Author's Note: Okay. I felt like my previous attempt at an Assassin's Creed fic was a total fail, so I'm going to base this one on something different. Similar, but different. I'm going to take the game where I wanted it to go. Connor/Haytham-wise, I mean. And, come on. They had to spend more time together than just the cutscenes, so I'm making new ones as well. I'll try to stay in character as much as I can, so any criticisms or advice are welcome. I don't usually ask for this, but read and review, as it is my "first" AC story!

Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Assassin's Creed franchise. I'm just such an obsessive fan that I wrote this story.

Ratonhnhake:ton. Ratonhnhake:ton.

The name went through the boy's mind incessantly. He was aged about five years, already having lost his mother to the worst kind of death imaginable for one so young. Tears never stopped rolling down his dirty cheeks, the crippling ache in his heart never went away.

These feelings would grow with the boy in stature and in strength, and one day, Connor Kenway would become the greatest Assassin colonial America would ever claim.

But he did not yet know it. His journey was only beginning.

The dry, frigid wind blasted Connor in the face. His hood rippled dangerously, and for a moment, he thought it would blow back. A shiver tore through him, and he pulled his arms tighter against his body. The chestnut horse under him snorted and tossed its head.

An abandoned church sat to his left. There were not even windows in the window frames, nor a door at the entrance. The wind blew kernels of snow through these gaps, making it seem like a building did not even stand there. From his vantage point on horseback, the structure looked completely empty to Connor. For a fleeting moment, he thought about turning tail and heading back to Valley Forge to tell Washington that there was nothing to be found of Benjamin Church or the stolen supplies.

However, something inside him urged him to leave his horse and go inside. He couldn't quite classify the feeling, but he heeded it regardless.

White snow crunched under boot soles as the ground took on the Assassin's weight. The wind had eased off by now, breathing only a chilly breeze. The tails of his robes fluttered around him. Connor began to slowly walk towards the entrance of the church. He hesitated when he came to the threshold, then stepped over.

The man lying in wait on the beam above him started with surprise. Breath caught in a tightening throat, and a surge of indecipherable emotion ran through him. Haytham Kenway had expected a few paid mercenaries or even Church himself to waltz into his trap. But certainly not the Assassin called Connor.

Certainly not his son.

Connor stopped only a few feet into the church. He looked to his left and to his right before a feeling of being watched began to claw at him. Under the hood, his ears picked up the soft scuff of boots against wood and the faint rustle of cloth.

It was coming from above.

Quickly, he whipped around and looked up just in time for a man to smash into his chest, knocking him hard onto his back and making all the breath leave his lungs in a cry. He felt no pain, but only a constant pressure on his sternum that kept him pinned to the freezing planks. Plumes of fog indicated his attacker's heavy exhales, and without even seeing his face, Connor knew he was aged. But when he did lay eyes on the man atop him, his plans to struggle ceased.

It was Haytham Kenway, Templar Grandmaster and estranged parent.

"Father." The Assassin's voice held a harsh, biting note. The word alone was one that Connor never thought he would utter to the man himself in all his life. His father had, after all, left his mother in the early stages of pregnancy.

Haytham had to admit that he was taken aback by the first word to come from the mouth of his son. So he had known about his parentage, then. It was, at the same time, rather unfortunate. Killing him would have been much easier if he was none the wiser.

"Connor. Any last words?" he ventured. The difference between the two men's voices could not have been more outstanding. Connor's was a deep, clear, American timbre. Haytham's British tongue was more musical and lilting, albeit still a bass.

The Assassin saw the blade of the Templar and hurried to speak. "Wait!"

"A poor choice," his father replied. Haytham raised his arm to do the deed, and Connor seized his slim chance at freedom. Striking his father in the chest with all of his strength, he caused the man to grunt and stumble back a few steps. Apparently not a quitter, he surged forward again. Connor planted his feet into Haytham's torso and shoved. This time, he nearly fell out the door. The Assassin quickly got to a stand.

Haytham sighed internally and relaxed. His boy was strong; he'd give him that. As Connor began to speak, the two men started to circle one another as lions did when about to clash.

"Come to check up on Church? Make sure he'd stolen enough for your British brothers?" Connor accused angrily, pointing an accenting finger at his father's chest.

Haytham narrowed his eyes, his temper stoked at the alleged connections to such a fool as Church. "Benjamin Church is no brother of mine—no more than the Redcoats or their idiot king," he growled. His anger, however, evaporated as soon as it had materialized. The boy had spent his whole life being brainwashed, so he supposed Connor could not be expected to understand. When Haytham sighed in resignation, words came out with it. "Oh, I expected naiveté, but this?" Turning to face his son again, he continued. "The Templars do not fight for the crown," he clarified, gesturing with his hand. "We seek the same as you, boy! Freedom, justice, independence."

Connor shook his head, not believing him. "But…"

"Hmm?" Haytham challenged, opening his arms. "But what?"

"Johnson. Pitcairn. Hickey." The Assassin built his argument, naming all of his father's close—but now dead—associates. "They sought to steal land, to sack towns, to murder George Washington!" Connor's posture was slightly leaned in the Grandmaster's direction, threatening. He dared his father to put their motives in a light that made the slightest moral sense.

"Johnson sought to own the land, that we might keep it safe," Haytham began, his tone surprisingly patient. "Pitcairn aimed to encourage diplomacy, which you cocked up thoroughly enough to start a god-damned war!" His voice rose, any shred of patience that was once there vanishing. However, like vapor on the wind, his anger disappeared once more. He sighed. "And Hickey?" Haytham gave a slight shake of his head and halfway rolled his eyes, resuming the circling walk. Thomas had been many things, a friend included. But discreet was never one of his qualities. He waved a hand, signaling that he had no real argument for the man's behavior. "George Washington is a wretched leader. He's lost nearly every battle in which he's taken part. The man's wracked with uncertainty and insecurity! Only look at Valley Forge to know my words are true. We're all better off without him."

Connor could not deny Washington's battle reputation, and neither could he defend the state of Valley Forge. But he would never believe that the nation needed a leader with lesser moral qualities, nor would he ever consider the motives of the Templars fueled by good intentions. He could not find the words to voice these opinions, so he merely continued circling.

Haytham sighed. This was one of those moments that, if his tricorne hat were off, he would run his hands through his hair in agitation. "Look," he exhaled tiredly. "Much as I'd love to spar with you, Benjamin Church's mouth is as big as his ego." He paused, noticing that Connor had finally come to a standstill. Clearly, he had his attention. "You clearly want the supplies he's stolen," Haytham continued. "I want him punished. Our interests are aligned," he stated, gesturing inclusively between them.

Connor looked away for a moment, then turned his neck to peer at his father. His face, though mainly expressionless, was laced with skepticism. "What do you propose?" he queried.

Haytham sucked in a quiet breath. It wasn't enough that his son had Ziio's eyes—oh, no! He had to talk like her as well. He didn't care for reminders of the woman he still loved, for it made him miss the feel of her in his arms, her dry sense of humor…everything. Leaving her was the hardest thing that he'd ever done, and it was a testament to how deep his feelings ran. As long as she would be happy, he could deal with being miserable. Haytham's depression had been palpable at first, but time had rubbed salve on the wound. However, at reminders like their son, for God's sake, the pain came like the bite of a whip.

"A truce," he managed casually. "Perhaps…" he trailed off and exhaled. "Perhaps some time together might do us good. You are my son, after all, and might still be saved from your ignorance." Though Haytham did feel a draw to his child, the fact that they hardly knew one another did not escape him, nor did the fact that they were on opposite ends of the political spectrum. To demonstrate this, he popped out his hidden blade and raised it. "I can kill you now, if you prefer," he offered lightly.

Many thoughts ran through Connor's head. Did he trust his father? Absolutely not. Should he? Most likely another no. But, since he was operating completely in the dark with no leads on the whereabouts of the stolen supplies, the Assassin was inclined to agree to the truce. The fact that Haytham had been stationed in the church before he'd even gotten there was evidence enough that the Templar Grandmaster could turn out to be helpful.

Even if his company was unbearable, Connor concluded sourly.

Haytham took his son's lack of reply as an assent. He re-sheathed his blade with a flourish. "Excellent," he crowed, sounding cheerful. Already, Connor was beginning to feel that he had made a mistake. "Shall we be off?" Haytham began to stride towards the outdoors.

Although he had known the location of the church, Connor doubted his father knew where the traitor was located. If he did, he wouldn't be wasting his time here. Still, the Assassin felt the need to rub it in a bit and press the issue.

"Do you even know where Benjamin Church has gone?" Connor asked, his tone condescending.

Facing away from his son, Haytham grimaced. He had been hoping that this topic wouldn't be covered in conversation. Rather, he had hoped there would scarce be conversation of any kind.

"I'm afraid not," he answered truthfully, trying to sound dignified. He folded his arms behind his back and continued. "I was hoping to ambush them here when he or one of his men returned. It seems I'm too late: they've come and cleared the place out." For the first time since he arrived, Haytham realized that he was truly out of luck. He had no idea where to look for Church next. As he studied the snow-laden trees, he sensed that his son was about to say something.

"I may be able to track him," Connor said hesitantly. Haytham turned to look at him, surprised. He had to admit that he'd be impressed if Connor could come up with a trail in this cold wasteland.

Without waiting for a response, Connor stepped out into the snow. There was a broken supply crate a ways away, so he figured he would start there. The Assassin crouched, examining the pieces of broken wood and cargo. When he sniffed, he got wind of medicines, food, and old cloth.

"There were rations inside the crates. Medical supplies and clothing as well," he murmured to himself, not caring whether his father heard. Connor straightened and jogged off. The cold air sliced at his lungs when he began to breathe through his mouth.

A felled tree formed the perfect ramp up to the network of branches and boughs Connor so regularly used. Temptation gnawed at him, but the presence of his father halted him: Haytham probably couldn't follow him if he chose to do it. The Templar Grandmaster didn't know how to climb trees. The Assassin rolled his eyes. He'd climbed his first tree at three years old. Granted, his mother had been with him, but he had climbed it nonetheless.

So Connor remained on the ground, running alongside the faint wagon tracks on the dirt road. They had almost crested a hill when he spotted the snow-buried cart being kicked by a man. He approached.

"Just my luck. I'm going to freeze to death if I don't get this fixed," the man grumbled. His Irish brogue was a bit annoying. He didn't even hear Connor and Haytham come up behind.

"Are you Ben Church's man?" The Assassin asked kindly, folding his hands together. The Irish man whirled around, took in the Templar and Assassin, then sprinted off. Haytham had predicted the outcome as soon as his son had begun to pose the question. He gave a slight shake of his head, and when Connor glanced at him, he looked up.

"Well played," the Templar praised sarcastically. It was clear that Connor didn't know how to handle certain situations.

Connor inhaled sharply, surprised at the frustration he felt. He'd just had a chance to prove to his father that he was a man of skill, but instead he probably saw a timid boy. A growl built in the Assassin's throat as he began to give chase.

Haytham was shocked at his son's speed. If he was being honest with himself, he'd not even run that fast when he was Connor's own age. His prime, however, was long over, and keeping up with the Assassin was proving to be difficult.

By the time Haytham caught up with him, Connor had tackled the man and slammed him against a tree. The Grandmaster put all of his effort into disguising his huffing and puffing. Thoughts that he was out of shape or getting old nagged at him, much to his annoyance.

Connor fisted his hand into the man's jacket. "It was not wise to run."

The Irish man did indeed recognize his mistake, and stuttered out his next words. "What do you want?"

"Where is Benjamin Church?" Connor demanded.

"I don't know!" Church's employee wailed. "We was riding for a camp just north of here; it's where we normally unload the cargo! Maybe you'll find him the—"

A deafening blast cut off the man's last word. A spray of bright red blood arced through the still air as the Irishman fell, a smear of blood staining the tree trunk he'd been pinned against. Connor backed away, putting a hand to his ringing ear.

"Enough of that." Haytham nonchalantly put his flintlock pistol back into its holster as if shooting men in the side of the head were a daily task.

The Assassin rounded on his father. "You did not have to kill him!" he yelled, outraged. His advancing strides caused Haytham to back up, feeling a bit threatened. His son was, after all, bigger than he. Not by much, of course, but still bigger.

"Let's not waste time with all this pointless banter," the Templar replied, irritated. "Go catch up with Church's men. Infiltrate that camp of theirs and see what you can discover." He began to turn away.

"What about you?" Connor questioned. Did his father realistically expect him to do all of the work by himself?

Haytham bristled. "Never you mind," he snapped, looking genuinely offended. "Just do as I ask."

Apparently, that was exactly what he expected.

So, as his lazy father studied the corpse he'd created, Connor trudged off to catch up to Church's convoy.

Ten minutes later, Connor had killed the foreman, three guards, and eavesdropped on two more without being detected. He'd found out that Church was planning a raid and was about to go find his father when two mercenaries appeared, each holding one of Haytham's arms behind his back.

Splendid, Connor thought bitterly from his hiding place. However, his anger turned to a kind of concern when he saw the pain in his father's expression. He was breathing hard; there'd obviously been some kind of struggle, even though it didn't look like he'd been struck. One of the men kicked the back of the Templar Grandmaster's legs, knocking him to his knees.

"Look what we found!" crowed the first guard.

"He was creepin' round the camp all suspicious-like," the other added in a rather nasally voice.

Haytham bared his teeth in a wince as one of them drove a knee into his back, twisting his arms higher simultaneously. He'd definitely be sore the next morning.

"Must be a Yank spy," the nasally guard concluded. Haytham almost rolled his eyes. Instead, he opted to clash gazes with the man that he was being presented to. It was obviously the ringleader.

The man studied him for a moment, then shook his head. "Nah, he's somethin' else, somethin' special. Isn't that right, Haytham?" The Templar narrowed his eyes in mild surprise as putrid breath spat out his name. "Church told me all about you," the man continued arrogantly.

"Then you should know better than this," Haytham interrupted. The ringleader's jaw tightened, nostrils flaring at having his authority challenged by the prisoner. The Grandmaster knew the punch was coming before he'd even cocked his arm back. Come it did, however, and harder than Haytham expected. Pain exploded over his mouth as the fist crushed into his lips. The skin split and allowed blood to pour down his chin. In the cover of the bushes, Connor grimaced as the force of the blow knocked his father's head to the side. It would definitely leave swelling and a bruise. From here, the Assassin almost felt sorry for him.

The guard that had Haytham's right arm pinned used his free hand to grasp the Grandmaster's jaw and jerk his head back up to the ringleader. "You're not really in the position to be makin' threats, are ya?" the man stated, pointing a filthy finger at the Templar's bloodied face.

Haytham was looking around for means of escape when he saw it: Connor's hood expertly camouflaged within some tall shrubbery. He nearly sighed with relief. Rebellious attitude recaptured, he met the ringleader's gaze defiantly.

"Not yet," he taunted. The ringleader rose from his crouch and nodded his head towards a cabin behind. The guards yanked Haytham to his feet, not-so-gently shoving and dragging him until they were close enough to the building to smash him against the wall. Again, the Templar glanced at the bushes. His son, who he knew was watching the whole thing, hadn't moved a muscle. Worry began to grow in the pit of his stomach.

Connor decided to let his father get a bit roughed up. Teach him a lesson, of sorts. After the man in charge drilled the Templar in the gut and then struck him once more in the face, Connor leapt from his cover and ran at the mercenaries, tomahawk drawn.

Before the ringleader could even react, the razor-sharp blade had slit open his throat. He dropped to the ground and gasped a final breath, his life staining the surrounding snow with crimson.

Haytham flexed his arms and shook off the shocked guards, immediately drawing his sword. The sound it made as it slid from its scabbard always filled him with a sort of pleasure. Since he couldn't take the life of the ringleader, he opted instead for the nasally one who had accused him of being a "Yank spy." He had to admit that pushing his blade through the guard's windpipe was the best feeling he'd encountered all day.

The stock of a firearm struck him on the shoulder from behind, and when the Grandmaster turned, he saw that Church's men were swarming into the camp. There must have been at least ten of them, and all were armed with bayoneted muskets. He quickly disposed of two, then paused to watch his son's fighting style.

It was…seamless. Fluid. Beautiful, in a strange sort of way. All of Connor's movements seemed connected and well-planned. It was almost as if he could foresee his opponent's attack before it was made. His kill streaks were quite impressive; the tomahawk was not just a weapon, it was part of him. Within five seconds, the Assassin had downed another three guards. It was abundantly clear that Haytham's assistance wasn't needed, even though more mercenaries were coming to back up the ones getting slaughtered. They all gravitated towards Connor, who was stockpiling bodies in the middle of the cabin. The Templar shrugged, wiped the blade of his sword on a dead man's coattail, and replaced it in the scabbard. He began to stride away.

"Once you've dealt with these louts, meet me in New York!" the Grandmaster called to his son.

"What?! You mean to just leave, now?" Connor shouted, plunging his blade into the nearest man's skull. A spray of blood splashed across the chest of his robes, making him grimace in disgust. He didn't mind the killing part, but when their bodily liquids got all over him, that was where he drew the line.

"If you can't handle a couple of mercenaries," Haytham replied casually, "then we've really no business working together!" With that, he ran off into the white forest.

A couple of mercenaries? Eight more had just added themselves to the original ten! "Unbelievable," Connor hissed under his breath, blocking an axe that was being swung his way. Forcing the mercenary back, he kicked the weapon from his hand and drove a hidden blade between his eyes. As he kept disposing of Church's men, he let his mind wander. It wasn't that he couldn't handle a couple of mercenaries on his own—clearly, he could. But a little help would have been nice.

When the last man fell, Connor glanced at his weapon. The leather handle was slick with blood everywhere except where his hand had been gripping it; there, dried blood adhered his skin to the material, making his fingers stick a bit as he loosened his grip. He couldn't even see the glint of the metal blade underneath all of the red. It was rather convenient that there was a small pond right nearby.

As Connor knelt at the edge of the water, washing his tomahawk and hidden blades, he steamed over how his father had just skipped off into the woods like everything was rainbows and sunshine. Meeting up with him for a second time in New York would be interesting, to say the least.

The Assassin glanced down at his robes, his nose wrinkling at all of the red stains. New York would have to wait, because laundry was coming first.