AC3 Novelization

by Mirror and Image

[Complete] Desmond has at last reached the precursor site, and now he must dig through the memories of Ratonhnhake:ton to find the key to open the door. What lies beyond, only Juno can say. Rated for period language.

29. Death of a Father

Author's Note: This chapter broke all three of our betas. If there are spelling/grammar mistakes, we're sorry in advance.

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Death of a Father

It was the middle of August when Connor arrived in Virginia, not far from Yorktown, but far enough to not be noticed. It did not take much riding and discreet questions to start learning how things stood. Cornwallis and his men were solidly entrenched in Yorktown and attempting to build fortifications to protect any British ships at Hampton Roads. Lafayette and his men were at Malvern Hill, artillery overlooking the town. While Lafayette had good ground, he did not have enough men to take Yorktown back from Cornwallis. Instead he kept his canon aimed and kept Cornwallis trapped in the city.

Connor easily slipped into the American camp and found Lafayette at his headquarters, pouring over maps.

"Marquis," Connor greeted.

"Oui," Lafayette muttered, eyes still intent on the map. "How can I-" Looking up the young Frenchman smiled. "Connor! I am glad that you have come!"

Connor gave a solemn nod. "I as well. I am seeking French naval ships for something I need done."

"Bien sûr," Lafayette replied. "Zhe Comte de Grasse should be here soon. I will certainly beg his assistance for you. You have done much for us, it is zhe least I can do."

"I have not done much."

"You have but you will never admit it." Lafayette gestured and walked toward door. "Come, I will show you zhe grounds. I would like your t'oughts on placement of artillery and how to best intimidate zhe good Général Cornwallis to stay put with his two ships."

It was ten days later, on August thirtieth, that the French fleet finally arrived. Twenty-eight ships, all flying the French flag, eased into the bay, essentially blocking the two British ships already there and hemming Cornwallis in further. With Lafayette on one side and the French fleet on the other, the British were well and truly trapped. But Lafayette didn't have the strength to hold against an all out British attack. Which is why the French troops that disembarked from the French fleet helped reinforce his position. Word came that Washington and Rochambeau were coming, but were still weeks away as they had to travel over land from Washington's position on the Hudson River, north of New York City.

Connor kept to himself, using his spyglass to scout out Cornwallis's positions, mapping out what he could for Lafayette and riding as close to town as he dared, taking notes on his map and where troop placements were or likely were. He spent a few days like this, giving Lafayette time to talk to de Grasse.

One evening, Lafayette found Connor by a campfire. Connor was sipping some hot chocolate, wishing he could go to the river for a bath in the sweltering evening. The start of September in Virginia felt more like late July back in Rockport. The night remained warm and sticky as the sounds of insects started to swell and swarm to any bare flesh they could eat.

"Bonsoir, Connor," the young Frenchman greeted.

"Good evening," he replied, looking out to all the ships that blocked the bay.

"The Comte de Grasse said yes," Lafayette said without preamble. "You need only join his fleet in zhe Chesapeake and zhey will serve as required."

"My thanks."

They stood in silence for a moment, staring out to the bay and the oncoming darkness, the sun sinking behind them.

"Connor, I must ask, what do you intend?"

Connor offered a grim smile, still staring at the York River and the actual Bay. "Charles Lee may have been dismissed, but it does not mean we are safe from him." He glanced to his friend. "You saw what he did to discredit and undermine. He will continue to do so."

"But zhe Commander..."

Connor closed his eyes and turned back to the water. Lafayette didn't understand the natives of America, since he had not had much interaction with them. Many in Europe didn't even realize just how many natives there were across the colonies and beyond. It was too far away, too abstract, to comprehend. So Connor would not hold Lafayette's ignorance against him. But Lafayette wouldn't see the Commander as the flawed man he was. He could not see how bad his people were suffering. That was a conversation for another time.

"The Commander," he did not growl with the word, "underestimates the threat and no more time can be wasted trying to convince him otherwise." Connor had wasted enough words with Washington. He would waste no more. "I must do this on my own."

"But zhen... why do you need ships? Lee is at his plantation, non?"

"No," Connor replied. "Word has reached me that he hides in New York, at Fort George. I have asked for confirmation and it has been given. Lee is in Fort George. I will need French ships for what I must do."

"Do what, exactement?"

"Kill Charles Lee."

Lafayette's eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

"He hides within Fort George," Connor continued, staring out to the ever darkening sky, "which is itself, surrounded by a militarized district. Clinton keeps his men safe and secluded there, so he does not have to fix the rotting wound left by the Fire. I cannot hope to infiltrate it directly, so I will go under instead."

"Incroyable."

"There are tunnels leading to the fort, but they have been filled in. They are being unearthed as we speak."

"And zhe ships?"

"When signaled," Connor gave a cold grin, "they will bombard the fort."

Lafayette nodded. "Breaching its walls and creating a distraction. I see."

"In the chaos, I will slip inside, find Charles Lee, and silence him forever."

"I understand, Connor," Lafayette said. "I will assist in any way zhat I can."

Connor's smile turned genuine, as he turned and sipped his hot chocolate again. "You already have," he said softly. "You have provided me with de Grasse. The rest, I can manage. You will be busy here once Washington arrives."

"Pas de doute."

Admiral de Grasse scowled as he entered the room, staring at Connor almost down his nose. "Merde," he muttered.

Connor remained still, not letting his irritation at the once over the Admiral was giving him show. Like the British, the Frenchman had the arrogance of nobility about him, like he was somehow above Connor, but it was not as blatant as other's Connor had met over the years.

"Lafayette promised me a captain wizhout peer," the Admiral growled, his eyes narrowed. "Instead I find myself greeted by a boy in costume. Do you even have a ship, boy?"

Connor let out a long slow breath. "My ship is swift and powerful as a puma on the prowl," he replied calmly, standing tall and firm and allowing his own height to let him look down his nose to the shorter man. "I am to assist you, Admiral. Where will you need me?"

"Assist? I very much doubt zhis." The Admiral continued to frown, then shrugged. "I will help if you help. Zhat should be simple enough."

"And the ships I require?" Connor asked evenly.

"Zhey are yours," de Grasse narrowed his eyes, "if we survive this."

He nodded. "And what would you have me do?"

"For now, stay with zhe fleet. After zhat, we'll see."

Connor nodded. Facing those who judged on appearance alone was always exhausting and often fruitless, as those who were so prejudiced rarely changed their opinion.

Lafayette came in after de Grasse stalked away from headquarters. "Would zhat more could see men as zhey are," he said softly. "Since coming here I have learned much of zhis American spirit. Of how it matters not who one's fazher is, but who zhe man is. It takes much adjustment to see men as zhey are, not as how we are told zhey are."

"It is only through our actions that we should be judged," Connor replied. "For those like me, we must work twice as hard to prove ourselves. I can only hope that what I do will overtake what the Admiral thinks of me."

"I am certain it will."

Connor stayed on the Aquila after that. Word came that Washington and Rochambeau had marched through Philadelphia, so it would still be about a week and a half before they arrived, if the weather held. He spent a lot of time up in the crow's nest, looking out from his spyglass, observing the York River, and the Bay beyond it. If he was to assist de Grasse, he needed to watch, and be alert.

It was the morning of the fifth of September, Connor was in the cabin with Faulkner, discussing various things, when one of the Clutterbuck's voices bellowed out across the deck.

"Ships ahoy! British!" Bells began ringing and everyone hurried on deck. Connor already was pulling out his spyglass, looking out to the Chesapeake.

"A fleet," he said, handing his glass to Faulkner.

Faulkner offered some colorful rhetoric on the subject. It was only 9:30 in the morning, and it was time to get to work.

Bells were being rung and soon picked up by the French ships all around them. Orders were quickly issued and sailors who had gone ashore came running back to their ships to start getting ready. But Connor and the French fleet were facing a problem. If they were to engage the British past Cape Henry, they were going to have to sail against the tide and the wind was hardly in their favor.

But that wasn't what was bothering Connor.

"Mr. Faulkner, what are the British doing?" he asked, looking out his spyglass an hour after the British had been spotted. "We aren't ready, won't be ready till noon tide, all the British would need to do would be to sail in and fire on us."

"No, he's a traditionalist, whoever commands that fleet," Faulkner replied, looking out his own spyglass. "He's getting all his ships in line for a standard fight. He probably hasn't even thought of breaking with tradition and just firing on us."

"That is good for us, but..."

"It shows limits of thinking," Faulkner agreed. "Our way is to teach and learn and try something new. His way is to follow what's always been done."

After another hour, at 11:30, the French finally cut anchor and they started to sail out with the noon tide. Signals from de Grasse were passed from ship to ship, and soon the fleet was making its own line to face the British line.

"Oh, that de Grasse isn't half bad," Faulkner smiled as orders were signaled. "He's not doing the traditional order. He wants it by speed."

"And we are the fastest ship in this fleet, are we not?" Connor asked matter-of-factly.

"That we are."

A few French ships detached, to blockade both the York and the James River, and, to Connor's surprise, the Aquila actually wasn't the first ship out to the bay, but the Auguste. By 1:00, the two fleets were in line, but not in good form for battle. They still needed to avoid the shoals near the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay, and get closer so that they could actually fire.

Connor stood on the forecastle, practicing stillness on the rocking boat and reminding himself why he preferred to fight on land rather than sea. The British appeared to have been ordered to wear, a formation switching their directions to the opposite of what they had been doing to line up better for the fight and the French were still advancing east, drawing the British out to open waters away from Yorktown. First sightings had been over four hours previous, and still they had yet to engage. Everything depended on the wind, the tides, almost everything was out of a captain's control. Connor preferred to be on land, where he had infinitely more options on what to do and did not have to wait this long unless he wished to. So he practiced stillness to remind himself that there were always times when things would be beyond his control, times when his anxiety was insurmountable, and that he could be frozen on land just as he was frozen here at sea.

"We're in good straights," Faulkner said, pulling away from his spyglass and rubbing his eyes briefly. "Winds in our favor. We'll be able to open our lower gun ports. The British will need to keep them closed or take on water."

"And we have more ships. I count nineteen British. We have twenty-four."

"We also seem to be in better repair," Faulkner agreed. "I don't know what the British have been facing on the seas, but our fleet is far less damaged."

"Numbers are not all that is needed to win a battle, Mr. Faulkner," Connor replied quietly. "We cannot underestimate the British." After all, Connor had faced large odds and disadvantages before, yet he'd come out victorious.

Faulkner gave a cold smile. "Ah, but we're with the French."

Connor raised a brow. "What does that mean?"

"French have a particular method of using at times like this. They aim at masts and rigging."

Then Connor smiled. Even if the British did more damage to gun ports, if the French were taking out masts and rigging, more British would end up out of battle, drifting away, because they couldn't move. It was like aiming for the legs instead of the teeth. Cut maneuverability first, then remove the threat.

"Perhaps we shall win."

Finally, at 4:00, with both lines not quite parallel and over six hours after first sighting each other, the British opened fire on the Marseillais, the first French ship that proved to be slightly faster than the Aquila and the engagement started. Canons roared all along the van and back to the center of the line. The rear still weren't close enough to engage and at a poor angle for it. It would be hours before they could.

"Fire!" Faulkner roared, and their broadside cut through the bow of the oncoming British, who only had their fore-guns to aim with, leaving the British at a distinct disadvantage. The lines kept closing in on each other, and within a half hour, two ships from the head of the British line fell out of line because the rigging was so damaged.

Of course, the French van was also damaged, signals showing that Captain de Boades of the Réfléchi had been killed in the opening broadside, and the French were undermanned in several ships, making quick repairs difficult to manage in all the shelling. Four ships of the van, including the Aquila seemed to be engaged with almost twice the number of British all at once and in close quarters. Fire kept being traded back and forth, raking ships on all sides.

"Sir!" David Clutterbuck shouted. "The Diadème is in trouble!"

"Full sail! Catch that wind!"

Both the Aquila and the Saint-Esprit raced to help the Diadème, and within ten minutes, both had turned and were firing on the ships that so beleaguered the overwhelmed French ship. The Diadème was eventually able to fall back, still able to fire, but not so close to the action.

It was an hour after the fighting had finally started, and the wind was shifting. Orders came up from de Grasse, signaling that the van was to sail further out so that the center, which had faced less fire and was fresher, could come forward and crush the British van.

"Is he crazy?" Thomas Clutterbuck demanded. "We're in musket range! If we disengage now, we'll be leaving our sterns wide open for British canon!"

"We'll pull away as we can!" Faulkner shouted back. "For now, keep it hot!"

It took time, but slowly, carefully, the French van started to pull away. The British didn't seem to wish pursuit and simply fired long distance.

"Ha!" David Clutterbuck laughed. "They just want to say they fought! Cowards, the lot of them!"

The centers of the lines engaged, but from Connor's view in the crow's nest, it did not appear as fraught or damaging as the fight between the two vans had been. It also did not last as long. Nightfall was almost upon them and all firing eventually ceased as both fleets kept sailing away from the bay. Faulkner was already bellowing orders for repairs, assessment of damages, and a long night of work ahead of them to prepare for the following day.

Connor headed below deck to get something to eat and to get some sleep while he could. Unless the British disappeared overnight, the battle would likely continue in the morning.

The following day, the British and the French faced each other over the open waters, neither side starting an engagement.

"Looks like he needs more time to repair," Faulkner said, lowering his spyglass. "I won't say no to some more time to fix ourselves up. Get some rest for the men."

"I believe that five of the British ships are immobile," Connor observed.

"Told you the French had an advantage in this."

For the next few days it was all maneuvering. The French might get an advantage of wind, forcing the British further and further away from Yorktown, but the wind never held long enough to take proper advantage to reengage.

"Those British must be pissing themselves," Faulkner observed over dinner one night. "More damage than us. Herod all handsaws, they must be wondering what to do."

"We are damaged as well," Connor replied quietly. "We may be better off, but an injured bear is more dangerous than a ready one."

"True, but unless the wind suddenly starts favoring the British, I think we've won this."

On the tenth of September, Connor and the French woke up to find the British gone.

"They've retreated," Faulkner smiled. "Thought they would."

"Then we must see Admiral de Grasse."

Connor met with the Admiral aboard the Ville de Paris, the flagship of the fleet, sitting down with him to a light lunch.

"I watched you during zhat fight," de Grasse said, sipping his wine. "Skilled sailing, skilled aim, and an incroyable read of the wind. Perhaps Lafayette did not exaggerate when he spoke of your abilities."

Connor only took the barest sips of the wine, never having cared for alcohol. Perhaps he had also misjudged this Admiral. It seemed deeds could make the man think, and his cunning during the battle and willingness to look outside of traditions, even if only slightly, had prevailed. Connor doubted de Grasse could ever be completely shaken from judging on appearances, but at least he kept a somewhat open mind.

"As promised, my ships are yours to command," de Grasse cut a thick slice of bread. "What do you require?"

Connor set down his glass. "Five of your damaged ships must enter New York's harbor, flying British flags."

Pausing, de Grasse looked to Connor as if seeing him for the first time. He blinked, completely still and trying not to let shock show across his face. "Attendez! I zhought you might need some pirates killed or goods transported... And instead you ask for us to, quoi, shell New York?"

Connor leaned back, clasping his hands. "No. Of course not."

"Ah..." de Grasse let out a sound of relief.

"Only part of it," Connor continued.

Once more stiff, de Grasse narrowed his eyes at Connor, tilting his head. "Expliquez,"

Connor was still but a moment to take a breath. "I mean to infiltrate Fort George. But it is too well-guarded. Cannon fire will breach its walls and scatter its guards."

The Admiral nodded. "And a ship zhat flies zhe French flag could never get near it..."

Connor nodded. "You understand, then?"

De Grasse gave a small hmph. "Not at all." He took another, more substantial, sip of his wine. "But a promise is a promise. Even when made to a lunatique."

"Then shall we go over some plans."

"Oui. After we have enjoyed zhe finest lunch to be found out on the seas."

---

New York City.

The city that tortured him, tried to hang him. The city that left damage to rot, disease to fester. The city that poisoned its people, that left orphans and homeless to fend for themselves. The stronghold of the British and the Tories, the home of Haytham Kenway.

And the hiding place of Charles Lee.

New York had a bedlam of memories and emotions attached to Ratonhnhaké:ton, very few of them good. The Aquila docked, British flag whipping in the wind, and he and Faulkner disembarked. De Grasse knew it would be at least a day before the native would give the signal, and was still further south, out of sight for now, giving the Hirokoa time to gather their forces. Dobby's bureau was deep in the city, nearly its center, and was filled with orphans and beggars and other children that had made her information network. Connor and Faulkner were welcomed by Joseph and Jacob, and inside everyone else had gathered, even Clipper and Red Feather from the deep south of Virginia. Anne and William set the table, Duncan and Stephane having a debate as they waited for everyone to settle.

"Sometimes I worry," Stephane was saying. "That these Patriots - for all their talk of liberty and equality - will fall back into the old ways."

"It'll depend greatly on who's chosen to lead them. A man o' humble means - who has worked to earn his place... I think a man like that is less likely to dream of thrones."

Stephane shook his head. "All men dream of thrones. It is in our nature."

Duncan sipped his rum. "Then what would you do?" he asked.

"Ensure their leader is sterile," Stephane answered. "Without an heir, the threat of succession is ended - and might be left to the people once more."

"Connor!" Jamie said. "The tunnel will take you into the military district. It exits into a well, right in the middle of one of the squares; makes for a bad way in."

"I have a plan for that," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, taking the maps he and de Grasse and Faulkner had devised. He explained the plan slowly. "Our primary concern is distraction. Admiral de Grasse will provide it by taking his injured ships into the harbor. There will be five volleys, roughly twenty minutes apart. It will confuse the British troops stationed in the fort and pull all of their guards out of the district itself. It will also confuse Lee," the name was a curse on his lips, his face as bitter as his voice, "If his information is anything like ours he won't understand why the Americans are attacking here, or if he thinks like Clinton then he will assume the attack has begun. Our greatest concern is that we do not know which building actually houses the Templar stronghold. Dobby, were you able to get anyone in?"

"Snuck a few o' the kids in as paper boys," she said, pulling out her own map. "They didn't find anything suspicious, but that's not a surprise. One o' the girls saw a lot of people here, in the northwest corner, by the batteries, but that could be anythin'. Wasn't about to have the kids mention the 'Father o' Understandin' to look for a reaction."

"Nor would we expect you," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "We will have to spread out. There are ten of us including myself, and in pairs we can cover a lot of ground."

"Eleven," Red Feather said after a pause. His finger bobbed up and down, counting again. "There are eleven of us."

"Yes," the master assassin said, "but you will not be in the infiltration. I have another assignment for you: you need to climb the signal tower and light the signal for Admiral de Grasse to sail in and begin his assault."

The child nodded, absorbing his role with an intense look on his face.

"We are..." Ratonhnhaké:ton started to say. "We are all of us Assassins, Hirokoa. We must live by the tenets that we have been taught: we must stay our blade from everyone in the fort except of Charles Lee. We must blend in with the crowds that will be running from the diversion. And we must keep ourselves alive at all costs. Even the cost of Lee. This mission is dangerous: we will be running in cannon fire, we will be fighting Templars who would eat us, we will be facing British troops in staggering numbers. And even with our precautions, we may fail. This is not a good plan. It is rash and desperate. If... If there are any who are not inclined to this, if there are any who feel this is doomed to failure, I... I release you. You may leave now and fear no reprisal. The Old Man will see you placed somewhere hidden, away from the Templars, that you might live peacefully. I will leave you to confer amongst yourselves."

"No," Anne said, her eyes bright and watery. "You gave me purpose after everything that's happened in my life. I'll not leave you when I have the chance to return the favor."

"You showed me how to harness my passion and wield it like a blade," Stephane said.

"Ye listened to me when no one else would," Dobby said.

"You gave me a place to furnish my anger," Joseph said, eyes bright against his dark skin.

"You showed me a world a might bigger than I could imagine," Clipper said.

"You taught me that corruption, ve could end it," said Jacob.

"You showed me how to use words again," William said, "Words in the right context, at the right time."

"Ye reminded me o' me uncle," Duncan said, "and the fierce admiration I had for that man."

"You made me remember how to use my hands again, when I thought I'd lost them," Jamie said.

"You gave me heritage," Red Feather said.

Ratonhnhaké:ton felt warmth in his chest, soft and tight at the same time. His face burned, and he was still, uncertain how to reply. He blinked several times, ears ringing. At last he said. "You have all given me strength..." it was the best he could said, his voice failing him.

They rested as much as they could before the sun set. Connor had no such luck, sat on the roof of the bureau, tilting his head to see between alleys and buildings to spy the Fort, his mind already several hours ahead, wondering what he would find. The where and when did not matter, not even the how, to a certain extent. He wanted to kill Lee personally, to be sure, but with work he could allow himself to picture one of the others doing so, and he could make himself be fine with that. Lee had destroyed his village, killed his mother, had him tortured and hung, tried to eat his village a second time, turned Kanen'tó:kon against him, tried to undermine Washington. So much of what he had been done was personal. He was contemptuous, arrogant, dismissive, and above all evil. No one would be safe if he lived, he had proven he would eat anything that got in his way. The spawn of Hahgwehdaetgah, the evil twin Flint, Atenenyarhu Stone Coat that brought winter. He spawned Kanontsistóntie, Flying Heads with his vicious murders, unleashing whirlwinds of damage in every unholy act he performed. By the end of the night it would be over, and the land, the Americans, and his people would be safe.

"Raktsí..." Red Feather climbed up, hair sleep-tousled. The tribeless native tried to work his mouth around the word that Ratonhnhaké:ton had taught him, one that Red Feather had chosen to call the Hirokoa when they were alone: Older brother.

"Hén?"

Red Feather did not know enough words to keep using Ratonhnhaké:ton's native language, and he switched back to English. "Charles Lee. He is the last one, yes?"

"He is the most important one," Connor corrected. "There are others, many others. Some we know and some we do not, but Lee is the most important one. When he is gone, it will be over." Well, not over, his father was still to be dealt with, but if Lee was killed then Haytham would have no one else to turn to, all the other underlings were just that: underlings, not worthy of the trust Haytham so rarely gave out. It would only be then, when Lee was dead, that Haytham Kenway would be forced to deal with his son honestly, and perhaps then they could talk. Truly talk, without the philosophical derailment. Perhaps then, at last, he could know his raké:ni. Perhaps there would be peace.

"Then..." Red Feather paused, playing with his sleeve. "Then what do we do? After we win?"

A long pause drew out, the question throwing Ratonhnhaké:ton. After it was all over... what then? He did not know; over half of his life had been dedicated to killing Lee, he had not even considered what would come after, what he would do when his work was done. He would go back to the village of course, secure in its safety but... Kanen'tó:kon... He was not sure he could go back with the blood on his hands. He was not sure he had the right to return to a quiet life. Regret, as Achilles had predicted, filled his heart: regret over what he had done, what he had not done, the actions he took and the ones he was forced to take. He was not sure he deserved happiness after all the death.

The sun had finally set however, and there was no more time to think. He and Red Feather moved back into the bureau and down into the tunnels were everyone else was waiting. They navigated the underground labyrinth on silent feet, no one making a sound aside from the occasional shift of clothing. His oldest recruits, Duncan, Stephane, even young Clipper, had the set shoulders of combat veterans. Even Red Feather held himself differently, back straight and eyes determined. Ratonhnhaké:ton felt pride in his compatriots, and calm instead of anxiety filled his chest, and he said nothing as Red Feather disappeared into a different tunnel to light the signal fire. It was a waiting game now, and they all quickened their pace to get to the entrance in the district.

All of the maps were memorized, all the paths and possible locations, the pairs were already drifting together, and in the full dark of the tunnels only Ratonhnhaké:ton moved with a confident step, the eagle in his mind gifted to him by Iottsitíson sharpening his eyes and his senses. They arrived at the base of the well. It was a hunter's moon, the pale white light bright to their dilated eyes, and all that was left to do was wait. Everyone was still; Duncan with his hands clasped praying, Joseph invisible in the shadows, Jamie playing idly with his beard. William pulled out a pocket watch and wound it, tilting it carefully into the light and checking the time.

"Nine o'clock," he murmured.

The wait continued, minutes dragging by at a snail's pace, time stretching in the darkness to absurd lengths. What if something went wrong? What if Red Feather was caught, or something went wrong with the signal fire? What if de Grasse failed? What if information had leaked to Lee? But even so Ratonhnhaké:ton was still, his chest empty and his mind clear. It would either work or it would not. If it did, Charles Lee would be dead by dawn and the world would be safe. If not they would grieve their losses and try again. The plan had progressed too far to be riddled with doubts, and Ratonhnhaké:ton convinced himself that he had none.

Everyone was shifting in the tunnel, anxious to get started. Waiting was the most difficult task for any Hirokoa to master, as Ratonhnhaké:ton knew from personal experience. But it was a skill that was often the most rewarded, and when they heard the distant sounds of thunder, Ratonhnhaké:ton did not think it was Hinon come to bless them, but instead recognized what it was, and seconds later there was a stiff rumble through the tunnels, followed by the sounds of reaction: windows opening, candles being lit, people coming out to see what had happened.

"First shelling," Jamie said. "Twenty minutes until the next."

They waited until the sounds had died down, footsteps moving around above them, until they were certain no one was in the square. Ratonhnhaké:ton climbed out first, silent as a predator, eagle eyes looking everywhere as the others climbed out.

"Tiatén:ro," he said softly. "You and I are friends." It was the best he could offer, the pressure of their mission taking over, and everyone shared a hardened nod before splitting off into their pairs. Ratonhnhaké:ton and Clipper moved immediately to the roofs; they had the best eyesight of the group and shifted to high ground. The others took branching paths, and soon everything was shadow and hints of movement, even his newest recruits disappearing into the streets as they began their search for the Templar stronghold.

The pair crested the roof of a warehouse, wide and flat with an excellent vantage of most of the streets. If Lee was in the actual Fort that would be a problem, and as the disgruntled former Patriot general that was a distinct possibility – but highly unlikely if the Templars truly wanted this country's independence to seize it for their own. No, he had to be in the town.

From above he could just make out Stephane and Anne, posing as confused civilians, asking what was going on.

Another shelling rocked the district. Second volley, twenty minutes had passed, twenty minutes until the next. The crowds panicked again, realizing this was more than a rogue accident of some kind, and the panic started to build. Smoke rose from the Fort, even this far away Ratonhnhaké:ton's senses could pick up commotion over there, orders and confusion. Good, the more who were confused the better. His eyes were everywhere, moving around the edge of the roof in deliberate circles, but he heard no shriek of his eagle. Clipper moved on one roof and Ratonhnhaké:ton another, the two splitting up to cover more ground. Dobby and Joseph were spotted climbing the side of a building, moving into an open window, and further down the street was Duncan and Jamie, a mass of people behind them as they started a riot. Excellent. More confusion.

He moved to another roof, eyes darting left and right, trying to find Charles Lee. The sooner this was over the sooner his people would be safe. The third shelling bombarded the fort, brick and debris flying everywhere against the bright backdrop of black powder exploding. De Grasse had a lucky shot, but it was closer to the civilian area than Ratonhnhaké:ton liked. Also, they were now halfway through their assault: they only had forty minutes left before the last shelling, and then they were on borrowed time. This had to go quickly, Charles Lee had to be giving orders by now, sending his Templars out somewhere, relocate, send couriers, something. He closed his eyes and prayed to Iottsitíson, begging her to give him just a touch more insight. This was his final battle, after this her quest would be over, would she not help him in his duty?

Jacob and William were dashing through the streets, leading a set of non-British guards on as Stephane and Anne snuck into the house they vacated. The distinct sound of a rifle filled the air, Clipper had found something. His was not the only shot, however. Gunfire started to spit out from all over the streets, partly from the riot partly from looters partly from confusion. Other people began to climb to the roofs, trying to find refuge. One gave a terrified shout when he came to Ratonhnhaké:ton's roof, but the young native offered an inoffensive shrug and offered the roof to him. He needed to perform his task, so he moved to a third rooftop, still searching, searching, searching.

Where are you, Charles...?

There, a hint of malice, the scent of arrogance. His eyes snapped to the left, and he ran full tilt over the roofs of the narrow block he was on, towards the sea wall and the massive oak stakes protecting the civilian half of the fort. There, in the shadows, a silhouette of a straight back.

A feral grin crossed his lips, anticipation filling him. His target was in sight, and at last he would fight the atenenyarhu and rid the world of its evil. He savored the moment, judging his position. An air assassination would perhaps be best, he just needed to angle his fall and...

And that moment of inattention to his surroundings was all he needed. Rational people did not escape to roofs to run from danger, they escaped to the safety of their homes. The people on the roofs were not civilians, but Templars, and the one he had graciously given a roof to took aim and fired.

Pain exploded in his side, below his ribcage and he watched in confusion as blood exploded from his stomach. What...?

His legs gave out underneath him, and the pitched roof lead him down and down before he slid out over the edge and down two stories into a cart of rotten produce that did nothing to soften his fall. He lay there a moment, his side was on fire and he could comprehend little else, clutching his side and feeling the sickening sensation of blood pooling in his hands. His breath came out in short, ragged bursts, every twitch of his muscles brought agony to his side that radiated outward, and it was everything he could do to think outside that pain. Lee. This was the work of Lee. In his cowardice he had tried to remove Ratonhnhaké:ton as coldly as he had killed his mother, by letting the destruction of the district hide his work. That thought burned as much, if not more, than the wound, and Ratonhnhaké:ton would not let Lee win.

Grunting, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, and then by some miracle coordinated his body enough to get himself out of the cart. It took him long enough that he heard the fourth shelling. He was down to twenty minutes, in no condition to fight, and Lee was right there in the shadows. Growling, he shoved himself away from the cart and wavered on his feet until he was still. The silhouette was gone.

Rage.

"Where are you, Charles...?" he shouted.

"Gone."

It couldn't be...!

Ratonhnhaké:ton whipped around to see his raké:ni running at him, almost upon him, and a fist raised to take his son right in the face. The young native could not make his body react fast enough, what should have been an easy dodge was instead a swift blow to his jaw that snapped his head to the side, followed by a kick to his side that sent a black powder explosion in his wound, followed by an jab at the back of his neck. Ratonhnhaké:ton was nearly past the point of perception as he fell to the dirt. Haytham was here? Haytham was here?

It was a trick.

All of it.

Lee disappearing from his plantation, rumors of him being in New York, it was all a ruse, bait to draw out Ratonhnhaké:ton that he had fallen for beautifully. Haytham Kenway had planned this, had wanted this confrontation.

Rage overrode the pain, he gave out a guttural grunt as he surged to his knees and gave a viscous punch to the groin, giving him momentum to get up to his feet and following up with an uppercut and a hard right cross. Haytham blocked that and jabbed at his chest, just above the gunshot wound, but Ratonhnhaké:ton felt nothing, instead grabbing at Haytham's arm and twisting it around, pinning him in a lock. He twisted, feeling the wrappings of the stolen hidden blade, hoping to break the arm.

"Come now," Haytham grunted, arrogant even as he clearly felt pain, "you cannot hope to match me, Connor."

Ratonhnhaké:ton grunted, confused as to why the arm hadn't broke yet, the red haze lifting only enough for him to realize he was not strong enough, the bullet was still sapping at his strength. That would do no good, he had to remove the hidden blade from the equation, it was the one unknown he could not plan for: other weapons were clear to read, but the genius of the hidden blade was that it was not, a flick of the wrist impossible to discern in the heat of battle – let alone now when he was losing blood and strength by the second. His mind burned trying to solve the problem, his process slow and muddled.

"For all your skills," Haytham was saying, his tone insulting, goading, "you're still but a boy - with so much left to learn."

The red haze filled his mind again, and he shoved Haytham away, but not completely, holding on to the bracer as he extended his own hidden blade, a flick of the wrist twisting it into a reverse grip dagger and plunging it down – through the blade and the soft flesh and the bone underneath. Haytham gave an agonized shout of pain that did nothing to quell the berserk native as he struggled to stay standing. This was the wrong person, his senses told him, this is the wrong person. He could comprehend little else, a year of planning, a year of healing, and now that his goal was at last in sight it was ripped from him cruelly and savagely by the one man he did not wish to confront. Blood was roaring in his ears and he could barely perceive anything outside his rage.

"Give me Lee!"

Haytham's response was dismissive. "Impossible," he said simply. There was pain his his voice, enough that he almost didn't sound like himself, and the difference drew a little of the red haze back; Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked to realize he had managed to wound his raké:ni. How...?

"He is the promise of a better future," Haytham said, clutching his arm, wrapping a handkerchief around it awkwardly. "The sheep need a shepherd."

The man still thought Lee was of value? Was he mad?

"He has been dismissed and censured," Ratonhnhaké:ton growled. "He can do nothing for you now. He has been beaten at every turn, because he cannot hide his contempt from the world. His own arrogance has brought him down to almost nothing. How many duels has he fought because of his conduct towards Washington? How many people in the army even remember his name? He is useless, disgraced, known to everyone as worthless."

"A temporary setback," Haytham replied, his voice smooth again, the pain put away. "He will be restored."

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. The berserk fury had faded now, rational thought was beginning to bleed back into his head. He was in poor condition to fight, once the adrenaline faded he would assuredly collapse, and he could not afford that. For now he had to fight another way. Except he did not want to fight his father. He never had; he realized that now. All of his excuses had been just that: excuses. Even as a child he had not wanted to lift the blade to his raké:ni, and his complicated knot of emotions around the man came from trying to bring up the resolve of doing so. He could not. All he ever wanted was to know him. Even now, learning his father had performed this masterful trickery, he could not understand why they were fighting. "We have an opportunity here," he said, wanting the fighting to stop, wanting the pain to stop. "To break the cycle, and end this ancient war. I know it."

To be as Skennenrahawi, the Great Peacemaker, to bring about a new Great Law of Peace, rid the cannibalism of the modern world. To be as Hiawatha the orator, who spread Skennenrahawi's Law. To be as Altaïr ibn La-Ahad, to teach the wisdom of the Creed to future generations. To be as Ezio Auditore da Firenze, to build a strong clan that can survive war. This was his chance, their chance, to be those great Spirits, to bring peace to the world in many forms, to bring strong morals, guidance, solace to the world losing itself to the madness of war.

This was what he wanted of his raké:ni. This must have been part of the will of Iottsitíson. Ratonhnhaké:ton had to try. He offered his blood soaked hand.

"Let us be two rivers flowing together, let us strengthen the longhouse."

In response, Haytham's eyes were ice. "No. You want to know it. You want it to be true. You think yourself some mythical figure like the Christ, die for the sins of others, bring peace to the world, or the Goddess Athena and her precious olive branch. You want all of those stories to be true, to make such a thing come true. Part of me once did as well. But it is a dream, boy!" he shouted, face twisted in something dark and painful. "Only children believe in such fairy tales, only children think they can achieve such heights. But reality shatters those dreams, over and over! Reality tramples those dreams into the ground, burying the dreamers in nothing but betrayal and death and regret and vengeance. Dream all you want, Connor," he hissed, "But it is an impossible dream."

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head in denial. "We are blood, you and I. You said it yourself: a son of an Assassin raised by a Templar, a son of a Templar raised as an Assassin. There is meaning there, there is meaning that we lost our parents so young, there has to be! Think of what we have done separately, imagine what we could do together! Please…"

"No, son," Haytham said. Any emotion was cut off now, any feelings that might have been were shoved aside, all that was left was cold, calculated determination. "We are enemies. And one of us must die."

The Templar Grandmaster stalked forward in the moonlight, drawing his sword menacingly as Ratonhnhaké:ton felt strength seeping from him. His hidden blade was still clutched in his hand, the other holding his side, but he had no idea if he could fight. He took a hesitant step back. "You act as though you have some right to judge," Haytham said, cold and unfeeling. "To declare me and mine wrong for the world. And yet everything I've shown you - all I've said and done - should clearly demonstrate otherwise. We did not harm your people. We did not support the Crown. We worked to see this land united and at peace. Just as you wished. Under our rule all will be equal. Do the Patriots promise the same?"

"They offer freedom," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "They offer the chance to choose their own path, and the ability to make the right choice for all people. Freedom that you deny!"

In the moonlight Haytham rolled his eyes. "Which I've told you - time and time again - is dangerous! There will never be consensus, son, among those you have helped to ascend. They will all differ in their views of what it means to be free. The peace you so desperately seek does not exist."

"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton said. "Together they will forge something new - better than what came before. As will those after, and those after. It may not be perfect after the war, it may not be what either of us want, but it will be a step in the right direction. And future generations will look at the example this nation created and choose to follow it, and they will add to this notion of a free nation, a little at a time! And we will wait for it, wait for others to see what we see."

"Oh," Haytham replied in a bitter snort, "These men are united now by a common cause. But when this battle is finished they will fall to fighting amongst themselves about how best to ensure control. Men do not gladly give up power they have, and no man on earth wishes to share. In time it will lead to war. You will see."

"The Patriot leaders do not seek control," Ratonhnhaké:ton insisted. "There will be no monarch here. The people will have the power - as they should."

"The people never have the power!" Haytham roared, emotion breaking out across every line of his body. "Only the illusion of it. And here's the real secret: they don't want it. The responsibility is too great to bear. It's why they're so quick to fall in line as soon as someone takes charge. They want to be told what to do. They yearn for it. Little wonder, that, since all mankind was built to serve."

"So because we are inclined by nature to be controlled, who better than the Templars? It is a poor offer."

"It is truth! Principle and practice are two very different beasts."

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head, dizzy and vision blurring. He had stalled for too long, he had not gained strength but lost it. "No, Raké:ni," he said, words slightly slurred. "You have given up - and would have us all do the same."

That was when the world exploded.

Twenty minutes had passed, and the... what number was it now?... the next volley from de Grasse erupted not on the fort but in the civilian district, and Ratonhnhaké:ton and Haytham, near the sea wall as they were, were thrown from their feet with the force of the shelling erupting around their feet. Everything went black, sound disappeared into a shrill whistle and all Ratonhnhaké:ton really understood was that everything was on fire, bone deep ache vying for attention across the pulsing burn of his chest and the overwhelming throb of his head and the hot tears on his cheeks. He could not get enough air into his lungs, it came in staggered gasps and blood filled his sense of smell and taste. A gurgled cough erupted even more pain from his chest when he did not think it possible to feel any more, and all he could do was lay there, letting his body master him for the moment.

Achilles... what would he do?

… Except he ran to his manor and lived in exile.

Ista...?

… She left the pain and returned to Kanatahséton.

Kanen'tó:kon...

… Only fought when the Templars had taken his bitterness and honed it to a weapon.

Ratonhnhaké:ton could not do those things. He could not run away, even to unconsciousness. He did not deserve the reprieve, not after everything he had done. He took another breath, fighting through the pain, opening his eyes, and seeing smoke drifting across the sky, blurring the full moon and hiding her stars. Get up. Get up, Ratonhnhaké:ton; get up and face your raké:ni.

With a grunt he swung himself to his side, and the pain was so great his vision whited out, and he gulped for air before he could see straight. Near him, only a foot away, was his father Haytham was flat on his back, legs dithering this way and that, the older man also struggling to stay conscious.

The crawl was agony. He could not understand why he was still conscious, he could see his shirt and coat and leggings soaked with the blood he had spilt, could see the trail he was leaving in the dirt. Every fist of dirt threatened to send him under, every wiggle and thrust a test of his will to stay breathing, to stay conscious, to make it to his father. He did not know how long it took him, he did not know if he was alive or dead, but still he pushed himself, getting closer and closer, until at last he could reach out and put a bloody hand on the arm of his father.

"Surrender," he breathed through clenched teeth, "and I will spare you."

Haytham sat up slowly, heedless of the hand on his arm, casting it aside as he always did, hurting Ratonhnhaké:ton even in this. "Brave words from a man about to die," he answered. Blood was dripping down his forehead, tricorn had gone and silver hair askew. He held himself delicately, a sign of broken ribs, and one leg was at an unnatural angle.

"... You fare no better."

Haytham begged to differ, rolling and swinging his leg over Ratonhnhaké:ton's torso, his working hand grabbing at the hidden blade while the other clutched weakly at his neck. His neck his neck his neck his neck...! The pressure was not great, he could still breathe, and the young native fought to hold on to that fact, but his vision was pinholing, all he could see was the hateful face of his father, looking down on him in arrogant contempt and anger. This was the man who so savagely beat Benjamin Church, the creature that lived under the cultured London accent and suave charm and grace. It was ugly, inhuman, savage.

Ratonhnhaké:ton felt fear.

"Even when your kind appears to triumph," the ugly thing said, "Still we rise again. And do you know why? It is because the Order is born of a realization. We require no creed. No indoctrination by desperate old men. All we need is that the world be as it is." His vision was fading, air was getting hard to come by, the other hand was on his neck, "And this is why," there was pressure he couldn't breathe he couldn't breathe hanged again hanged in hatred, "the Templars," strangled by demons six years old Ista where is Ista can't breathe going to die going to die don't want to die! "will never be destroyed!"

BREATHE!

DON'T WANT TO DIE!

Hidden blade weapon still free air need air vision black choking dying pressure throat neck thrust air! Finally air!

Ratonhnhaké:ton sucked in a greedy breath and coughed almost immediately, the pain in his chest unbearable but ultimately ignorable as he realized he could breathe again. Air never tasted so sweet, he would have sighed in relief had he not been so desperate for the smoky air filling his lungs, and he was certain he would get a long lecture from Dr. Lyle and Jamie but it didn't even matter he could breathe!

His vision finally cleared, and he saw Haytham still above him, hand at his neck, blood from...

Iá.

Oh, iá.

Haytham looked down at Ratonhnhaké:ton, as he always had. "Don't think I have any intention of caressing your cheek and saying I was wrong," he said, bitter to the last. "I will not weep and wonder what might have been. I'm sure you understand. Still," he added, as his eyes started to glass over, "I'm proud of you in a way. You have shown great conviction. Strength. Courage. All noble qualities." He looked down at Ratonhnhaké:ton again, and for the first time there was something almost soft in his eyes. Almost. "I should have killed you long ago."

He slumped to the side, off of Ratonhnhaké:ton, dead.

Emotion filled the young native, and he could say only one thing:

"Ó:nen ki' wáhi Raké:ni."

Goodbye, Father...

---

Ratonhnhaké:ton woke slowly, his mind fuzzy, his body in agony.

He awoke again later, cheeks flushed and hard to concentrate.

He awoke later still, and he remembered wondering why there was no strong hand at his shoulder. Where was Achilles?

Jamie was standing over him, dimly lit by candlelight. "Rest easy, Connor," he said softly. "We can handle it a while longer."

… What did that mean?

The next time he woke he felt stronger. He tried to take a breath and felt pain in his chest, not from anxiety but physical pain. A hand numbly went up and found thick bandages about the epicenter of the pain, and then it all came back in a rush: the shelling, the people on the roofs, and his father.

Haytham...

He felt...

"That is what it means to be an Assassin, to carry that regret with you all the way to your grave... and the greatest regret of all will be when you finally kill your father, because Haytham Kenway is a man so intimately tied to you it will not hide that regret from you."

Achilles... I understand now...

The true meaning of regret, the fullest of its weight. Kanen'tó:kon...

He drifted off again, but each time he woke he felt a little stronger, and in time Jamie deemed it safe to bring in the others. Red Feather became an overnight companion, clutching his tiatén:ro and unwilling to be far from him for long. "It was close," was all he said.

Duncan, the de facto second, was more forthcoming. "Nearly lost ye there," he said. "Ye lost a lot of blood afore we found ye, had us all scared. Jamie tried to sew you up himself, but you know how his hands are, had to walk Anne through it, she nearly fainted about a half dozen times, but that's all in the past now. How're ye faring?"

Connor did not know how to answer. It must have shown on his face, because Duncan nodded and ran a hand through his thin red hair. "Thought as much when we saw who ye was lyin' with. I'm sorry, Connor, that ye had to go through that."

"And Lee?"

"Nowhere to be seen," Duncan replied, too respectful to dull the blow. "It was a trap from the get go, nearly lost a few of us along the way. Lil' Joe broke a leg, and Jamie says it'll be month afore Jacob can lift his arm, but we all got out. And," he added, reaching into his breast pocket. "We completed the objectives. Found the Templar stronghold and set it afire, but not afore looting it of every scrap of paper we could find. William's been locked up from the get go with me an' Jamie when he ain't tending ye trying to decode it. This though," he pulled out a leather bound book and set it on the nightstand. "Soon as I realized what it was I stopped reading it. It's yours. I'll let ye alone with it."

Duncan stood and gave a look to Red Feather, who regretfully pulled away and gave Ratonhnhaké:ton some space.

Tired, curious, uncertain, he opened the book.

December 6, 1735

My name is Haytham E. Kenway. Two days ago I turned ten years old. That was also the day my father died.

Connor sucked in a breath, regretting the action instantly, and stared at the book Duncan had left him. A journal? His father's journal?

He read hungrily after that, unable to tear his eyes away from the pages, reading the young, simple sentences of a ten year old boy who suffered an attack the night of his birthday, of killing the man who killed his father, of funerals and social isolation and a man named Mr. Birch, engaged to his half sister Jenny. He read about Jenny being kidnapped. He read about Haytham's training under Birch, the unending search for his sister. He read about a man named Braddock, and stealing an artifact from an Assassin that lead him to the Americas. He read in horror about his ista, Haytham saying it would be a challenging "conquest," read how his mother had made an impression on him that he looked back on fondly, even years later. He read about Shay Cormac, and Achilles, and going back to Europe. He read about Birch, and read about Haytham learning the truth about his heritage after finally finding his sister Jenny, a used woman at a place called the sultan's harem. He read about Haytham nearly dying, about the closest thing he had to a friend, a man named Holden, died. He read about returning to the Americas, was morbidly fascinated to learn how the Templars slowly became aware of his existence, he read the outrage at learning the origins of Connor, learning what Charles Lee had done. He read also the forgiveness of Lee, because Lee was the future, the son Connor could never be now that he was an Assassin.

It took him four days to read through the journal. The journals. Haytham Kenway was laid bare in his writings, all his thoughts and fears as a child, all his cold calculation as an adult. Duty bound him to find his sister but he had no attachment for her. Fondness attached him to his mother but not enough to learn what happened to her. Friendship bound him to Holden but was never spoken of again after his death. Lee was bound by the future, and Ratonhnhaké:ton found another thing the Stone Coat had eaten: his relationship with his father.

So many emotions filled Connor over those days, and he felt them all at once: regret, jealously, sadness, anger, confusion, horror, fascination, more that he could not name. All he had ever wanted was to know his father, and it was only now, after it was too late, that he finally had that knowledge. Would it have changed anything? Would things have gone differently?

He did not know. That that was perhaps the worst feeling of all.

Eventually, though, he healed enough to move around. He was still short of breath, and often prone to dizzy spells. This was the loss of blood, Jamie explained, and would get better with time. His neck was once again a swollen mess, looking in the mirror reminded him of his time in Bellevue before, the Old Man there as he had spells of intense stress, quietly giving him permission to sleep peacefully, offering solace as he could and honest reality when he couldn't.

He missed the Old Man.

Their last words had been tenuous at best, Connor still shying away from the inevitability that Achilles seemed to always be able to predict. He wanted to speak to him now, tell him he was right (again) and learn how to carry the mess of emotions that rolled through him, let the Old Man guide him to a conclusion, a final resolution to this latest round of madness. He wanted to play a game of fanora, and inch ever closer to beating him.

As he waited for strength to return, he joined with the others in decoding the litany of information they had looted from Fort George. He slowly learned what had happened to the others aside from what he saw: the riot leading right to the Templar base: an inn, filled with papers and journals and letters and ciphers. The last had been the most useful, and with it several documents had been transcribed. Clipper and Red Feather were dedicated copiers, this information could hardly be put to printer, and slowly assembled into past activities, current activities, and outlines for future plans. More copies would be made and forwarded to the appropriate Brotherhoods across the world: France and England and other places. Achilles would know how to best dispense the information, and in the interim Connor quickly divided his forces again across the Colonies. Almost all of them had been well placed, and several were reshuffled to better distribute the load. He also composed and sent a letter to Aveline in Louisiana, letting her know about recent events and asking if she had assassins to spare for New York and Philadelphia, the two largest centers of Templar activity.

In time, he was able to walk without pain, the stitches in his side were removed, and he set sail for Rockport.

---

It was market day at the port, the entire village was there selling their wares and happy to greet Connor as he disembarked. Diana and Catherine were helping their husbands and, as the biggest gossips of the village, were desperate to hear news from abroad. Faulkner stepped in quickly to deflect questions about his slow walk, hailing them instead with the awesome story of someone shelling New York at the dead of night. "Damnedest thing I ever saw!" he said brightly. "Lit up the night sky at one point, must have hit black powder! We were up by Staten Island, watched the whole thing from the deck!"

Connor slipped away with the distraction, moving up the steep hill to the manor, the quiet of autumn and the scent of drying leaves filling his senses and quieting his mind. The trees were at their peak, bright reds and yellows everywhere, soon to fade to dark golds. The path was covered in yellow oak leaves and orange pine needles. The manor was as it always was, brick and mortar standing the test of time, a symbol of strength and endurance, both of which the young native needed badly.

Achilles was not at the front door to greet him, again, meaning he was in poor health today. He opened the door quietly and stepped into the foyer, closing the door behind him and just listening to the sounds of the house. He padded softly across the worn carpet and down the hall to Achilles' room in back. He saw the Old Man sitting at the game table, bits of crumpled paper once again littered the space, but fanora had been set up for a fresh round, chair turned slightly to face the doorframe. His hat was pulled over his eyes; apparently he had been strong enough to get up, but not fight off sleep. He knocked on the doorframe lightly, hoping to wake him.

Nothing.

"Old Man," he said, walking in.

Still nothing.

Achilles had always been the lightest of sleepers, the result of years in silent war, he had said. It was the rarest of days when the Old Man was caught sleeping at all, and always he would wake instantly, immediately alert and quick to shrug off his rest. Never had Connor seen him so deeply asleep that he did not wake.

"Achilles..." he tried again, concerned now, and reached over to shake him awake.

The old man's head lolled to the side, hat tipping over and falling to the floor. His eyes were closed. His chest was still. There was no sound.

Only silence.

Oh...

Oh...

Ratonhnhaké:ton stared, eyes widening to unnatural levels as he realized what was happening. Sound slowly disappeared, the birds died away, the wind, the creak of the house, all of it smothered in silence. Eternal silence.

In Achilles' hand was a rolled up piece of paper. Even as the native's hand at his shoulder fell away in shock, he reached out and took the sheaf of paper with the other, unrolling it.

Connor, if you are reading this, I have failed to say goodbye as I wanted...

Everything stopped, his mind disappeared, as his eyes ran over the lines, reading the words but not understanding them. More things disappeared: hearing was already gone, but now feeling as well, his stomach had dropped and disappeared, his chest empty, his thoughts flown away as he stared at the paper. The handwriting was fine and clear as it always was, practical as the man himself. Eyes that barely saw anything went back to the body, visually caressing the age lines, looking at the streaked white locks of hair, the angle of the slouch, the stubble. More of him was disappearing, he felt like he was floating, without a body; he had lost everything.

Ratonhnhaké:ton did not know how long he stood there, bereft of body and mind and sensation. It was as though a fog had descended over him, blinding him to everything but that most precious of people leaning in the chair.

He did not know anything.

He did not think anything.

He did not understand anything.

Achilles...

Achilles...

His next dull memory was of being at the church. He did not know how he got there, nothingness still surrounded him but he could barely perceive the rows of pews, the pulpit, and Father Timothy. The preacher looked up, and something Ratonhnhaké:ton could not name crossed his face, and he moved immediately to where Ratonhnhaké:ton stood.

"What is it?" the elderly man asked, everything muffled to the young native's ears.

A voice emerged from somewhere to answer, perhaps his own, he was not certain. "... Achilles has passed."

A hand, his hand, reached out and grabbed the edge of a pew, gripping it fiercely to keep him grounded. Ratonhnhaké:ton could just barely feel the wood, the varnish, could just perceive the shape and the edges. He focused on it, turned to look at it, tried to consume himself with it, before he floated away into nothingness. Grounded. He needed to stay grounded. He was a mourner, blinded by fog and dark clouds, he needed an akatoni, one with a clear mind. Father Timothy would do well by this, this was his job. Fog was everywhere, it was very hard to think, but he finally managed to look up, and he saw the look of shock on Father Timothy's face.

"I'm so sorry," he said gently.

The apology stirred something in Ratonhnhaké:ton, he was not certain what, but there was an urge to say more. Perhaps he could make this better...? "He passed peacefully and with dignity."

No... nothing could make this better. Achilles...

He gripped the corner of the pew more firmly, finally feeling pain in his fingers. The pain grounded him, slightly, he did not think he was going to float away anymore; but everything was still so far away, he was not sure he could hold on.

Touch. There was a hand at his shoulder, not Achilles'. His eyes saw Father Timothy again, saw his lips move, heard a muffled question. "A service then?"

… Oh. Achilles was not Haudenosaunee, he would not have a traditional burial. But he was still an ally of the Confederacy... would they see that? Know that? No, but he was an ally of Ratonhnhaké:ton, he was a roiá:ner to everyone he trained, he deserved something. Something... more... than the ceremony the preacher would give. "Yes," he said slowly, voice only slightly clearer. "He was my roiá:ner, there are things... You are akatoni, you have a clear mind, you must... To perform the Hai-Hai... Please prepare something... appropriate. I need to teach you the Requickening and... and find wampum... I do not know..." Words failed him, and he was floating away again, utterly lost.

Somehow he came to be sitting in one of the pews. He looked around, confused, but saw Father Timothy there, bible open and prayer beads in his hands, lips moving silently. He finished his prayer and looked up to see Ratonhnhaké:ton staring at him, and he offered a gentle smile.

"I do not know much of your people," he said. "But you are perhaps right that I have a clear mind. Is there a prayer your people offer? I will recite it gladly. Tell me about your customs. Start with the kinds of festivals you have?"

Festivals? … What?

But Father Timothy was determined, and listened to all the little details of every ceremony and festival the Haudenosaunee went through, nodding when appropriate, offering a question here or there. It was a distraction, slow and gentle, building up enough presence of mind in Ratonhnhaké:ton to speak of the Hai-Hai, the death rituals before the fog carried him away again. He explained that there tribes were split into two moierties: the akatoni – the clear minded, and the mourner. Burial happened ten days after death, and the akatoni had to help the mourners: wipe the eyes, empty the ears, clear the throat; they had to remove the dead – or gather it, if it was the Festival of the Dead, clean blood from the house, sweep the death away, bring sunlight to the mourners who were blinded and sickened by the dark clouds of death. There were ceremonies, and each one had a recital of the Requickening, a fifteen verse address filled with metaphors of death and renewal. Each verse ended with colored strings of wampum that represented the verse being given to the mourners, and the mourners mirroring the verse and returning it to the akatoni.

"I understand," Father Timothy said. Ratonhnhaké:ton could just make out the creak of the pews, sound was nearly returned to him. "Achilles was not a man for ceremonies, but I think reciting those verses will help him, do you not? We need not make beads for him I think, I have not the skill and I would not ask a mourner to perform such as task. Do you think that will be enough?"

"I... hén," he said weakly. "But... I will see the grave is dug. Can you gather everyone?"

It was a long trek back to the manor. Dark clouds were gathering, Hinon and his Thunders rolling around, threatening a chill rain. Such a rain had been falling when he first met Achilles, he had thought it a blessing. And it had been. He would not be where he was today if not for the Old Man, and he would certainly be dead otherwise. He had hoped... But perhaps it was foolish. He had hoped the Old Man would live to see the death of Charles Lee, live to see the destruction of the Templars and see that pain could and would end. After hearing the story of Shay Cormac, he thought it only right that Achilles see a reward for the pain he had endured. This would have been that day except... Lee had not been there. His raké:ni was dead, and now that Ratonhnhaké:ton was most in need of counsel it was too late.

Rain started to fall as he grabbed the shovel, and moved to the hill. Two graves were there, graves he had never thought much of in all of his years living and training there. Two of the brotherhood, perhaps, or bones of those long before. Even now, he could not look at the graves, his mind was set on the task, and his body slowly began to go through the motions. It was slow work in the cool air, the ground hard but not frozen. Three shovels in and his side was hurting; five in and he could barely lift the shovel as his injuries protested, but his mind was no longer floating, he had a task to do, and he would do his duty without complaint or help. No one else could dig this grave. No one else was as close to the Old Man as he. No one else could do him the honor. It did not matter if he was a mourner, and this a job for the clear minded. He would let no one else perform this task. It was his last gift to the Old Man.

The cold rain poured over him, water dribbling down his face, blurring his vision and weighing him down with wet clothes, but still he shoveled, through the pain. It was a cold, steam poured off him as he worked, seeping into his bones and chilling every part of him. The pain disappeared into numbness. Twice he was sick from his work, stepping out of the grave to heave elsewhere, hands and knees covered in mud before he wiped his mouth and climbed back in. It took an eternity to dig that grave, but it was an eternity he gave gladly. When that was done, he moved into the forests, rains cleared, and looked for eagle nests. He needed feathers... there was not time for wampum, but for Achilles, feathers seemed more appropriate, more symbolic. When he was done he shuffled, shivering and soaked, into the house.

Timothy was there, saying nothing, only helping the young native shrug off his clothes and put him to bed.

The next morning was bright, sunny, happy in away that Ratonhnhaké:ton did not understand. His side was burning from pulled muscles, and he sat up gingerly, holding his wound. He shifted from hot to cold. His chest was empty again, his mind only partly there, and his body went through the motions of getting dressed. His eyes burned and his bones ached as he stepped out of his room and down the stairs. He walked passed the Old Man's room, and he looked in out of habit.

Yesterday hit him all at once, and he leaned heavily to the frame of the wall, desperate for air. He slid down to the floor, lost... so lost... and that was how Father Timothy found him hours later, when it was time for the ceremony. Ratonhnhaké:ton only dimly came to his senses.

"Do you need more time, Connor?" the preacher asked.

"... No," he said softly. "I can do this."

For Achilles, he would.

He pulled out the letter, opening it up again, wondering how he would fare after this.

Connor,

If you are reading this, I have failed to say goodbye as I wanted, but the time never seemed appropriate.

I leave this land and all its resources to you. The papers are in my desk, locked in such a way that only those such as us may open it. With it comes a tradition that dates back to John de la Tour, and as you know even further back than that. Our ways are now your ways, and it is only fitting that this land, owned by one such as myself, is passed to one such as you.

I trust you now know this place has become something of great significance. A community to serve as an example of what this would-be nation could become. You have found and cultivated a culture in this community that has never been seen before outside of our brotherhood. There exists the diversity of many people, many backgrounds, many languages and traditions; you have people of black and red and white skin, former slaves and downtrodden Irish and Scottish, wealthy British, women and children. And yet they work together in harmony; there is no hatred or bitterness, no self importance or superiority. Everyone values each other equally, sees the contributions that are made exactly as they are. They stand for one another, defend one another, and protect one another against adversity. It is a marvel to behold, the greatest wish of every Brotherhood in the world made manifest. It is a community to be proud of.

But the larger and stronger it grows, the more fragile and difficult to defend it becomes. You understand this perhaps better than anyone, yet I hope your friends who are birthing this infant country understand this truth. Your unwavering tenacity and honesty have burdened you with responsibility far greater than any one man should bear. Greater than any man can expect of their student. But you, if anyone, are capable. The work you have done can only be called miraculous; and the greatest of your accomplishments is that you have given an old man hope that all is not lost and for that I thank you. I have been a man dead for decades, since before the death of my brotherhood, since the death of my family. Every year I waited for my bones to understand, and yet now you have breathed life into me, made me see outside myself for the first time in years. My gratitude towards you will be unending, even in the next life.

I ask that you lay my bones to rest on the hill overlooking the water, there is no other place on this earth I'd rather be. I am grateful to have met you, knowing you will guide this land and these people to a better future.

Yours in brotherhood,

Achilles.

Everything he had ever wanted from Achilles had been expressed in that letter: pride, compassion, understanding. Things that were so hard to say out loud done with efficient strokes of a pen – brief as he always was, but getting the most impact out of his words.

On shaky legs he got up, moved into the room (this would be sacred ground for months), and unsheathed his hidden blade, finding the hidden lock and opening up the secret compartment under the desk. Inside was the deed to the land, Achilles' papers listing him as a free man, a last will, and a list of names and addresses to every Brotherhood in the known world. The deed and freedom papers he put on his person, as Achilles had always done, feeling closeness to the Old Man as he did so. The rest he locked back away, to think about later. He took a deep breath, looking at the chair, the scattered papers. He knew, now, what those crumpled and stuttered starts held. He folded up the letter and added it to the deed and freedom papers.

He left through the back door, saw that the core of the village had arrived: Godfrey and Catherine, Terry and Diana, Warren and Prudence, Oliver and Corrine, Ellen and Big Dave, Myriam and Norris, Lance and Dr. Lyle. He stood apart, uncertain of his place.

A golden oak coffin had been constructed, the village flag made of silk wrapping the box, and the lumberjacks and Big Dave lowered it gently into the grave. Ellen had tears streaming down her face, holding her best friend Prudence who was inconsolable. Norris wept openly, Myriam gripping his shoulders even while she shook. Big Dave was a mountain, his face twisted in sadness. Lyle looked up to the sky, blinking repeatedly. Everyone held a rose.

"Prayer and sermon do not suit this occasion," Father Timothy said to begin the ceremony. "Achilles was not a man of God. Not my God, at any rate." He shifted on his feet. There was no bible in his hands, but his face was intent and his words were heartfelt. "But he certainly believed in a guiding force, and he is at peace now and for that we can be grateful. His past is shrouded in mystery, he was a man a few words, but the graves here tell us everything we need to know. We lay him to rest here, atop the bluff where he made his honorable and dignified life, so he can remain that comforting presence - the old man on the hill - that we have all grown to depend on." He paused a moment, letting the words sink in.

Ratonhnhaké:ton watched, lost in his own mind, only one ear working, drifting in his memories. So many times he felt resentment towards the Old Man, so many times he was frustrated: to wait, to train, to bide his time, to find the right moment. Sending him up and down the coast to prevent him from telling Washington the truth of the Templars. The world is not as it should be, you are a fool to change it, you're wasting your time, nothing will change. Your father must die. Do not let misplaced sentiment hold you from your duty. But in equal measure he remembered the other times, checking his wounds, waiting at the door, helping him sleep, offering solace and honesty. He had a wealth of patience to train a native in the ways of the settlers. He guarded against bad dreams, ran from his exile in Rockport to save him in New York. He was a pessimistic, complicated, recalcitrant, irritating man, but his heart was pure even after all the pain he had suffered, and however well hidden his gentleness was, Ratonhnhaké:ton had felt it. They all had felt it.

"You all had your own relationships with him," Father Timothy said, "your own moments and I implore you to return here when the time is right for you and share those stories with the waves and the trees. Clean your eyes here, empty your ears and clear your throat of the grief here." Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked, hearing the words, and looked up, pulled for a moment from his own grief.

"Connor asked me to recite an Address of his people, called the Requickening. I hope it will help more than just him; the words are poetic."

And, in a halting, slightly nervous voice, he recited the Requickening, all fifteen verses. It was strange to hear it in English, some of the beauty of it was lost in translation, but the words washed over him, reaching deep into his mind and his spirit. Eagles were flying overhead, screeching their own grief, and for a brief moment he felt a strong hand on his shoulder, firm and reassuring. He turned, but Achilles was not there.

"Achilles," Timothy said, and for a moment his face broke from the clear mind of an akatoni, pulled down into sadness before it disappeared. "You will be missed but never forgotten. Go safely, Old Man, safely to where your soul need rest."

He tossed his rose into the grave. Warren made the sign of the cross and did the same, the others joining in, serenading the silk-wrapped coffin with the flowers. Ratonhnhaké:ton fingered his eagle feathers, unable to join them just yet. The moment held, stretching out and out, but eventually they left, one by one.

It was just him.

He knelt down, his side offering brief protest, but he closed his eyes and waited. He half wondered if he would feel a hand at his shoulder again, the only touch he ever felt truly comfortable with.

Nothing came.

… Disappointed already, Achilles?

Ratonhnhaké:ton held his feathers, praying himself, and let them drift down into the grave.

"I will make you proud, Old Man," he murmured.

He began to bury him.

---

Author's Notes: The reaction for this chapter from our beta's was pretty consistent:

Marina: You shattered my feels...

Jacob: Yep. Big time tears... Gaah this is even sadder in written form...

Tenshi perhaps articulated it best: "tHIS TOOK SEVERAL TRIES FOR ME TO READ AND I STILL CANT GET OVER IT... I had to come back a few times to reread because I kept crying and I couldn't pay attention to the words.

The title of this chapter should technically be Death of Father(s) plural, but that was a giveaway and, moreover, Death of a (blank) deals with an assassination, and Achilles wasn't assassinated.

When we first played the game, these two memories were back to back, but in reverse order. We saw Achilles' funeral first and then went off to kill Charles Lee - oh, wait, Haytham Kenway. Fans seem to only ever really see Haytham, but to us Achilles was just as much - no even more of - a father as Haytham, and loosing them both is heartwrenching for Connor. When we played, we actually RP'ed a bit, we made Connor walk to the church instead of run, because we, like Connor, needed to wrap our heads around the fact that Achilles had died in the middle of the game right out of left field. We needed to process is as much as Connor did.

This was also the chapter where we spent FOREVER trying to research what Haudenosaunee funerals were like. Like with all other cultural bits, what we found was small and not completely clear for someone of such an alien culture. William Johnson, as an ally of the Haudenosaunee (or at least perceived ally in the games) received the full ceremony when he died of his stroke; Achilles in Connor's mind deserves the full ceremony, of course, but as an Assassin his work is not known to the Confederacy and so it is minimized - also in respect to the fact that Achilles blatantly states early on that he and Ratonhnhake:ton both are not people for ceremonies. Our research did state emphatically that the Requickening is the most spiritual part of the entire ceremony because it is, in effect, a recitation on how the Haudenosaunee view life and death, and there are apparently accounts from Haudenosaunne, like Senaca or Oneida or Kanien'keha:ka, who talk about how emotional they get during the recitation and the relief they feel by the end. If anyone reading this is a Haudenosaunee - we tried our best, we hope we did your traditions justice.

Ratonhnhake:ton of course can't take this well. One of the metaphors of the Haudenosaunee is that death is sort of an ill tiding; the grievers are blinded and deafened with their grief, and it's up to the other clans to help the bereaved through the process. Lacking anyone of his tribe in the valley, Father Timothy fills this role, the akatoni, and his job will go well into the next chapter trying to get Ratonhnhake:ton over this latest in a long string of trauma.

And we haven't even started talking about Haytham. Gaah. The Battle of the Chesapeake is obviously played closer to history, and the assault on Fort George is fleshed out quite a bit (more on that in a later chapter) not only to give the recruits a role to play but also to set up for Haytham's funeral. Ratonhnhake:ton tries yet again to reach his father - he still hasn't learned, in that respect, that Haytham is too damaged to take the hand he is offering - and astute readers will notice all the cut dialogue is added back in and expanded upon.

We still believe the fact that Ratonhnhake:ton CONVENIENTLY comes across Haytham's journals is illogical to the point of absurd - especially how it is handled in the book, but we tried to make it make sense in context. Contrived as it is, the irony of finally learning about his father after it's too late to change anything is powerful, and we played it as much as we could without spending pages and pages recounting Haytham's backstory. It's CONNOR'S story, not Haytham's, and too much focus lessens the immersion of Connor's psyche and actually hurt's Haytham. Less is more, sometimes, and we gave just enough for Ratonhnhake:ton to understand how broken his sire is.

Next chapter: Death of a Stone Coat. Geez, as if we haven't done enough to poor Connor yet... Only three more chapters left