AN: THERE IS ONLY ONE FIC OF ACHILLES RIGHT NOW WHAT THE HELL PEOPLE *angry face*

I'm rectifying this awful situation. He's awesome and deserves more.

August 3th, 1755

Edward regarded the Mentor with concern as he entered the room. Achilles was sitting at his table as always, a map open in front of him and a stack of documents set to the side. He was usually such a strong presence, so sure of himself and ironclad in his convictions. He was a terrific fighter, and well read, holding the absolute respect of everyone in the Brotherhood. They couldn't have asked for a better Mentor.

But today he seemed an entirely different man. His shoulders were slumped, defeated. His eyes lacked their usual luster, that vision of a better future for himself, his family, and all who lived upon this new land of opportunities. Edward couldn't blame him after what had happened, of course. Not so soon afterwards. It had only been two days ago that the Mentor's son had fallen to the same Fever that took his mother three weeks prior. Achilles will recover, he was a strong man; but for now, now he grieves.

"Mentor?" Edward stepped forward, knocking softly on the doorframe to announce his presence. Not that he needed to around the perceptive Assassin, but he felt that Achilles may need some time to gather himself today.

"Yes? What is it?" The response sounded tired. The man looked up at Edward, and he could almost see the Mentor steeling himself, shutting away the emotions for another time. Edward felt a flash of guilt- maybe they can leave Achilles out of this for now. Deal with it themselves.

But it was too big. They needed Achilles's guidance.

"We've confirmed the identity of the man who freed the natives from Silas."

When the Assassins had learned of this, it had caused quite a stir. They themselves had been in the midst of planning a rescue when they learned that another faction had already done so, disposing of Silas in the process. (And good riddance) They had been trying to find out who it had been ever since. They had operated in a manner not unlike the Assassins themselves and such a mystery was not to be ignored.

Achilles waved his hand, gesturing for Edward to continue.

"It was Haytham Kenway sir, according to Kaniehtí:io."

Ah, Ziio. She was a native woman who worked at fighting the British encroaching upon her people's lands, despite her tribe's neutrality. The Assassins have worked with her before, and they had worked hard for her trust. It was not something easily gained

Achilles' thought shifted as he suddenly processed that first name. Haytham Kenway. He was the Templar who had killed the Assassin Miko, and stolen a precursor artifact from the Brotherhood. Faulkner had managed to faked the death of the Aquila after failing to chase Haytham across the Atlantic, so it had been a partial victory for the Assassins, but the Templar remained very much alive and the artifact still in his hands.

Haytham had been in the colonies for a year now, but tracking him was hard. The man came on and off the radar, never staying within sight for long. He was well trained, it seems.

"He also took part in the attack on Braddock's expedition. He was the one to fatally wound Braddock."

"Really?" Now there was a puzzle. Braddock was a known Templar. Was there infighting amongst them? A betrayal? "Do we know why?"

"I believe he was trying to gain the natives' trust. Why, I do not know, but it seemed to have worked. Kaniehtí:io says he was looking for a place which he had the key too. She brought him to a possible location, and stayed with him for many weeks later. He didn't seem to find what he was looking for."

A place which he had the key to. The precursor artifact? Achilles had been briefed on the subject from a letter that came from the London chapter of the Brotherhood, but they didn't dare put enough information on the letter. It was a mystery he'd have to solve himself it seems.

"Do we have any leads on where he is?"

Edward nodded.

"In fact, I came to ask permission to send a team out. Jean tracked one of Haytham's allies after the expedition to a tavern in Boston."

A risky move for Jean, who was enlisted in the French army. If they thought him a deserter, then things will get much harder for the man's life. Edward saw the frown on Achilles' face.

"Don't worry, we dealt with it. As far as the records are concerned, he left his commission two months ago. As for Boston…?"

Achilles nodded.

"Yes…I suppose we should. We can't lose this lead now. Go, and find out what the Templars want with this land."

August 15th, 1763

Achilles studied the wall in the room hidden in the basement, five portraits of their enemies hanging there.

It had been eight years since he had lost his wife and only son to the Fever. Though time had dulled the pain, it never went away. He still remembered that first group he had sent to Boston shortly after the death of his family. It was the last time anyone saw of the Assassins that went. Whoever this Haytham was, he was a formidable opponent.

Then came a lull in the Templar's power. Their Grand Master had left the colonies, heading back back to Europe. It was then that the Assassins chose to strike. They found out the identities of several important Templars, silencing a few. They raided hideouts, cut off contacts. They had been sure that they could eradicate then-weak Templar presence from the New World- until Haytham returned.

Since then, the Grand Master had gone on a focused campaign to purge the colonies of the Assassins, as the Assassins had tried to do with the Templars. Under Haytham's command, the Templars were succeeding.

Every day the bad news came. Another Assassin dead or missing. An ally turning away, too scared to work with them any longer. Achilles worked hard to keep the Brotherhood together all around him, but he was failing them.

Edward had been wrong; he wasn't strong enough. The death of his family had broken his will. Without them at his side, he wasn't sure what he was fighting for anymore. Why he was fighting at all. Once, he wanted a world where his family would live freely, regardless of the colour of their skin- but what did it matter now? The Templars left messages for the Assassins here and there. Explaining their ideals, what they were striving for. And they were…reasonable.

And so the Brotherhood crumbled all about him and with it his confidence in the fight.

There were only a few Assassins left now. It was only a matter of time that the Templars learned of the homestead. The Brotherhood was beaten.

With a sigh Achilles covered up the wall and the portraits with a wooden board.

As he turned towards the staircase, he couldn't help but stop and look back. There, in the middle of the room, were the robes. A white and blue jacket, a red sash under a metallic symbol of the Brotherhood and that characteristic hood. Achilles still remembered clearly the day his wife, Abigail, had proudly presented it to him. She had worked on it for many weeks, keeping it a secret until it was done.

"For Connor." She had exclaimed proudly, holding it up. Achilles had laughed, amused by her enthusiasm. Their son Connor had only been five years old at the time, after all. Oh, how he had loved her. She was so brave, willingly walking into this world of blood and shadows alongside him. She supported him in everything he did. With her gone and his will crumbling, he thought that maybe she had been the sole source of his strength.

Achilles found himself standing before the robes, running a hand over those seams closed by Abigail's hands. He could feel her work in the fabric, her dedication, her attention to detail, her love for her son. Achilles himself had considered wearing these, but the thought was too painful. He would never be able to live with the constant reminder of what could have been.

Looking down, Achilles saw the box that lay by the base of the robes. He had played along with his wife's idea, commissioning a pair of hidden blades for his son. So that everything would be waiting for him when he was ready to step into this world of Assassins and Templars.

Achilles turned back on the robes and the blades then, heading up the stairs. There was little use on dwelling on the past now, not with the present falling apart all around him.

And Achilles found that he didn't care.

October 5th, 1769

Achilles pulled on the candelabra and the wall opened, a small smile coming to his lips as he heard the little native boy gasp in surprise. He made his way down the stairs slowly, painfully. The injuries he had taken when the Templars captured him six years ago had never fully healed.

The boy seemed awkward, likely wondering if he should give the old man assistance or keeping a respectable distance. He had a good heart, though he was stubborn to a fault. Achilles only took him in because it had become very clear this "Ratonhnhaké:ton" was not going to leave any time soon.

What a surprise, to hear that his mother was Kaniehtí:io! Achilles was sad to hear of her death in a fire nine years prior. Of more interest however, was the boy's father. The boy knew little of Haytham, except his name and the few stories his mother could share about the enigmatic man. Achilles had not been gentle in revealing Haytham's place in this war of Assassins and Templars. Ratonhnhaké:ton took it pretty well, all things considering.

Achilles reached the floor of the hidden room for the first time in years. He cast his glance around the old, dusty room before walking over to the desk under the wall he had covered up so many years prior. He set his lantern down, its light as well as the natural light filtering through a window in the armoury illuminating the room.

Achilles heard the boy behind him and he turned, seeing Ratonhnhaké:ton examining the robes, then bending down to reach for the box that contained the hidden blades. The hidden blades meant for Connor. He felt a sudden flare of anger rise within him, and he walked forward, smacking the boy's hands before they could pick up the box.

"Don't think you can just come in here, throw those on and call yourself an Assassin." There was an edge in his voice, and Ratonhnhaké:ton could hear it. How dare he, coming in here on the words on some spirit, knowing nothing about this conflict and deciding that he was going to somehow make things right, that, he could just become an Assassin and save the world. Could try to take Connor's place.

The boy moved away from the robes, chastised.

"I- I did not…I would never presume…" Ratonhnhaké:ton was at a loss for words, obviously sorry and scared that he had offended Achilles. His anger died at the sincerity of those words. His anger had no grounding, was simply some vestige of his grief lashing out.

"It's alright. I know they've a certain…allure…"

He walked around the boy, examining him. He was well built, strong. He had shown great prowess in battle, fighting with the ferocity of a cornered dog. He was determined, fearless, and had some naïve vision of a better future. He had the drive to do whatever it took to protect his people. He had all the qualities Achilles would have once prized in a new recruit.

"Very well. I'll train you. Then we'll know if you have the right to wear those robes…"

Was he actually considering? Achilles was surprised at himself. Was he going to allow this child to take up the mantle he had once left his own son? He still wasn't sure, didn't know why he didn't simply throw Ratonhnhaké:ton out of the house right now.

But he didn't.

March 5th 1770

The boy was so enthusiastic about the city that Achilles had to hide his smile. It was the first time Ratonhnhaké:ton had entered a large European settlement it seems.

"This place is incredible!" The boy exclaimed happily, going on to explain how he could explore here for days. How much life and opportunity he thought was here. He was so…innocent. Naïve. So blissfully ignorant of how the world actually is. Was it a bad thing, Achilles wondered? What will happen to this boy when his black-and-white view of the world gets shattered? Maybe if things had gone differently, Achilles would be the same as him today.

"There a store close to here." Achilles began to explain, the reason they had come to Boston being to buy supplies to fix up the manor. "You're to buy the items on this list. Tell them where the carriage is and they'll see that it's loaded."

Ratonhnhaké:ton seemed to be barely paying attention as he tucked the shopping list away, his attention still fixed on the sights and sounds of the busy street about him.

"Understood?" Achilles pressed and Ratonhnhaké:ton started, his attention back on his mentor.

"Yes."

There was also another problem that Achilles had spent the entire carriage here debating to himself about. He explained as he handed the money to the boy.

"Good. You're also going to need a new name. You skin is fair enough that you might pass for one with Spanish or Italian blood. Better to be thought a Spaniard than a Native. And both are better still than I."

He didn't know why he put that last part in. Some part of the bitterness that had first driven him into the Brotherhood perhaps. Maybe it was because he was back in the city again, where he could almost feel the way the passing people were looking down on him. In this land of opportunities, it seemed to exist only for a select few.

"That is not true."

Ratonhnhaké:ton's words caught Achilles by surprise and he couldn't help but smile. Naïve indeed.

"What's true and what is aren't always the same." His words lacked the bitterness and edge of his previous lines though. It was softened by the sincerity of the boy's own words. The boy really did believe in a world of freedom and equality.

"What would you call me then?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked.

Achilles hesitated. If he decided to do this, then…then what? Does it mean that he would have moved on from the death of his family? The last six months he has spent with Ratonhnhaké:ton had been…enjoyable. It was like the house had come to life again, and Achilles didn't know how much he missed that feeling of…of what?

Of being together with his family. That was what the boy had given him. A son once more to watch over, to guide and feel pride in his accomplishments. What a priceless thing Ratonhnhaké:ton had provided him.

"Connor. Yes, that will be your name."

AN: The reason for the title of this fic is in the dates. Connor Davenport died in 1755, the year Ratonhnhaké:ton was conceived.

And no, there wasn't really a point to this fic except that I felt there was need of Achilles stories.

Though Haytham was Connor's Father, and maybe could have been a great father if circumstances had allowed, Achilles was his real "dad"