal that did little more than force honesty and enhance emotion.

How many times had he killed innocents himself for similar reasons? But that was before. Before he'd begun to care again. Before he'd found a better purpose to fight than to find some artifacts simply for more power, more control.

God, he was starting to sound like Connor.

Connor…

He couldn't even imagine the pain that boy was going through emotionally.

One last time, Haytham called out, "Connor! Where are you, Lad?"

But the only answer he received was the lapping of water against the deck of the ship.

Overhead, a tattered sail was blazing, until the flames reached the mast and that too caught aflame. Another groan and the ship trembled, the top of the mast splitting apart. A chunk of it fell, a fireball roaring through the smoke, right at Haytham. At the last moment, he jumped.

Water filled his lungs and he struggled to grab hold of something. Anything that could pull him upwards. He felt something solid underneath him and kicked off of it, choking and sputtering as he took sharp gasps of air, though it helped little. Water was simply replaced by thick smoke.

He tried to collect his bearings, recall which direction he was facing. Then he swam, sloppily at first, but gained speed. He was forced to push away several bodies checking each face to make sure it wasn't his son...

Finally he met land, fingers curling into the sand. At first it slipped through his fingers, but he managed to scramble onto the beach, where he collapsed.

After catching his breath, he flipped himself over and stared out into the harbor.

Only a small chunk of the Aquila remained above water. Planks and cargo, some still aflame, were floating in the bay, though its water was currently more blood than actual water. The Templar ship was anchoring not far off.

Haytham struggled to his feet, determined to find Connor.

Dammit where was he? Where was that stupid, reckless son of his? How far did he get?

Haytham's foot got caught in wet sand and he nearly fell. Behind him, there was silence. A heavy silence, not much different than a field of the dead left after war. Silence broken only by the far-off conversing of Templars as they planned their next moves.

Planks, destroyed cargo washed up beside Haytham. Among the wreck - fabric. Torn, bloody shirts. Images of Connor, motionless, covered in blood, floating face down in the water imprinted themselves in Haytham's mind. A choked sob tore from his throat and he lost his footing again.

No. No, Connor was fine, he had to be.

Haytham ran, as quickly as shaking, exhausted legs could carry him. He was drenched from head to toe, and absentmindedly he pulled Holden's journal from his bag. The thing was soggy, pages shredding under his touch, the ink ran, black water dripping to the sand. It was useless. All the years of investigation, knowledge… his last reminder of Holden; all gone in an instant.

Frustrated, he tossed it behind him. Water lapsed over it as it slowly sank, pulled away with the retreating waves. Haytham, refusing to look back, continued to trudge through mud and sand, heading into the dark cover of the trees. The journal didn't matter. Nothing mattered except for finding Connor. The boy would not die, he would not allow it.

Time had slowed to a grinding crawl as he ran straight ahead. His eyes scanned the forest, searching for footprints, any sign of life. It was getting dark too quickly, soon he wouldn't be able to see anything. He had nothing but coins and the Belial in his bag. Nothing to make camp with. Nothing to fight off the dropping temperatures. That didn't matter. All that ran through his mind was Connor.

He was shaking, and only after his foot snagged on a root and he fell face-first into the dirt did he realize he'd been crying.

Crying. Haytham, the Templar Grand Master, was crying for the first time in 20-some-odd years and it didn't matter. Where he used to see crying as weakness, now he just didn't care. He was soaked and hungry; without supplies or shelter, yet none of it affected him. For the moment, his pride, even his life couldn't matter less.

Connor... Connor was gone. He had to face it. Connor would've been the first one to take a stand against the Templars. He would've stayed, fighting, stalling the advance of the Templars so the crew could escape and yet he hadn't been there, only Mr. Faulkner was there, and he himself hadn't known where Connor was.

Connor was dead. His body, probably washed ashore by now, eyes empty and lifeless. Damn-it, he and Mr. Faulkner should've been there at his side! No, instead they had to have their stupid, immature spat and Connor had been alone and now he was dead.

The worst part was that the last memory he had of his father was being beaten for simply showing his affections and then promptly avoided for days. For no better reason than his father was afraid of betrayal.

Haytham ran hands through long, tangled hair and tugged, teeth biting lips hard enough to draw blood. His eyes burned, and still tears ran.

He'd been given a last chance to unite with his son. The boy, so full of hope and determination, the boy that was everything Haytham had wanted to be and never could be. The boy that had stuck by his side even with all his stubbornness and selfishness... the boy who had given him hope again, a reason to fight…

The boy who did all this... and only asked for honesty in return.

He fucked up.

He ruined the second chance he'd been given.

He failed. He failed everyone, everything, he failed his father, failed Jenny and Holden, failed the Templars, failed Zio... and now he'd failed Connor. It was too late to change anything. Too late to apologize and actually tell the boy how he'd felt, how much the boy meant to him.

His entire body ached, his throat hoarse as he choked on sobs. Everything came pouring out in those tears, tears that didn't cease until his eyes were too dry to cry anymore. Even then, the pain was there and it was overwhelming.

He forced himself to stand, legs still shaky. Vision blurry, he slowly rose his hands to look at them. The hidden blade... it would be so easy. So easy to slice his own throat and be done with it all. He was so tired... and it was such an appealing option, and the blade was cold against the flesh of his throat. One quick slice...

But what would become of Lee? With no one to stop him, what would happen to the world?

Haytham lowered his arm and his face set back into a familiar mask of indifference, but on the inside, his blood was boiling, he could feel nothing but bitter anger.

He could not allow Lee to succeed. That's not what Connor would want.

Charles Lee. Reginald Birch. Haytham would not die until these two met justice, until he'd exacted his revenge for these two taking away every person he'd ever loved.

That was the only reason he continued onward, no longer trembling or tripping.

-
The odds of Connor's survival, being knocked unconscious before thrown into the water, were slim. The Templar Captain had not bothered to double check before moving on to fight the Aquila's first mate.

Connor woke nauseous, dizzy, and confused, the scent of gunpowder hitting his nostrils. He pressed a hand against his aching head before daring to take a look around.

He was laying on a small piece of wood, broken off the hull. Only the end of the Aquila stuck out of the water, small fires still eating away at it. Bodies. He was surrounded by lifeless bodies. The bodies of his crew, and even a few Templars.

No. No, this couldn't be. This was wrong. Innocent people shouldn't have to die!

He pushed himself into the water, swimming to shore. As he crawled, his foot snagged on... what was it? He reached through the slick mud and pulled out something sickeningly familiar. Even though the thing was ruined, he recognized the spine of Holden's journal. Why was this here? He flipped through, but it was illegible. The pages were soggy, torn and the words smeared, ink dripping. Useless. He let it fall back into the sand.

If this was here... then his father must've been here too, right? Or had it washed ashore by itself, his Father still trapped underneath the wreckage? The image was clear; Haytham, leg caught under a fallen board, his face lifeless, eyes empty. He'd gone below deck to take the Belial before the Templars could find it and was now trapped there forever.

Connor's chest constricted. No, that couldn't be. If Holden's journal was here, that means Haytham had gotten out and had run into the trees. But they were here now, in St. Lucia, and Haytham had wanted to separate. Was he glad to be rid of Connor, or was he wondering if the boy had lived, as he wondered now if his father lived? It didn't matter if the old man wanted him gone, there was nowhere for him to go now but to follow, hopefully find him.

If he was alive, that is. There was a good chance he wasn't.

Not far away, the Templar ships had anchored and one of the Templars spotted the Aquila's Captain. He tapped someone else on the shoulder and the two of them came rushing toward Connor, swords drawn. He didn't bother to fight, instead he turned tail and ran into the undergrowth. Each step made the pain in his head worse and he fought a cough.

Behind a bunch of trees, he hid until the Templars gave up their search and returned to their ship. The world was spinning and Connor had to grab the tree to keep from falling over. He waited for the dizziness to pass before continuing onward, in hopefully what was the same direction Haytham had gone.

Forgetting everything about the man that irritated him, forgetting his wish to separate, he hoped beyond all odds that Haytham was alive. Even if as soon as he found him, he was beaten to near-death for following the man… just please…

Let him be alive.