A/N: So, I'm not sure if Connor's haircut/face paint was because he was 'going to war' or if it was in mourning after Achilles' death. I did some light research but nothing stood out in either direction (there was this one article that looked fascinating but it was behind a paywall). Anyway, I'm going with the mourning aspect, if anyone knows to the contrary please tell me. I have no desire to step on any cultural toes or portray anyone inaccurately.

A/N 2: I promised this would not be abandoned, I was not lying. :) Like I said to a few people who pm'd me; end of the semester absolutely killed both me and my beta. Follow that up with family obligations and the holidays... well, that's why this update has taken so long. The next should be faster.

Pairings: canon Homesteader pairings, quite a lot of past Haytham/Ziio in this chapter

Warnings: none this chapter

Chapter 14: Let's Get Down to Business

Clipper leapt from the edge of the roof, reaching out ahead with his dominant hand as the other held his rifle out away from his body. His first few attempts at roof running under Connor's watchful gaze, had nearly ended in disaster when the stock of the long gun tangled in his feet and fouled his landing. He had tried to leap with it strapped to his back but the lack of maneuverability that created almost caused his death when he couldn't twist enough to grab the eave. The moment of panic when he realized he would not be able to reach far enough still fuelled his leaps between buildings. Connor would not always be there to grab him and save him from certain death, he needed to be better than he thought he could be. His hand gripped the roof edge and he pulled himself up. Without a pause he kept running, ducking around a chimney to stay out of the searching gaze of a soldier stationed one roof over.

Normally a rooftop dash like this was reserved for official Assassin business. You didn't want to draw attention to yourself unless it was absolutely necessary, and being on the roofs was a surefire way to piss off both the minutemen and regulars. Dobby, the de facto leader of the Assassins when Connor was not around, had sent him across the city to check the pigeon coop on the south side for a message from their missing leader.

The fact that the coop had been empty of everything save a few loose feathers fluttering about in the breeze created as he yanked the door open terrified him. That was the last coop the needed checking. That meant a full week had passed without word from Connor. Even if the normal course of events that was strange. Their leader made it a point to check in with each Assassin personally at least once a week. In times such as these, when all of their lives were at risk, he would physically come look in on them and letters arrived once every few days.

Clipper reached the edge of the buildings with gaps he could leap between. A quick scrabble down the side of a house and he was on the ground, sprinting for all he was worth. He skidded into the vestibule, hastily pulling off his hat and jacket. They landed with a thump on the floor next to the hook he was aiming at.

"Nothing!" He announced as he entered the room the others were already gathered in. He was beginning to calm down as the frantic quality of his errand waned. The panic left in its wake a sick worry for his friend. Why had Connor not contacted them yet?

"We've given the lad a week, what's a few more days?" Duncan drawled as Clipper found a spot to sit in, his casual tone belied the tense set of his jaw and the way his hand refused to leave the hilt of the long knife he wore at his waist. The gathered assassins murmured, some in agreement, some in protest.

"He would not leave us in the dark like this if everything were okay," Jamie worried.

As the days since their last meeting had passed with no word from their leader the colonial assassins had become more and more restless. Over the course of the week Dobby's summons had brought each of them to New York. Since her home was located in a fairly isolated area she had invited the entire group to stay there while waiting for word. When one of her nosier neighbors started asking questions she simply said they were friends of her late husband's, come to pay their respects.

Clipper was amazed by the luxury of Dobby's home. Her husband must have been quite successful before he went to war. Of course, it was likely considered a modest home by most, but Clipper's young life had been spent in the wilds. The small room he currently rented above a tannery seemed large and empty compared to the tents and lean-tos of his youth.

Against his will he currently sat in a comfortable armchair, staring into the fire. The chair was plush and when he sat down it felt like it was surrounding him on all sides, trapping him. It was a highly disconcerting experience, but he had no desire to offend his host and perch someplace higher like the icebox in the corner.

"Aye, but if we interfere and bugger it up for 'em?" Jacob shot back at Jamie across the table.

"We cannot ignore that Connor needs us!" Stephane protested.

"And we are not doing so,"

"Shut it lads," Dobby had appeared in the doorway, "Connor may be fine and dandy, but we canne' be sure until we see for ourselves."

Clipper nodded happily at the direction she seemed to be heading.

"We will spread out to look for him," she announced. Duncan rolled his eyes but no one protested. Dobby was the unopposed leader when Connor was not around, no one would dare argue with her. "Duncan, head to Boston and check the usual haunts to the north, Stephane the south. Jamie take southern New York, I'll search the north. Jacob, you check the forts on the frontier and Clipper you head out to that manor he keeps."

They each nodded their assent.

"I want daily pigeons," Dobby instructed, "It's dangerous out there, especially since we don't know if Connor has been captured. Keep a weather eye and don't hesitate to ask for help."

Clipper felt a little more of the tension leak from his shoulders now that they were actually doing something to help.

When Connor awoke on the fourth day after his walk Haytham was already in his room. He stood by the window nearest the door, fiddling with the fringe on one of Connor's wall hangings. While Connor had become used to his father being present, especially in the evenings, he was not used to waking up with the man around. Especially as the sun had only barely begun to lighten the sky.

Painfully, he forced himself into a sitting position. A small thrill of pride passed through him when he managed to do so without a groan. He could feel Haytham's eyes on him and forcibly suppressed the grimace that wanted to twist his lips.

"Good morning," he gritted out in the most even voice he could manage.

Haytham grimaced, "I will concede that it is morning." He glanced out the window, the look on his face souring further, "Though it may hardly be called a good one."

Connor turned his attention to the world outside the window. It was a dreary day by even the most generous estimate. Torn into unusually jagged gray stripes by the tree tops, fog hung low over the valley obscuring any view Connor might have had of the home he and the Homesteaders had worked so hard to build.

With a small shrug Connor began to arduous process of extracting himself from the confines of his bed. The colonials worried so much about the weather. His people did not allow a little rain or snow stop them from completing whatever tasks they needed to complete on a given day. Fog was hardly a reason to dismiss a whole day as 'bad'.

Haytham watched as he pulled himself form the bed with an unreadable expression on his face. Finally, when the silence was bordering on oppressive he spoke.

"Doctor White and I have spoken and we are in agreement." If it were not Haytham Kenway speaking Connor would think he sounded nervous. But that was hardly possible… "He does not know why you are having these," he paused momentarily, seeming to search for the word, "episodes. Otherwise, your wounds are healing satisfactorily. We both believe it is time for you to begin rebuilding your strength."

Connor nodded. He felt as wobbly as a newborn foal. The weakness did not sit well with him, not when a war still raged throughout the colonies and Redcoats had so recently been spotted so near his lands. It ran against his instincts to accept help from Haytham, but there was no one else to turn too now that Achilles was gone (the thought sent a sharp stab of pain through his chest that had nothing to do with his sounds).

"Excellent," Haytham clapped his hands together, "I will meet you outside in thirty minutes."

Haytham did not offer to stay and help Connor prepare for the day, a fact for which Connor was grateful. The coming exercise would reveal just how weak he was without his father seeing how much simple grooming tasks took out of him.

He managed to make it downstairs on a little less than three quarters of an hour. Normally such a time would have been dismally slow, now he was just happy to be up and moving around.

The gelding he had liberated from a drunken colonial soldier who was far too heavy handed with the crop grazed just outside the door of the house. Every few bites it looked up and over at Haytham, as if making sure the man was still there.

"Awe:ri." Connor greeted the horse happily. The gelding snorted and butted him gently on the shoulder.

"Is that you how you say his name?" Haytham asked from where he sat on a boulder to the left of the door. Connor nodded assent.

"It is written on the stable." Connor understood that his language was difficult for most to pronounce but surely a simple word like 'awe:ri' was not too trying?

Seemingly reading his thoughts, Haytham rolled his eyes, "Connor, I could never pronounce your mother's name and she repeated it for me more times than I care to count. Why on earth would I be able to pronounce a horse's name that I had never heard aloud?"

Connor chuckled. His mother had not liked to speak of his father (a fact that drove him mad when he was younger) but one of the few stories she had told him was of the trouble he had with her name and how she gained the nickname Ziio.

"What have you been calling him if not his name?" he asked. Awe:ri was notoriously ornery; Connor was honestly shocked he had taken to Haytham so readily especially if he had not even been using the correct name.

Haytham shifted uncomfortably and muttered something Connor could not hear.

"What?"

He spoke up with a gusty sigh, "Horse, I've been calling him Horse."

Connor really could not help it, he laughed. Deep, gut laughs that hurt terribly but felt so good he didn't mind the pain. Haytham scowled, but said nothing. It was strangely nice to see his son so carefree. It was not something he had witnessed previously.

After a few moments of laughter Connor settled down and smiled at Haytham. The expression nearly took the Templar's breath away. He had never before seen Connor look like the young man he was and not a bitter old soldier. It was refreshing. He found that the candle's flame of affection deep in his heart grew a little as he looked upon his son's unfettered smile. He had to fight to keep his scowl in place.

"Come, we should get started before the heat of the day sets in. Doctor White said overheating might be a trigger for you."

"Hello Corrine, you look lovely today," Norris twisted his hat between his hands nervously. Corrine was his friend he did not want to be using her to get information like this. But, Haytham had asked him to, and while the man was not a friend, he was important to Connor. Norris would do anything to keep Connor happy while it lasted, the poor lad was so rarely content.

Corrine looked up from the bar she was wiping down. She smiled at him.

"Hello there, Norris! No work to be done in the mines today, I take it?"

Norris shook his head, "Myriam said if I came home tonight covered in soot she'd have my head."

Corrine laughed. She had a deep laugh for a woman, a fact that Norris had always found charming rather than off-putting. "Does the lass have a big night planned for you then?"

Norris blushed at her implication. "It is the anniversary of when she agreed to court me," he conceded, "She told me to be home early." A sudden thought occurred to him, "I hope she is not planning on cooking." Myriam was a fabulous cook when she was seated by a campfire and using ingredients gathered from the woods. Her concoctions on the stove with bought ingredients tended to be less than edible. Norris grimaced. He shook his head, clearing away thoughts of what the night held for him and refocussing on the task at hand.

"Corrine, may I ask you a question?"

She smiled at him, "Of course, darling."

"In confidence?"

The corners of her lips turned downward. "You can ask me anything, Norris."

That wasn't quite the assurance that she would not share his question that he wanted from her but it would have to do. He really did have to get back to Myriam.

"Why are people following Haytham Kenway around?"

Corrine's face hardened at his words. "That man is dangerous," she almost spat. Norris reeled back. Of course he had suspected that the settlers of the Homestead knew more than they should about Haytham and Connor's past interactions. But, he never thought to see such vitriol on the face of such a sweet woman.

"What?"

"Ellen's little girl, sweet lass that she is, was taking Connor a blanket when he was so laid up," Corrine explained. She had begun scrubbing viciously at a spot on the counter Norris suspected was an old stain. "She heard voices and waited outside so as not to interrupt. She heard that man say that he was going to kill Connor!"

That was certainly news to Norris. He considered worrying about it, but he knew that Haytham would not hurt Connor. Of that much at least he was sure, if of nothing else about the man. It occurred to him that he trusted Haytham. It was a strange feeling after hating him for so long.

He thanked Corrine for her information and left. He needed to tell Haytham that the Homesteaders would be following him for the foreseeable future and not to annoy them too badly. Then he could hurry home.

"What was my mother like when you knew her?" Connor very carefully did not look up from the blade of grass he had focused as he slowly stretched the muscles of his right leg. He sensed Haytham cease moving behind him. A long silence stretched between them broken only by the unhappy chirps and calls of the migratory birds.

"She was the toughest woman I had ever known," Haytham finally said. "We met when she had been captured by some regulars. Even in captivity she held herself like a noble woman."

Connor eased himself from the uncomfortable stretch and began the next one in his normal routine. He had cocked his head toward Haytham and closed his eyes, committing the words to memory.

"I rescued her, though she did not act like I had," Haytham breathed in sharply, "She never did as I expected her to. It was infuriating that she would not trust me no matter what I said or did. But, as we worked together I began to find that trait endearing. She was quite funny in a quiet way. I did not notice at first, but later it was all I could do not to break our cover by laughing."

Connor felt as if all the energy had drained from him. He tried to picture his mother's gentle smile as she told him a bedtime story or her sly smirk when she pulled one over on one of the elders. But, all he could see was the twist of her mouth as she told him to run and the horror in her eyes as the flames approached.

"Did you love her?" He asked dully. He opened his eyes, attempting to dispel the terrible images behind the lids. Haytham's face looked just as drawn as his felt by the conversation.

"I have always thought I did," Haytham whispered, "Certainly, I cared deeply for her. More than I ever have for another woman. But, love? I'm not quite sure I know what love feels like."

Connor was not sure what answer he had been hoping for. Of course, he wanted to believe that Haytham had loved his mother. He remembered the sad look in her eyes whenever Connor had asked about his father as a child and knew that she had loved the man who left. However, he appreciated the honesty.

"Why did you leave?" Connor had not planned to ask the question. It was so very childish, and yet…. It was the one which had bothered him his entire life. His mother had always assured him that his father was a good man (a fact which Connor was only just beginning to believe). But, it was so hard to trust what she had said when the man was not there to confirm it.

"It was not I who turned away," Haytham admitted, "Ziio learned the true nature of my work. She never believed that I was doing to right thing."

"She was right," Connor muttered. Haytham shot a glare at him and continued as if he had not spoken.

"She asked me to stop, but I would not abandon my mission," Haytham sighed deeply, "She left."

Connor wanted to berate the man, to rail against him for all the grievances of a childhood without a father. To tell him of a mother who was always tired and always sad, but still managed to have a smile for her son. Instead, he simply nodded. Haytham's voice held true remorse for his actions so many years ago, Connor could not find it within himself to fault his father for them.

The rest of their workout was completed in silence. Connor, who was under Doctor White's express orders to do no more than stretch his muscles, took his leave without a word when he felt the beginnings of a spasm. Haytham did not appear to notice him go, lost as he was in the past.

Hours later, just as the sun began to descend in the sky, Connor found Haytham in the Inn, nursing a large flagon of mead. His father looked up at his approach.

"What have you done?" Haytham set his mug down on the table with a metallic clank. Connor sat down across from him, his hands braced against the table, slowly lowering his weight to avoid a flare of pain. The last time Haytham saw the young man, not three hours previously, his hair had been pulled back as it had been ever since they first met. Now, it was entirely shaved off save for a strip down the middle of his head which was still tied back. Haytham was almost too distracted to notice the three stripes of paint on each cheek.

Connor tilted his head defiantly.

"That as not a rhetorical question," Haytham snapped. Connor's eyes narrowed.

"I am honoring Achilles," he half-growled, "My people may be gone," his voice broke a little on the last word. He cleared his throat, looking determinedly away from Haytham. "My people have left but I will not abandon our ways entirely. I should have done so weeks ago but was otherwise occupied."

His words left no room for Haytham to deliver the scathing evaluation of the hairstyle he had rapidly formulated. Instead he sighed and nodded. Tradition and the ceremonies of death were something both of his educations had been very strict about. Haytham wondered if his son's actions had anything to do with their conversation earlier.

They sat in silence for a few moments while Connor gathered the frayed threads of his composure. The quiet bustle of a thriving inn provided a sense of privacy, even between the two men seated at the table.

"Was it a bad one?" Haytham finally asked.

Connor shook his head, "Not as bad as yesterday. Worse than the day before." He had rapidly discovered that honesty was the best policy when it came to his health. Both Haytham and Doctor White seemed to possess the ability to see through his lies and it always put them in a bad mood when they caught him at it.

"Be sure to inform Doctor White," was Haytham's only response besides a worried look. Connor nodded.

"Connor?" Connor shifted in the chair but did not turn around. Clipper strode forward, desperate to see for himself that the man was truly okay. "Oh, thank god you're alive."

Connor snorted softly, "Barely."

Clipper collapsed into the sturdy chair that sat beside Connor's own.

"Dobby's gone sparse," Clipper informed Connor, "You shouldn't disappear like that on us."

Connor had the decency to look uncomfortable, "I apologize," he murmured, "It was not my intention to worry you. I simply-"

Clipper cut him off with a wave of his hand, "I was told to, in her words, beat you senseless if I found you relaxing," he chuckled, "I'm just glad to see you alive. I thought the worst when you didn't show back up."

"I was injured in the pursuit of Charles Lee," Connor's hand crept up to his side. He sounded unsure of himself to Clipper's ears, as if he wasn't quite certain that 'injured' was the correct word for what had happened. For the first time since sitting down Clipper studied the man who was his mentor and friend. He looked haggard, thin and paler than Clipper had ever before seen him. The skin around his eyes seemed pulled tight and even sitting down he was panting slightly. Clipper felt a tendril of worry snake back through him.

"But you're okay?"

Connor was silent for a long time before he finally said, "I will be."

Clipper nodded, "Good," and that was that. He felt no need to push at a topic which obviously made Connor uncomfortable. Besides, Connor had never before lied to him. He trusted that the assassin would not start now.

"Tell me of the city," Connor seemed almost desperate to talk of something else, "How goes the war?"

Clipper nodded; time for business. "Well, General Washington has surrounded the British at Yorktown. The general talk seems positive about the way everything is going."

"And with us?" Clipper smiled. It was nice to be included in an 'us'.

"We are well. Duncan was going on about some noble chap in from London, Oak or Birch, something like that, and Dobby is her usual charming self. The others are hale."

"Good," Connor, he then breathed in deeply and turned to fully face Clipper, "I must ask a favor of you."

Clipper sat up straighter, "Of course, Connor, whatever you need."

"I need you to go to Washington and deliver a message," Connor explained. There was something Clipper did not understand in his expression, a bitterness that made no sense. Connor and the General were close, weren't they?

"What am I delivering?"

Connor told him.

Reginald was sure he should feel something as he gazed down at the slate gray stone. Charles Lee had organized the marker before his own demise. It was simple, something Reginald was sure Haytham, with his strange ideas about economical living, would have appreciated.

"'Tis a nice stone," the gravelly voice belonged to a grizzled old man in grimy, ill-fitted clothes. Reginald moved ever so slightly away from the filth. "I met 'em once. He were a good man."

Reginald nodded. For all their disagreements, he had trusted Haytham with his life and missed the man fiercely. From Edward's death onward Reginald had been in charge of raising and training Haytham. It was an assignment from the former Grandmaster, Assassin trained children who could be taught to be completely loyal to their cause were so rare. It had been an honor to be chosen to befriend and kill Edward Kenway and acquire his son. He had not expected to like Edward or the extreme fondness he had felt for the ten year old Haytham.

But, he had become Grandmaster himself almost thirty years ago and with that position came a kind of displacement from others that meant his affection for Haytham had waned. Now, standing before the man's grave all he could summon was annoyance that the Colonial Rite had failed so thoroughly.

"Pity the man what killed him is still out there," the old man had not taken his silence as the queue to leave it was supposed to be. Suddenly, Reginald was glad he had not.

"Explain," he snapped.

The man shrugged, "Everybody knows. General Lee, well former General, I s'ppose. You know the bloke what was talking bad about General Washington?"

Reginald rolled his eyes, "Yes, I know of Charles Lee."

"Well, he was here at the funeral when the man what killed Mister Kenway showed up. General Lee yelled some stuff I 'im. I couldn't hear what," he gestured at his own head, "My ears isn't what they used t'be. Anyway, they left and not two days later they were saying General Lee was dead and that the man in the hood was seen leaving the tavern."

Reginald's thoughts were racing. The Assassin was still alive? He would need to change his plans, and fast.

Historical Fact 1: Mohawk (and other members of the Iroquois Confederacy) mourning rituals are amazingly complex and I cannot hope to do them justice within a single paragraph (there are entire books written on the subject). But some very rudimentary basics are thus; member of the Tribe or not does not matter, if you were considered family you receive the mourning ceremony which is about closure and peace with the passing. Additionally, if the rituals are not carried out properly the dead will suffer and if you miss the ceremony you will receive bad luck. I've got a book on hold about this at my university library so I'll add more accurate and fleshed out facts if it comes available before the story ends. Once again, if you know more or if I am misinformed please tell me. Here is this link to the article with a lot more detail about the politics of mourning ceremonies: . /publications/record/vol_

Historical Fact 2: So, the summer of 1755 was a hot one, a real scorcher. The kind of hot that means a spike in crime, a spike in tensions, and a spike in paranoia. Fires had started breaking out throughout New York City, a normal occurrence in a city almost entirely composed of wood and in the middle of a drought, but people were starting to think arson. No one wanted to believe that a good upstanding New Yorker would set their city ablaze so suspicion naturally turned to the slaves. People were terrified of the slaves because they made up such a huge portion of the population. So, they found some suspicious looking people and held a trial. The slaves accused of the crime were executed with no real evidence against them, the authorities just wanted to try and calm the panicked populace. Then, there was another fire. Suddenly the theory was that the slaves couldn't be intelligent enough to orchestrate their fiery 'rebellion' alone. A suspected catholic was accused (Spain was an enemy of the British and was catholic so, naturally, the religion was illegal to practice in most of the American colonies). After a lengthy trial in which they barely discussed the fires and focused far more on proving he was catholic, the man was convicted and executed. The heat soon broke and the fires stopped and the people of New York felt confident they had caught the right men. It was a crazy summer and left a bad taste in a lot of New Yorkers mouths about slavery (not that it was inhumane or anything but they were scared of the slaves). So, Reginald may think that Haytham doesn't hire a slave because of this since he was in the city in 1755…. If you want to read more New York Burning (I've forgotten the author right now) is a great, historically accurate, novel about that summer.