A/N: I wrote this after seeing this image. It's really not the best I could have done, and it was a little rushed but hopefully it's decent. I do not own either Connor or Haytham Kenway. Enjoy! Please review and tell me how I'm doing!

Haytham had been watching him for sometime, ever since the cannon fire hit where he'd been standing. He watched his son stumble through the streets to kill Charles Lee. The Templar shook his head, something aching as he walked towards his son, hearing the gasping breaths the younger took.

"Where are you Charles…?" snarled Connor, leaning his weight against a barrel.

Haytham stepped up behind him. "Gone," he replied steely. Connor whipped around, venom in his expression and Haytham lunged at him (trying to ignore the pain the hate in his son's eyes caused him), uppercutting him in the jaw. Connor stumbled away, falling over the barrel. He fell on his hands and knees, trying to get up.

He couldn't.

He could feel himself slowly fading, could feel his heart slowly failing. He could feel the blood leaking from the wound at his side. He felt the darkness invading his vision.

Damn cannons.

"Get up and fight boy," snapped Haytham, nudging him with his foot. Connor did not move. The older kneeled at his son's side and rolled him over, catiously gripping his blade tighter. Connor's Assassin outfit was stained red, his hands bloodied and the ground beneath him a growing pool. Haytham's eyes widened, the anger faded and he desperately tore at his own cloak, ripping it from himself and tearing strips of it to stop the blood flow.

"Son…" he gasped, smacking lightly at the boy's cheeks. "Come on," He hissed, "Connor." He checked the pulse. It was there; a light flutter beneath Haytham's fingertips. "Connor," he growled, pressing harder at the wound.

Cannons shook the ground around father and son, but Haytham hardly paid them any heed. He lifted his son and hefted him into his arms, holding him against his chest. "I do not care if they are filled with hate," he grumbled, once again checking for his son's pulse, "just please, open your eyes!"

There was nothing beneath Haytham's fingers. His hands started shaking, his breath caught and his chest tightened. He smacked his son's cheek, none too gently. "Dammit, boy!" he snarled, pushing hard on his son's chest. "Open your eyes!" He fervently tried to restart his son's heart, his eyesight beginning to sting and burn.

A sound broke from Haytham Kenway's lips and he clutched his son close to him, burying his head in his shoulder. His shoulders shook and his fingers tightened around Connor's clothes. His entire frame was shaking. Shaking from the force of his sobs and from the realization that he'd never again roll his eyes at how his son didn't understand, how his son would never understand. He'd never again look at this young man and see Ziio reflected in him.

Ziio.

The name was a bullet through Haytham's heart and another sob exited his lips. He'd failed her. He clutched Connor closer, his heart breaking over and over again. He should have been a better father. He should have been there for his son, for Ziio. "Forgive me, Ziio," he choked, squeezing his eyes shut. For the longest time, he stayed like that, clutching his son in his arms.

When at last he leaned back, his eyes were free of tears, but they were free of everything else as well. They were tired and hollow, his hat forgotten on the ground a few paces away and his greying hair framing his face. He looked down at his son with his hollow eyes and kissed his forehead, closing his eyes tightly.

"Forgive me, son," he whispered lightly.