Prologue

Alone, but not Really

Haytham felt his life shatter into a million pieces.

Smoke. Shouts. Swords. Blood. Mother, and sister and father.

Father. Stabbed in the chest, torn away from him forever, returning only as a nightmare. Pain, more than Haytham thought he could handle, and more than he thought he'd have to bear at ten.

Because he turned ten just a week ago, didn't he? Father would have told him what he was training for, and he always had that smile when he said Haytham would receive a present.

A small, childish part of him wanted to pretend that night never happened. To wake up again and hear his Father say happy birthday, son, follow me. He wanted to pick up the shards of his life and put them back together.

But he couldn't. And he didn't know how to deal with the emotions welling up in his chest.

There was nobody he could talk to: his father was dead (dead, gone forever), his sister taken away who-knew-where, and his mother refused to talk to him. She saw him kill a man, but it was for her sake, wasn't it? Surely she would look at him again, right?

When he'd return home after this travel with Reginald Birch (who he didn't feel comfortable with yet), surely she'd give him the same comfort she offered before that night, right?

They were travelling to a place in France, he had said. A place where he could learn, train, and eventually avenge his family. Because Father wasn't the only one dead – Haytham could almost picture a part of himself burning to ashes, like his home did.

Then, looking at Britain's fading coasts from the railing of the ship, Haytham felt someone watching him.

He ignored whoever was doing it until the feeling of his (her?) eyes on his back made him squirm from sheer intensity.

Haytham turned his head at the watcher to his right and blinked. Who was that man?

He was easily the biggest man the boy had ever seen, and probably the darker skinned. Or maybe it was just because of the shadows his white hood casted on his face. He also had at least a ton of weapons weighting on his broad shoulders, and the most curious decorations here and there on his clothing. Its stark white made Haytham wonder how it was possible that man hadn't been noticed.

The man was still staring, almost as if he was trying to read his thoughts.

Haytham blurted the first thing that came to his mind. "Who are you?"

The hooded man tilted his head, and Haytham noticed his dark eyes and the tiny braid hanging on the right side of his face. He seemed to think about his answer. "Connor. And you?"

"Haytham-" he almost told his middle name – Father's name – but his throat suddenly closed up. "…Haytham… Kenway."

Connor's expression turned even more undecipherable. Then that moment passed and he said, almost too casually- "It is unusual for someone so young to travel by ship. Where are you going?"

"…He said I shouldn't tell."

"Who is 'he'?" Connor looked a little too curious to know, and Haytham found himself hesitating. His father hadn't done anything and they killed him. What if someone heard and they killed Birch, too?

"I-"

"Haytham, who are you talking to?"

The boy turned around, not expecting his father's friend sneaking up behind him. He glanced once at Connor – who stared blankly at him, not helping in the slightest – and Birch still had a suspicious frown. "Uh… I saw someone."

He glanced repeatedly at Connor, hoping that Birch would get the obvious hint. The older man looked right where Connor was, but he didn't seem to see him. "…Sure. Just don't talk to strangers, or you'll get yourself in danger."

The suspicious air around him suddenly vaporized and he managed a tiny smile. "Dinner will be served in five minutes, Haytham – follow me."

Resisting the urge to look back at Connor, Haytham followed Birch below deck.

Over the brief voyage to France, the hooded man kept watching him.

Haytham continued glancing around him, looking for signs that he wasn't the only one that could see Connor – it would speak volumes of his mental state if he was. Birch sure didn't seem to notice the huge hooded man.

So Haytham mostly tried to keep an eye on the man without speaking to him, and Connor seemed to be more than alright with that. They watched each other everywhere around the ship, and still did when they docked in France.

But after the nightmares that plagued his sleep recently, Haytham would accept just about any kind of comfort.

He gasped quietly as he woke, drenched in sweat and shaking. He could swear his mother was still watching him through shocked eyes, his sister still screaming at her kidnappers, his father still bleeding out on the floor and the flames rising higher and higher and higher-

Two hands settled on his shaking shoulders and Haytham tried to tear himself from them, but the man just wouldn't let him away.

"Why-"

"I understand."

Haytham stopped altogether his attempts to leave. "What?" he asked shakily.

For a moment he thought Connor wasn't going to answer, then- "The nightmares. The fire." He tightened his hold slightly, as if replaying it in his mind's eye. "The death."

The younger boy sagged in his arms. "You, too?"

Connor nodded, although Haytham could only feel it by leaning on his chest. He wasn't an hallucination, he dimly thought. Hallucinations don't feel solid, do they? They don't feel warm, either.

Haytham didn't feel like telling what had happened, and Connor quietly offered his comfort and understanding for the rest of the night until Birch came knocking on the room's door and announced they were leaving.

"…Thank you."

Connor just nodded again and followed the boy out of the inn.

I had an idea. I wrote said idea. I liked the idea. If you do as well, I will continue ;)