16th September 1789

EPILOGUE: CONNOR

It was eight years ago today.

September the sixteenth is a date the Assassins never ignore. It has had many names, from 'The Battle of Fort George', just 'Fort George', 'The Fall'…we never wanted anything sophisticated. We only wished for a mild way of referring to the day we lost nearly everything.

The day I lost nearly everything.

"Ouch!"

I turn and lean on the kitchen counter. My sister responds to her pain with laughter: turning, Imala holds up a bleeding finger, and a knife in the other hand. If my brother were in here, I know she'd be relentlessly taunted. I try my best to fill the post.

"What is wrong with me?" Imala catches my teasing eye, rolling hers.

"Five years of blade training and you still cannot cut vegetables?" I smirk.

She wipes her bleeding skin on her apron and tuts. "You know, I would have this done much faster if you were helping me. We're still the minors of the house. It's your responsibility."

"I do not live here."

"And...? Ohitekah is useless." Imala returns to cutting carrots, humming a quiet tune. "There must be something you can do to help Eva."

I have been at the Stirling household since the early morning doing exactly that. Every year on this day, Eva insists on hosting a meal. The guests are always the same: myself, Jasmine, the Blancs, the Matieu family…in other words, the only ones close enough to my mother and father to grieve properly. Eva claims it is an event of solemn remembrance; that it is in ways. To me, it is a distraction. A consolation that this part of my family remains. In the evening, my parents and their deaths rarely cross my mind. For once, I can raise a glass; be in better company than my own.

Ohitekah and Imala are nearly twenty-five now; nearly the age I was during the defeat. I am the only one alive who calls them by their Mohawk names; I suppose it is one of our many ways of honouring Mother. I enjoy hearing my name on my siblings' tongues — Ratohnhaké:ton — because I am reminded that I am never as alone as I think. In spite of that, even I resort to calling them Aaron and Alexa at times: living with Eva and George, it is they answer to now.

Of course they are old enough to live alone. Of course they are old enough to be married and with children — but their reason not to be, is out of convenience. It is the same as mine.

Because my brother and my sister are Assassins.

It has been a long journey for them both. At night I often dream of travelling home with Eva after the battle. The Assassins in New York were so good to us; their losses were also too great to comprehend. They offered us hospitality, ways to get home...because that was all we could plan for. Charles was long gone — and not least of our priorities now. Our hearts weighed heavy with loss, and our eyes were permanently watered.

I remember returning to the Stirling household where Imala and Ohitekah stayed. They were sixteen and — in spite of everything — far too innocent to see it. Their fretting faces appeared at the drawing room window as we approached. It was Ohitekah who flung the door open and — as we stepped down from our horses — froze. Imala was soon at his shoulder, noting every crease under our eyes. They saw the grief, ready to burst from our limbs.

I raised my eyes to greet them, but they already knew. The look in their identical eyes was unbearable. I keep my words simple, for there is nothing that can compare to the way Ohitekah's jaw became slack, then his arms, legs...and Imala too. Nothing can compare.

The memorial was worse still: it was not just for Mother and Father, but for every ally who died that day. Eva's speech was to a pitiful audience: only our spies and immediate Assassin family. We could not recover any of the bodies, so it was just that: a memorial. My parents who lived enriched, brave and fulfilled lives had not even the dignity of a funeral. It filled me with almost as much anger as grief.

After the ceremony I stood atop the valley; I stared blankly into the mourning sky, lost in my thoughts as dark as the clouds. But I was not the only one who took to the view: Ohitekah, stood not for away, suddenly gave way and collapsed on the ground in a fit of rage. I wanted to approach him, to calm him as his sobs pounded through him like his fist to the earth...but there was nothing I could say or do.

Imala was quickly by his side. All week, both of them had maintained a deadly silence. The only time I heard them talk was at night, whispering what sounded like Mohawk to each other. Ohitekah could keep his vengeful persona no longer. It distressed me beyond measure to see a young boy harbour so much raw emotion...but that was when I remembered, with a horrible jolt, that I was once exactly like my brother. Even before I was his age.

As soon as he and Imala were living with the Stirlings, I saw less and less of them. I gathered from my sister what was happening to Ohitekah: he was becoming slowly reckless; spiralling into a state of mind he would come to regret. Drinking, stealing, fighting in the streets...everything that Father would be ashamed of. Not even Imala (in all her wisdom) could breach the oblique moral curtain over my brother's face. Every time I saw him, there was a look in his eyes — not distant, but cold.

So cold.

When the Matieu family moved to Boston near us, Aaron spent much time with Hazel. He always spoke of revenge to her; he told of how he wanted to kill those who had ripped his family apart...but he wanted to cool his blood first. I think it must have been Hazel who suggested he joined the Brotherhood.

He announced it exactly a year after Charles Lee's death.

It was by my hand — of course it was — but I drew no pleasure from it. Second of October 1782; one week before the twins' eighteenth birthday. After a year of picking up the pieces, one of Gérald's spies heard lip that Charles was fleeing to England with the items. I would not allow for it. Nobody would.

Like my father, I tallied his sins; sharpened my teeth for the kill...but like my mother, I did not lose sight of the goal in hand. In Soyala's words the first time she assassinated a Templar: "I did not want him to suffer; I wanted him to stop."

The chase was short yet chaotic. That day I tracked and chased Charles along the Boston pier, where he charged — manically — into an old brewhouse set alight. As if I had not seen enough fire through his corruption; part of me wondered if this was his final petty jab to me. Undeterred, we leapt from level to level. Like the shelves of a shop they cracked and toppled and sent us rattling down the walls, missing us narrowly. Flames hissing all around us. Manic, confused cries of the guards outside.

I don't like to think too much of what happened. Lee, face wicked and long insane, was beside me as we both slipped; fell to the ground level...

And a splinter plunged into my side. The physical pain was almost the worst I had ever felt; I must have flailed like a fish on a rod, helpless. Lee was lucky enough to miss...but he was for the worst. While I suppressed my unearthly agony, he murmured the last words I ever heard him say:

"Why do you persist? You put us down. We rise again. You end one plot — we forge another. You try so hard...but it always ends the same. Those who know you think you mad and this is why...even those men you sought to save have turned their backs on you. Yet you fight. You resist. Why?"

I squirm thinking of it now, but that was the one faltering moment in which I questioned the Creed. What if everything I had ever fought for, nearly died for, was for nothing? What if Mother's life, Father's life, Soyala, Jack...all those who died...what if they served no purpose? It flushed my body of all blood; replaced it with ice and the brutal, burning pain.

But that was when I found the strength to speak. I remembered what I live for; what they lived and died for. One day we will be more powerful than any Templar: more than Charles Lee, more than Cesare Borgia, more than any who — with whatever means of mystical power or brute force — try to oppress the innocent. The richness of Mother and Father's will was what rose the air in my lungs. It gave me the might to do them proud; to be the warriors that they were.

"Because no-one else will!"

I reached for his pistol, lying limp on the burning wood...

Crash.

Charles Lee did not die there and then; he scrambled to a tavern nearby, dripping blood from an open wound. A sixth sense in me knew where he had gone. I did not usually trust it, but I had no choice: I was not long this world if I stayed out in the open. And so I limped in to the place I knew; the place I had been many times in my youth.

The Green Dragon Tavern.

For the Templars, vows had been made and broken here. It was a hall of history for them, overlooked by only one barmaid who never questioned. Weak, I pushed the door open, dripping sweat and blood and anything else which drew the air from me...and followed him into the back room.

It was unbelievable, what I saw. The man had ordered himself a drink in his ebbing state. A drink.

I scarcely noticed. There was no-one here sat down to witness this final sacrament; I wanted the deed to be done so I could go home alive. I was only human.

It struck me how careless the rest of the world must be as two injured men entered. The barmaid ignored us both in our condition, just like all onlookers must have done on the street. I paid no attention; how could I when all I could see in my vision was suffering and death?

When the beast saw me sit opposite him, we both knew it was over. I saw no repentance in his streaming eyes at all, only ice. So, I was surprised as he extended his hand and offered me his ale. Perhaps a last jest; an attempt to be good as he left this world.

I took it, drank, looked once more in the eyes of my parents' murderer. The one who ordered my Brotherhood to ruin. The one who carelessly conceived my brother and sister; who trampled over all of our lives without any regret. Yet somehow, I saw not a man to be condemned but an animal beyond saving, to be put down.

So I did. It was over in the blink of an eye. I barely had to stand up to dig the hidden blade into his heart. In spite of my excruciating numbness, I could have sworn to have felt a rock in his chest; a frozen heart from which I could not withdraw my blade. Perhaps my arms were simply weak.

I laid him down gently, to make it look as if he had passed out from drinking...and crawled from the cathedral of order, purpose and lies.

Ohitekah was first to find me. I knew where he would be that day, haunting the streets like a scoundrel. I began to look for him, hardly able to walk and bleeding a stream onto the streets. Yet the people, locked in their own temporary lives, ignored me. I was just a stain to their shoes; a savage at that. It was no wonder I collapsed in a heap near Boston's market square.

The next I woke up, Rose Matieu was stood over me, holding a flannel to my head. My eyes fluttered open to see her sleep-deprived eyes; the warm shade of gold in her irises. "Hush now," she cooed, as if I were in a cradle, "It's over now. He's dead. You did it, Connor. You saved us."

Aaron was oblivious to my mission that day. I thought it best not to tell him, 'I'm going to kill your so-called father': he'd try to reach Lee first...and be stabbed in the process. I did not even tell Alexa in her calm collection: the anger she harboured was not an outward flame, but an inward one. It was twice as dangerous; twice as powerful as her brother's...and I only began to see it rise to the surface as I trained her. At this point in time, I still knew she'd never resist the temptation to try and 'help' me.

They forgave me for it afterwards; thanked me, even.

They sat at separate times by my bedside as I healed. If nothing else, it was a time to become closer to them. They needed it; I needed it. I wanted to share my stories of suffering without guilt, for it was rare that any would ever listen to me. I never minded this, but for my siblings, I put my humility aside. I taught them the ways of the Creed; I know Mother and Father would scorn me for indoctrinating them.

But it was Ohitekah's choice to join the Brotherhood. It was his choice to announce it across the dinner table a year later.

I remember exchanging a glance with Alexa; I worried he was far too irresponsible, too untameable for the task. The surprise in her face said that he had not discussed it with her, either. Eva took the request maturely: she looked her adoptive son deep in the eye, and told what would be expected. It was at that moment — an intense stare across the dinner table — when I saw the warrior inside the young Kenway. The veil of recklessness was removed from his eyes; they seemed to glow a shade of hazel as he nodded slowly at Eva's words.

Imala had initially vowed to stay as far away from the Assassins' business as possible. She wanted no involvement. It killed her parents, she declared, and it would not kill her too. She despised how she'd been indoctrinated as a child — I hate to, but I agree: it was not wise of Mother to discuss the Brotherhood in front of the twins while growing up. But now, it was different. Now, it was Ohitekah. As much as they fought, she felt a womb-borne bond which she could never let death sever. If he jumped, she would too. If he fought, she would. If he died, so would she.

I was but a fly on the wall to all of this. Somehow, though, I gathered Alexa was not doing this out of love for the Brotherhood, but love for her brother. It was a different story when they began their training in January of 1783 (and I helped them whenever I could). Imala questioned the isolation she'd put herself through for the year she was grieving. A method of self-protection, she claimed: as her hand became more and more apt with a sword and knife, she admired the values the Creed upholds. Justice. Freedom. Harmony.

Ohitekah worshipped the Creed from the beginning; it bore resemblance to our religion — so he claims. It felt warming to watch my brother grow so quickly; to snap from this rashness he'd used to cover his grief. It was a pleasure to witness the unbreakable bond as Ohitekah and Imala duelled, teased and raced on the Davenport Homestead, watching the sun go down.

They were still capable of loving, in spite of so much hatred in our lives.

Loving. I know little of Ohitekah's romance with Hazel, but it was short-lived. They remain close friends now, without even the slightest hint of passion...but maybe I am blind.

Ohitekah told me in small fragments: she was an old friend who had offered him much emotional support. It had happened so naturally, neither of them noticed the obvious chemistry between them — not until their lips met on one brief occasion...

Before Aaron "took hold of his senses". He knew that Eva (now with the artefacts) was a wanted woman. So long as Ohitekah lived with the Stirlings, he could not put Hazel's life at risk. He could never forgive himself if she were used as leverage — what, with her father being an Assassin too. I would have done the same...and I admired his growing sense of maturity for it.

"But Lee is dead," Hazel argued, "why do you feel like such a target?"

"Because I am his son." Ohitekah bit his lip, fighting back his overwhelming emotions. He replied something along the lines of: "Any relative of his is a target. Not to mention Connor. Other men have filled Charles's space, Hazel; the Templars rise again as they always do. I'm sorry...if I could change it, I would — but I don't have that power. Not me, not Alexa...not any one of us."

"Yet."

All of the Matieu family had (and still have) high hopes for the Brotherhood. Only François is an Assassin, but Rose and her children are constantly finding ways to aid us — recruiting those we save, gathering supplies to build a new fleet, taking care of the injured...anything. It breaks my heart to hear such optimism: I know it will be years before the Assassins overpower the Templars and their tyranny. But our goal is not futile. None of this is in vain.

It will take time. Or at least, that is what Jasmine reminds me.

After the death of her grandfather three years ago, Jasmine Webb moved back to New York. She works extremely well with the rest of our informants, but even within the network, each has a closest Assassin ally to work with. For Gérald it is evidently Aveline; for Jasmine, I am the one. I am the spider, but she spins the web that catches the flies. She gathers the threads and I am the needle. Neither of us could succeed without the other; for this reason, Jasmine visits the Davenport Homestead at least once a week. Her sense of utmost duty to the Order impresses me afresh every time, though I lack the words to express my affection for such a valuable asset and friend.

She is coming today; so are the Matieus and the Blancs. The communion of thirteen is one which I almost worship on this day, grateful for its survival. But I am not ready to see them yet: with the elation comes a wave of immeasurable pain.

This day is about Mother and Father — and to fully open my heart, I need to pay my respects alone.

I walk past Ohitekah, knelt on the staircase cleaning. He turns his cheek; the scar from a past fight smirks across his lip. "Abandoning us already?"

"I'll be back, brother." Then, snatching a duster from his hand: "You missed a speck, here."

"Hey!" Jovially he snatches it back. "How long will you be? Have you asked...permission?"

"Permission?"

Eva — appearing at the top of the stairs — places her hands on her hips. Her silver hair tumbles to her breasts in the same way it did when I met her. It has lost no shine, only colour, much like her smile after The Fall. "He's not a child, Aaron," she teases. "Ignore him, Connor. You go and do what you must."

I can't help it, I dip my head in thanks to her. Even now Eva commands a gentle respect without asking for it; I expected the deaths of Mother and Soyala to harden her heart, but instead they softened her conscience. She has always been forgiving — never patronising — to my brother in his wild antics. She has always supported my sister, listening with her heart like George. For that I praise her.

As soon as I am through the door, a lukewarm autumn breeze brushes over me. For once I notice it, not wearing my Assassin robes. It reminds me of my adolescence when I would hunt in the treetops; I would collect eagle feathers for no cause but me. I would hate to see myself as a selfish man, but I miss the simplistic life of my village. I wonder if Mother did, too.

Just to think: as I pass under a dome of trees — light of a new winter clawing through the green — every inch of this forest holds a memory for me. And if I have only watched thirty-three years of seasons roll by, I cannot imagine what they held for my parents. Perhaps this hill over here was where Father first embraced my mother; maybe that dent in the ground there was where they first fought.

If I really wanted to honour them, I would have to tread every blade of grass. But I know exactly where I want to go.

Whenever I ate with the family on Sunday, we always used to walk in the woods. Even after eight years, it never stops affecting me. How different the forest feels now they are gone. How the sweet whispers of the wind have become chilling breaths down my bare neck, each one with a silver ghost of the past. How every bird and squirrel mocks me with a laughter I'll never hear again.

I know today is just a date in a calendar...but I can never help it. My mind always perceives the woods as strangely cold as I walk to my destination. That is, until I am there.

Here I am.

My small corner of this beautiful land is undetectable, untouched...and absolutely breathtaking. I clamber through a little thicket and almost smile when I see it again. I cannot remember when I claimed this fold of grass as my nest: it just came to be.

I am always afraid to hurt those I love. That is never my intention, but I have noticed a cruel paradox over the years: the more I try to do good, the worse I seem to make others feel...not to mention myself. And so whenever I was distressed (mostly when I missed those I'd lost), I would walk until I found a spot to sit. I would stare at the birds in the open sky and envy their innate freedom. I would curl up amongst the nature I called my closest sister. I would sit. And reflect.

Eventually, my mind would be stilled.

This corner of grass is marked by two trees by the cliffside. It is a small slope in the ground, big enough for a bear cub, which ends with a ridge in the earth. It may not seem much, but the view which rolls off the cliff is unbelievable. Huddling thickets, dewy fields, peaceful rivers...and a bridge of boulders joining the mountains on my left to the mountains on my right.

I exhale and sit down, exactly when it starts to rain. Only a light dust; it does not bother me at all. In fact, it makes me sink into the landscape; melt into the droplets on my eyelashes. I could be invisible to anyone who passes (not that they will). And that is how I want to be.

To the east, the softened sun casts dwarf shadows over the hills; to the west, a ripple of rain whispers along the river. A cloud covers the light and makes a shade. Just how it always is when I visit this place. I am home here. I can think without interference; I can feel without disturbing others.

Mindlessly, I take a journey with my eyes. I trace a path of landscapes which mean something to me. First is a corner beneath a bending hill which hosts my village — or what is left of it. Years ago, my people moved to escape the red-eyed monster of war. Who can blame them? All they wanted was to keep the Precursor Site safe; and the Assassins are responsible for that now.

I raise my eyes and — in the mellowing mist — see the second landmark: a cave I once slept in on my way to Achilles. I was thirteen; the Clan Mother had pointed me in the direction and I had followed the path. It was an interesting night — for the first time of many to come, I felt the crushing responsibility of survival...but also the freedom and peace of being alone.

My eyes move down to the glittering water. Like the stream of memories it has carried the Kenways in some way or another. I was conceived in that very river. I chuckle at the thought of it, now. Why Father chose to share that with me, I can't remember. I was disgusted at the time, but it all seems so melancholic now.

Like time I let it carry me through the emerald woods. I stop when I reach a bend in the distance; I lift my head up, up...

There it is.

I cannot see it; it is only in my mind's eye. I know exactly where it is: that path close to the ledge of an opposite cliff, far away...that path leads to the house where Mother and Father lived.

Childishly, I sigh into the quiet pattering of rain. I remember exactly how it feels to tread that path: the slight climb, the sycamores along the way...the chance to catch just one more hare before our meal. I remember the sight of the house as you approach it: the courtyard, the rustic little stable, the white walls and symmetrical windows. The warmth of the drawing room fire, the moment I stepped through the door. The sounds of greeting in two languages. The taste of laughter on my lips as we sipped on wine, feasted on meat, thrived on family.

But for the first time, I try to imagine what life must have been like for them when I was not there. Still the calm reading by the fire; the concentrated chess games between Father and Imala. Before they knew it was Robert who betrayed them, peace. Comfort. Love.

Mother and Father would never hide their affection for one another. No; the love my parents shared was more than affection — it was a lifelong connection. Stronger than the 'unyielding' coils of fate.

Watching that tower collapse — my undeserving guardians trapped beneath it — taught me that fate is a trick; it is less wise than it seems. Haytham Edward and Kaniehtí:io did not deserve the death they were given. They were much stronger than that. The odds they had to overcome; the choices they made, just on the off-chance of looking in one another's eyes again...it is beyond all words. Beyond all binding of destiny, time, land...beyond anything material or immaterial.

One day, I hope to learn from their lives. One day, I hope to fall in love the way they did.

First of all there was my father: a man of hard-headed reason. A man with a confusing past, and an uncertain future — yet he ploughed and planned on. My very first thought when I met him was of his superior seer of his lip. His sharp sarcasm. I remember thinking: 'How could this man have conceived me? How could he have anything to do with Mother, let alone me?' It took me a while to see what Mother must have seen in him: a desire to do what he believed right; a thirst for knowledge. She must have adored the his humility towards her and her alone. She must have admired his strategy and his innermost thoughts.

Then there was my mother, with an equally troubled youth. A concern for the future of the war and her tribe, who turned a blind, myopic eye to everything around them. But not this woman. She was always so tuned to the natural world, but was no naive fool when it came to the white men. As far as Father was concerned, she was a mystery. A soul whose soul lay beneath her eyes. A mystic who would put up a worthwhile fight, but let him in with the right kindness. I am told he was always flustered; always surprised by her. It makes me smile to think of him embarrassed. I couldn't ever imagine him stutter; the little eloquence of words I have learned in English is thanks to Father.

There are loves which wear away after a month of marriage. There are loves seen only in terms of appetite; of what lies on the surface. What Mother and Father had changed them irreversibly. It amazes me, just how much they were to one another.

For Mother, Haytham was always her saviour. The cavity in his heart would always collapse when she was in danger — or else, why would he have saved her in that fire when I was just a child? I still cannot believe that he was there. I cannot believe that he was drawn into danger for a woman he'd left years ago. He nursed her every single day, and thought of her just as often after she had gone.

She was sometimes disillusioned, but the vision of him would give her direction on the darkest of days. He was a figure from her past on what seemed like an opposite pole of fate. He was so close to her some days that she could have touched him. She could have laid eyes on the face she missed so sorely. It gave her heart a second means to stay alive.

But what Mother gave to Father was a different kind of means to stay alive. Physically, his heart would beat on without her...but it would have been no heart at all. Twisted, distant and ruthless like his killer. He would be the same man he was when I met him, only worse.

Why did he save me from execution in 1776? Why did he let me escape; kill Thomas Hickey? Because of her.

My Ista was the last fleck of goodness in him; it does not take an educated man to know that fires start with the smallest spark. I was the last piece of Ziio that Father had. The only living proof that their paths had crossed, and re-shaped — subconsciously, irrationally — lead back to one another. She was the pivot of his whole conscience. She was his salvation, but she didn't save his body. She saved his soul.

There's a word to describe their love: everbound. It is a word Mother invented herself; I only learned it after they had gone.

I remember that day, clearer than the path I'm staring at on the other side of the cliff. Once agin I imagine what it is like to tread it. Of course, the property was left to me...but I could think of no use for it. Even if we did use it as an Assassin training ground one day, who would want the memories of that house with it? And so months after inheriting it, we sold it to a family who wanted to use it for pastureland.

I was responsible for emptying the house. I remember being alone in the act one day...and going through the drawers of Father's desk. And there, I found something which moved me to tears.

It was February (five months after my parents' deaths) and I naively thought I had no more tears to cry for them. But this small pile of letters, sealed with the Assassin emblem...

When had Father written these? When would he have had the time? As if it would slip as sand through my fingers, I help mine up to the light. 'Connor', written in the elegant hand I thought I would never see again. Underneath it, there was a tidy post-script: 'for when you are ready'. This ominous instruction was unlike the direct Haytham Kenway, even to his family. I was tempted to open it; how could I not? What did he mean by 'ready?'

I thought the way to indicate what it might be was open someone else's: there were four other envelopes and a folded piece of parchment at the bottom. Kneeling, I spread them on the empty floor like playing cards.

Aaron and Alexa's had the exact same message. I winced on seeing Robert's, but was too moved to feel the stab of anger. The fourth — of course — was addressed to Mother, but as well as a post script (I noticed when I picked it up), there was a small note on the corner: 'in res: Everbound'.

I quickly put it down again; I knew it must be some code word. Even in death, it was none of my business. But something made me...some childish curiosity needing comfort made me stop, frown, and pick up the folded parchment.

Every crease I unfolded placed one more tear in my eye. It was a sketch — almost as old as me — and it was of Mother. Every freckle on her young face; every strand of her hair and most of all, her eyes...were perfect. I never thought I would see her face again, yet here it was.

Could Father have drawn this?

No. He was never gifted at art; even if he was, he'd never have sat down for long enough to sketch Ziio. Someone else must have done it...an employee, perhaps? A friend? Someone whose hand I did not recognise.

But I turned it over to see a hand I did recognise. It was (I realised with a gasp) Mother's handwriting. It was in its primitive stages; a black spiky scrawl...but the fact that it was hers was what made it beautiful.

I took great care in reading her words; the last I'd ever see of them:

Haytham,

Forgive the shaking hand by which I write this. Perhaps I was lying when I said I could not read. I am sorry for saying it. That was when I was ungrateful, and frustrated. Thanks to you, those days are behind me now.

Thank you for everything. I could go on and on about how much I am in your debt, but my space and time grows short. I'll remember your acts of selflessness – you and all your staff. All men should be like you, Haytham. This world would truly be a better place.

Over the past few weeks I've had a thousand words to say, but simply held my tongue. There are certain parts that I dare not spill (else this letter might take weeks to write). But as my final mark of honesty, I will confess as best I can.

Fate is a beautiful thing. It guides us, guards us, and — in so many ways — shapes us. When we settled our differences long ago, part of me felt separate from the rest. Part of me thought that fate was wrong; that it could never end like this. I told myself I would meet you again. I'd have to meet you again. And when I did, I already sensed myself falling back into my old ways, like this was how I was meant to behave.

These ways took hold entirely when we danced. I wanted to say something, that night...but dared not. What if this was nature's accident? What if this was a warning: do not stumble on the past? But last night — seeing you so helpless, so vulnerable on the floor — it tore my heart from my mind. Fate makes no mistakes. If I felt this way, it was what nature intended.

And now, in the dusk of my stay, I have realised too late. Only now do I see that — no matter how you and I avoid each other — we always end up together once more. It is like we are ever-bound side by side. Everbound. Is that a word in English? It should be.

Even so, only when my heart is starved of what it needs, I find that we are everbound. Have you felt this, too? I hope these words are no waste, for it takes more courage to confess than I ever dreamed. But it is the truth.

I love you, Haytham Edward Kenway, and I always will. Always and forever.

Yours,
Ziio.

There was no date on the letter, but I knew it was from 1760. She must have written it for him before she left. I knew gems of wisdom could come from Mother sometimes, but...I never knew she was this poetic. Suddenly I felt a stab of guilt: I had not known her as well as I could have done. And this was even before she was abducted. Before she was hardened too much by the world; by her own nightmares.

Everbound. I had never heard her say it — but it must have meant something to her. The image of fate and its strings was as normal to her as a heartbeat; as necessary as Father was to her.

Heart swelling with sadness, I placed the sketch face-down on the floor. If Father's unopened letter to Mother said: 'in res: Everbound'...I wasn't sure if I was ready to open it. Was it mine to touch? No, but it was no longer Mother's. For whatever foolish reason, I decided to open it.

These were the words that melted me completely. In fact, I don't often think of them because they trigger all the hurt and all the grief, but from another's perspective...it paints Mother and Father's lives together as a heart-warming tale, and not as a tragedy.

I hope one day I will live to see it as such. I know that my parents did.

1st September 1781

Dearest Ziio,

I pray to God you'll not read these words soon. I pray this parchment will remain untouched as long as my love for you. If you are reading this, I am dead — by what means I do not know now, but I can be sure of this: you were my final thought. You were the last colour in my blood and the final cry on my lips. You were the light that crossed my eyes as they closed. You were my first and my last.

There are hundreds of notions I could write about — but not only is my space limited; I would make you nauseous. I'll start with this: recently I have thought deeply of fate. How surprising, given how often you speak of it, I know...you must remember feeling as though you were being punished. One anarchy after another, chaos and more chaos...particularly within the last few weeks. What a maltreatment of life it would be if I died soon after. I know that you will look at this and agree, love. I hate to think you'd feel such an anguish, but I know you will.

Let me say this, Ziio: I do believe in fate, but not as you know it. Fate is not an omnipresent puppeteer pulling the strings of each of our petty and mortal lives. How could that ever lead to such intricate chances? It couldn't. It would be a tangle of occasionally overlapping paths, for which we thank a benevolent force which had no intention of bringing us together. No: I believe that fate is something planted, nurtured, and reaped at will.

By now I can just see it: that dry but bewitching smile which says: 'Haytham, what the bloody hell are you talking about?'. Imagine that when I first met you, something within me decided that this woman was the one I wanted and needed. This woman was the one I would be prepared to tie all my heart, passions and my moral compass to. Something in you must have done the same; thus, we bound our hearts by a string within us. Just say.

It was not 'nature-intended' that we met again in 1760. It was the string we had constructed ourselves. We had let the desire and sympathies simmer so long that it was painful for our logic. Darling, we both prize ourselves on our reason...and this is why we attempted to sever the tie. It was painful for us; such that we could not think. We could not move on with our lives. And so, being so close to you during that fire...the fibres of the thread began to burn. I had failed to forget you (and could any man blame me, given your perfection of mind, heart and body?).

Yet again, 1776: you were the one who turned my values upside-down. Actually, my values remained largely the same — the only thing which changed was hatred for love. But it was you. You guided me to save Connor, to search for you...even to renounce the Templar Order. Knowing my stubborn arrogance, have you the slightest idea how big a force that would require? Only you could provide that...because we grew such a strong fate in separation.

Fate does not control us; we control it. It is a subconscious attraction to each other's paths, until they overlap in harmony at last. You may believe that all this time it was me saving you; and I was saving you because fate or some invisible force had guided me to. But I had no such guardian angel, Ziio. I only had you. Don't you see? You were the one saving me.

You have given me more than I ever thought I was capable of. Family, salvation...the capacity to love. You have done the unimaginable for me. Simply because it was not a physical saving from fire or abduction does not make it invalid. Heaven knows what sort of twisted life I'd lead without you. Who knows? Perhaps I would not have saved Connor. Or worse: we would face one another in battle. You see? It seems impossible now. And so it should. He, Aaron and Alexa — our beautiful children — have brought out a goodness in me I never, ever knew I was capable of. All because of you, my love. All because of you.

So yes, I do think we are everbound. Yes, it would be a great shame if one of us were to leave this Earth before the other. But look upon our time together not as a tragedy ended too soon, nor as fate's greatest accident.

It was an unpredictable, beautiful crusade.

Do not weep for me, Ziio — my downfall is not your punishment. Simply remember that even if I am buried, the thread is not buried with me. I won't be naive and tell you I am still here; I am not. Always remember what we had. Treasure it as you treasured me. Love our wonderful children and those who helped us find one another again. Most of all, live in the knowledge that you and I are everbound.

I love you endlessly, Kaniehtí:io Kenway — even in death, you will forever be my fate.

Haytham.

THE END

Well, this is it. This is the end of the road for this long-standing story. I'm actually getting quite emotional — Everbound has been such a huge part of my life and I'm grateful beyond measure that it's been a tiny part of yours too.

If you are reading this, I'd like to say (as ever) thank you. I would never, ever have finished this fic if it hadn't received this staggering amount of support, number of views, reviews, favourites and followers. Thank you for everything over the past two and a half years; you may not believe me, but you have taught me so much about patience, dedication and kindness.

Particular thanks to lismrox: one of my closest friends was made over Everbound and that is something I never expected. Lis, thank you for just being so amazing...love you lots :P

Thank you to anyone who ever sent a PM, left a review...anything. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Your kindness has meant so much to me and I love every single one of you.

If you're still frustrated ("god f***ing dammit, I thought she was going to make it a happy ending!"), just remember: this ending was meant to be...

a) Less heartbreaking than Ubisoft's ending for Haytham and Ziio.

b) About fate.

You were probably expecting some 'accident of fate' ending, considering how much emphasis is on fate. But here's the twist: I'm like Haytham. I don't believe in fate. All this time I've been writing about something I don't believe in. I know. Shock horror. Plot twist.

Why?

Because I believe we construct our own fates. Obviously a notion has to start it — in Haytham and Ziio's case, that was meeting each other and falling in love. There were no accidents or one-in-a-million chances that brought them together; it was their own desire to be together again. So no, I don't believe in destiny fate. I believe in a fate of attractions we often can't help.

Whatever type of fate you believe in (perhaps none at all), I am glad to have shared such an intimate part of my heart with everyone who read Everbound. You truly have shaped the way I think, write and — most of all — appreciate kind words.

I love you all,

Frankie xxx