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Chapter Text

"Wake up, Father, wake up!" Haytham's voice was insistent in his father's ear, and Edward rolled over drowsily.

He'd been dreaming he was sailing to meet all his old friends: Mary, Thatch, Ben, even Jack and Vane and hapless Stede. They were going to have a grand party, Mary was telling him, with barrels of rum for everyone, and then they were going to sit around and braid Thatch's beard with pretty ribbons. Edward didn't want to miss out on the fun. "Go tell your mother."

"I can't, Father, wake up." Edward realized that Haytham's voice was not high-pitched and childlike, but adult. So: Haytham visiting from the future, visible and tangible only to him.

"Haytham, son, I'm tired. What hour of the morning is it?" Edward rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

"The most important one. You must hurry, get your sword." Haytham cocked his head. "Listen, they just killed Thatch."

"Thatch?" Edward asked, confused.

"The dog," was Haytham's exasperated reply.

"I have--"

"There's five of them," his son interrupted, his words brisk and clipped. "They've killed the guards and they're trying to get your book. I'm afraid that's my fault; I let slip to Birch where it might be. You had better wake Mother, they'll try to kill her too." He paused a moment, his face contorted oddly.

"Birch? What? Tessa?" Edward was already pulling on his trousers. "I wish you could help me."

"I will," promised Haytham, then vanished before his father could ask about his stricken expression.

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Edward stared blearily at his visitor. "Feel like getting me out of this?" he croaked. He'd been gibbeted again, burning in the sun, shivering all night, and the less said about his bladder, the better.

It was the man with the hat, whose name and face remained a mystery to Edward. "I've no need to," and he pointed to a rustling patch of vegetation.

After being freed, and given his Hidden Blades, Edward didn't see his visitor again until he'd spoken some few words over the gibbeted skeleton wrapped in garish tatters that had been Jack Rackham. "What is your aim here?" the hat man asked, with his posh London accent.

"To rescue Mary and Anne," Edward answered, tightening a buckle on his blade.

"Who are they to you?"

"Two of my three living friends," Edward said, defensively. Who was this man to assume and presume? "And near their terms, if I'm counting right."

"Carry on, then." He gestured, blade extended, to an angry guard. Edward killed the guard, killed the quartet following, but his strength was beginning to flag. He entered the prison itself, barely able to raise his arms.

Then, disoriented, he saw himself, a blur of steel and rags, dispatch the next guards efficiently. Startled, he just gawped at his visitor, wearing his body, killing as easily as breathing. His style was different--much less ball-kicking, for one--yet Edward could not but be thankful for the man who had stepped in when his own strength faltered.

Before he knew it, he was standing in front of Mary's cell door, and he could tell by the blood and gore inside that something was terribly wrong. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and heard a whisper of "Good luck," as he broke in.

After Ah Tabai rowed Anne off, Edward stared dully at their retreating boat. "She was an Assassin," he told the visitor. It was inconsequential, now, but the only comment he could muster from the devastation he felt.

"That's no cause to kill a woman in such a fashion." He sounded affronted, the man in the hat.

"You're not one, too?"

He was quiet for so long that Edward thought he'd disappeared. "I am sometimes mistaken for one."

"So'm I." He heaved a sigh. "Think I'll kill 'em all."

"It won't make up for your friend."

"It's something to do. Doesn't have to be sensible."

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Desmond rubbed his stinging jaw as he stomped off to a corner to sulk. The corner was occupied, by probably the person he least wanted to see.

"You!"

"Indeed."

"You're a Templar!"

Haytham frowned. "You are perspicacious."

"How could I be descended from another Templar?!" Desmond raged.

A half-shrug, mocking in understatement. "I believe you saw more of that than either of us wanted you to--"

"I didn't know you were a Templar!"

"I didn't know you were my descendant." Haytham crossed his arms across his chest. "So many assassins visiting, and so few that I could kill."

"Life is so hard."

"On a related note, that man is your father?"

Desmond nodded. "William Miles. The Mentor."

Haytham rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. "My descendant as well? A pity."

"A pity?"

"I'd kill him for his parenting alone, otherwise."

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Shay was unprepared to find Edward in such a situation, up to the elbows in--literally--shit, and whistling happily. "This is the child everyone tells me you're so proud of?"

Edward looked up at him, grinned, and got squirted in the face for his troubles. "Little bugger! Look, Shay, isn't he amazing? Those tiny hands, and those fat little legs--well, hold on, his legs look pretty bad right now." He returned to his work, attempting to make his son presentable.

Shay politely looked away, especially since the boy seemed to be staring at him. "If this is a bad time, I'll go wait outside the door--"

"Nah, nah, don't worry about it. Look! All clean! Yes you are, little man, you're all clean for our guest!" Edward continued in this vein for a while as he buttoned the infant back into his gown. "Isn't he something?"

Shay smiled a little. "Aye, that he is, a handsome little lad."

"Did you hear that, Haytham? You're handsome, yes you are!" Luckily Edward was looking into baby Haytham's eyes at that moment, and didn't see Shay nearly choke and die of an apoplexy. This was Haytham? His Grand Master was the son of a pirate--not just any pirate, but Edward? Edward who loved to hang out on the Morrigan and stand behind Gist, repeating everything Shay's first mate said in an extra-pompous voice and with a stupid face?

It shocked Shay--he knew that his superior was the same as any other man in many ways, of course he'd been a baby once, of course he had bodily functions, of course he'd been with a woman (scarring Desmond for life, apparently), but Shay still revered him, didn't dwell on such mundane things in connection with Haytham Kenway. Yet here he was, pissing in his father's face like any other baby boy, giggling now that he was clean and amused by his father's goofy expressions.

Shay had nothing to say, so he just stared. Edward looked up and took pity on him. "Don't worry, man, one day you'll have one of your own and you'll see what it's like." He smiled easily, as if he'd forgotten that he was an Assassin and Shay a Templar, that they should have no connection, no point of reference to build a friendship on, no wish for the friendship in the first place. "I swear, it's almost like he can see you fellows! He was staring at Connor just last week. Strange, huh?"

"Strange indeed."

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His bones ached with the weight of him, the muscle and the height of him, and he was no longer limber and flexible as he had been. But he was still the Mentor, and he still lived at the Homestead, alone now for many years. Like Achilles, he'd moved into a bedroom on the first floor, so he only had a couple of steps to hobble down to sit in the morning sunshine.

The turkeys were impatiently begging for the corn he always kept in his pocket for them when he saw another man sitting beside him--another old man, black-robed. He'd rarely seen him this old, but he'd have known him anywhere, from his eyes and his hand. "Altaïr."

"Connor."

Another visitor appeared on his left, less wizened, but with hair of pure white. "Ezio?"

"The very same."

They sat for some time, talking of their youth and feeding the turkeys. Altaïr's English was much better than it used to be (he gave his wife all the credit for her patient instruction) and Ezio, too, had picked up the language, but the odd bit of Arabic or Italian or Kanien'keha slipped in. They'd been friends now for so long that they could understand each other no matter the language.

One by one, the others slipped in, and Connor didn't even complain when his father and grandfather, the youngest-looking of the group save Desmond, elbowed Altaïr and Ezio out of the way to sit right beside him on the bench.

It was a fine fall day, just a hint of chill in the air that caught at Connor's chest with every breath. Ezio was telling Edward about some courtesans he'd known many years ago, and Shay was asking Aveline about her family. Desmond was cracking jokes that nobody else entirely understood, and Altaïr smiled benevolently at them all.

"I fear this is the last time I will see you all," Connor confides to his father.

"Great Assassins always die sitting up," Edward tells him breezily. "When they die of natural causes, that is. You two, Mary, um..."

"Achilles," Connor murmurs.

Shay laughs. "I haven't seen that happen much."

"You are not a natural cause," Aveline teases.

Haytham puts his arm around Connor's shoulders. "I should have seen you come into the world," he tells him, and he's the last one to wink out, an hour later, when the turkeys come into Connor's lap to peck the last of the corn from his pockets.

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Edward saw the little boy perched on the boulder, and almost called him Connor, he was so dark. But no, this was Desmond, deeply tanned from what looked like a summer's worth of sun, and Edward felt like thrashing Desmond's parents for letting him run around on his own at such a tender age. "Desmond!" he called. "That rock's no good for sitting."

Desmond looked at him, then away, firmly. "Mom says you guys are imaginary friends," he informed Edward.

"What's an imaginary friend?" Edward asked, approaching the boulder cautiously.

"Not real."

"I'm as real as you."

"That's what Ratonhnhake:ton said."

"Ra-donk-a-what?" Edward realized a moment too late that that must be Connor's real name. "Oh, right, Ra--Ra--"

Desmond giggled. "Ratonhnhake:ton, silly. He's real, I know he is! And he said that this land all really belongs to the Indians, and his mother told him not to talk to white men digging." He pointed to a cluster of equipment and white people on the facing hillside, right where Desmond could spy on them.

"What are they doing down there?" Edward wondered.

"Digging up a dinosaur," was Desmond's prompt answer. "A really important one."

"What's a dinosaur?" Edward asked, just as the gravel under the boulder gave way. Leaping into Desmond's body, he jumped for a ledge he'd seen, clinging to it with Desmond's fingers until the gravel slide subsided. Then, letting a shaking Desmond have his own body back, Edward shepherded him back down the hill to safety.

Desmond didn't tell his parents about any more of his 'imaginary' friends, and Edward never found out about dinosaurs.

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"Stop staring," Aveline chided. "You act as if you've never seen silk stockings before."

Shay blushed deeply and turned to face the wall of her dressing chamber. "I have, just, you... usually, with skirts covering them."

She laughed. "I'm only dressing up to go kill a man."

"Well, that puts a damper on the mood."

"I wasn't aware there was a mood." She began to tighten her corset with practiced fingers. At least she'd managed to have one made that she could handle the lacing of without assistance.

"My lady Aveline, you can't help but cause a mood in any man around you. I'm just lucky enough not to be killed for it."

She smiled at his turned back, then shimmied into her gown, the black and red, and for a fleeting moment she wished he could escort her to the party. They'd make such a fetching couple in their matching clothes--

No. She had a job to do, and no doubt a job he'd interfere with, if he could. Any thoughts otherwise were an unwelcome distraction. "All right, you can look," she chirped, getting into character as she began arranging her hair.

Shay looked as if he'd been run over by a carriage in the street, and that let Aveline know she'd done her job well. Now for her target...

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Connor found himself in a dark hallway, rather musty if truth be told. He recognized it as Edward's London house, and looked around for him, finding instead a small boy looking hopefully at him. "Are you one of Father's friends?"

He knelt down to the boy's level, offering a slight smile. "I am."

The boy clapped with delight, then grabbed Connor's hand, ignoring the involuntary flinch. "Have you seen my sister's guinea pig?" He began tugging Connor, leading him through sumptuous hallways. "I've always wanted to have a friend of my own," he chattered. "It's just me and Jenny, Mother and Father. I wanted to play with the other children, but they're not allowed to play with me. Look!" He let go of Connor's hand to clutch at a cage of wood and wire, and when he smiled with delight, Connor was unsurprised to recognize his father by his eyes.

The guinea pig was a fat, fluffy little creature, given to squealing loudly when Haytham addressed it. This delighted him to no end, and he and Connor spent some time with the furry little lump, until Jenny stormed into her room, threatening her brother with her best tapestry needle, and he took off.

Haytham was alone by the time he returned to his back hallway, but he hummed cheerfully to himself as he picked up his toy soldiers. He'd made a friend of his own.

Chapter Text

Almost everyone reacted as expected.

Altaïr was the first to find out, in the hazy afterglow of their third assignation, in a smugglers' den out in the Bayou. He merely smiled wryly at them, then left the little hut and busied himself outside until he disappeared. Shay vanished soon afterwards, leaving Aveline to clean up and straighten her clothes, a smile sneaking out when she wasn't paying attention.

Edward saw them next, in the Morrigan's cabin, and cheered them on. Ezio feigned heartbreak. Desmond covered his eyes and whispered, "Why me? Why a cave? Why did you have to screw in a cave?" Connor stalked as far away as he could manage, looking disapproving.

Haytham--in the flesh--surprised Shay by bodily hauling him from the dense brush where he and Aveline had been kissing and touching. "What do you think you're doing, Shay? She's an Assassin! Do you know what this means?"

Shay's mouth worked for a minute, and he tried to discreetly wipe away excess saliva. "I do, actually."

"No, you don't!" His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "She's the stepdaughter of Madeleine de L'Isle in New Orleans. Remember? The Chichen Itza project?"

Shay blinked. "All right..."

"No, it's not all right. Right now, she's a child, whom her stepmother hopes to bring into the Templar Order. It's bad enough that I know she'll fail. But now, I can't even kill--"

Shay realized that he had extended his blades. "She's--"

Haytham snapped, "She's unacceptably close to an important Templar, and now a problem that I can't even take care of." Shay tried not to roll his eyes at the hypocrisy. As if Haytham was going to kill his own "problem".

"Take care of?" Aveline asked, strolling over to them. It had taken some minutes to rearrange her corset and dress.

Haytham bristled. "I had planned to kill you, in time."

She smiled coolly. "If you could." She pulled a leaf out of her hair, gracefully. "I only stay my blade from you as a favor to a friend."

He scoffed. "What friend?" She eyed him for a moment, then smiled, but said nothing. Haytham's impatience got the better of him; he truly had no desire to keep the two of them from the carnal activities they so obviously wished to return to. "... Very well, then. A truce?"

She considered him, unconsciously leaning into Shay's shoulder. "You make truces with Assassins?" She meant, other than your father and your son.

Haytham snorted. "I have made one with Altaïr. Implausible as I might once have thought that."

She smiled her charming smile and extended her hand daintily. "A truce, then."

Shay hadn't realized, but he'd placed his hand protectively behind her back at some point. He could smell her, sweat and leather and steel and the sweet scent of her hair, and he realized he wanted nothing more than to take her back into hiding and undo all that careful corset re-lacing. He looked up from his contemplation of what he could see of her corset, blushing as he met Haytham's eyes. "Grand Master, I--"

"Shay. I will expect you in an hour, properly attired and ready for Templar business." Haytham turned on his heel and stalked off, pretending he didn't see exactly where Shay's hand had grasped Aveline to pull her close.

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Edward found himself staring at a small table, lit by a single candle. On one side sat Connor, on the other an elderly woman who had obviously been very beautiful once. Both stared assiduously at their plates as they mechanically consumed a simple, but delicious-looking, supper. Snow whirled outside the windows, rendering the light dreary and strained. Edward could tell this was not a pleasant meal, and the last thing he wanted to do was draw Connor's attention to himself.

"He would have been sixty," the woman said eventually. Connor made a pained face. "Father's been dead fifty years," she added gloomily. Connor didn't reply for some minutes, so she continued. "Do you know, Father used to have these... guests, I think he called them? Nobody else could see them. But one of them told him I needed a map of a palace in Istanbul, and gave him one." She fiddled with her utensils. "And... I did need it. Or... when I was... imprisoned there... the map was correct."

She lifted her eyes to Connor's impassive face, and tears glistened on her cheeks. "Father never went to Turkey. How could he possibly know? How could anyone know, then, where I would end up, that I might need to know this?"

Edward nearly fell when Connor replied, "I do not know, Aunt Jenny." This, this was Edward's beautiful daughter? He'd gotten the map from Ezio, who'd been so insistent that he needed to pass it on to her, so Edward had taken pen to paper and drawn what Ezio showed him. What was Jenny doing there, why had she been imprisoned? He staggered, feeling like he'd taken a punch to the guts.

Jenny's voice was bitter as she continued, "I used to think he made up his guests. Now I wonder why they came to him, but never came to me." She tore her bread into many small pieces. "It seemed a game that he and Haytham played, but when Haytham lay sick in bed after I killed Birch, he talked to Father constantly. Now I wonder if Father had become his guest." She looked up into Connor's eyes. "And, I believe, he talked to you, though you were at the time but a babe in arms."

Connor sighed heavily. "What do you wish me to say, Aunt Jenny? All is as you have surmised. And Grandfather sits with us even now."

Jenny nearly dropped the cup she had raised to drink from. "Truly?"

Connor nodded. "And I know of no other who knows about the visitors without being able to see them. You are unique."

She scoffed. "Much good it does me. I would rather have my father and brother than be party to their secret."

And just like that, Edward was in his own house again, crying silently about the suffering that would turn his spoilt, willful daughter into the embittered woman he'd seen.

Chapter Text

The camp had been right on top of an alligator nest, practically, and Aveline wondered dimly how none of the damn fools had been eaten. She herself had been taken by surprise; having cleared out the camp, she had made for her canoe, only to literally trip over the mother alligator. Aveline had prevailed, but at a cost, and her arm had been badly bitten. The jagged tear went through flesh and muscle, and she was growing weak from blood loss. Staggering towards the rude hut whose occupants she had just killed, she collapsed heavily against it.

What a time for a visitor, especially a Templar, especially this Templar. Shay crouched over her, eyebrows drawn together in concern. "Aveline? Can you hear me?"

"Oui, I hear you..." she murmured, eyes fluttering closed.

"This won't do," he insisted, and she was about to argue, only to find herself thrown from her body, watching herself rummage in the minimal supplies.

Shay felt wretched possessing Aveline's body, but she was close to death and--he wasn't sure, it wasn't like he'd never killed Assassins before, but he didn't want to watch her bleed out from some kind of animal bite. His (her?) head pounded as he found a needle and grimy thread, and he cursed at the filth of it all, but it was better than nothing.

Her shredded shirt offered no protection to her arm and kept getting in his way, so he unwound the belts and scarves from her (his) waist, fumbled with buckles, and finally managed to pull the bloodied garment off, leaving her in just--

oh

Women's underthings were not something he was entirely expert on, but he was glad that she had something that served to, ah, rein things in. Otherwise he would have...would have seen...it didn't matter anyway, he was only trying to help save her life, forcing the (dammit, rusty) needle through her skin to draw the tattered edges of flesh together. He thought the blood was flowing a little slower, hopefully not from nearing death. He found a broken tooth in the wound, and yanked it out. Selecting a scarf that had been around her waist, he wrapped the wound, securing it with a belt. And, exhausted, he nearly fell out of her body.

Aveline had watched him with a small smile curving her lips. She'd not expected this kind of solicitude, certainly not from a Templar. But Shay was different and she was touched, gazing up into his face as he checked her pulse. She knew it was weak, but from the relief on his face, strong enough. She reached for his hand, squeezing it as he sat beside her, and she lay down, head in his lap, holding her crudely but effectively doctored arm out to the side as she abruptly fell asleep.

Chapter Text

"So, Shay, your next target is..." Haytham scowled. "Pay attention!"

"I am, Grand Master," Shay insisted, but his eyes kept flicking to the corner of his cabin.

"I don't care if all six of our visitors are dancing naked over there--"

Shay snickered. "Pardon me, sir. I can't imagine Altaïr or Connor would ever do that. Or you," he added quickly.

Haytham rolled his eyes. "Well, obviously I would not. And I agree that my son, at least, would have the self-respect--that is not the point, however."

Shay tried, he valiantly tried, not to burst into guffaws. "I'm very sorry, sir. She's just--"

Haytham groaned. "It's Aveline, is it?"

Shay nodded, trying to quell his smile. "Aye, sir, she's--"

"No details, please. I know she is quite...forward with you, but I would prefer not to be a part of--"

"No, sir," and he couldn't help but let out an odd, snorting laugh. "She's not--I mean--" It got to be too much, and he collapsed with laughter.

"What?" Haytham nearly yelled.

"Your...your hat, sir. On top of your hat." Tears were streaming down his cheeks, now, from repressing guffaws. "It looks absurd."

Haytham sighed, reached up, and removed Aveline's hat from atop his, then addressed her, still not turning around. "You would think a skilled Assassin like yourself would not resort to such childish pranks."

Her voice was mirthful behind him. "Are you so afraid of me that you can't even bear the sight of me fully clothed?"

Haytham turned around and held out her hat. "One never knows, does one, when you're in such close proximity to your lover."

She smiled and cast her eyes to Shay--he had fallen out of his chair and was holding his stomach--and her smile became tender enough that Haytham felt embarrassed to have witnessed it. "I am not so horrible as all that, now am I?" she challenged, taking her hat. "Besides, we have a truce, don't we, for the sake of mutual friends and...those we love."

He shifted uncomfortably. "Well, yes."

"So, I can hardly stab you or do anything other than these pranks. And you are fun to trick."

"Fun?"

"Yes, Haytham, fun...the enjoyment you find in activities other than killing." She helped Shay up into his chair, then trailed her fingers from his shoulder, down his arm, to clasp his hand. "If you cannot recover from being cast off by your lover and take another, I understand, but surely you find other activities entertaining? Board games, card games, horse racing? You could learn to climb trees. Connor could teach you how to hunt, if you asked. Or Edward, or Shay."

Shay nodded. "Aye, sir, it'd make a welcome change from the war." He smiled soppily up at Aveline.

"I do such things," Haytham insisted stiffly. "I enjoy reading, and I play draughts and fanorona."

"That's a good start. What about music? Or enjoying good food?"

"I fail to see how this has any bearing on you playing games with hats, Aveline."

She smiled gently. "In my ordinary life, I generally must kill every Templar I meet. This is...a space where I can do otherwise." She brought Shay's hand to her mouth and kissed it. "But of course, I cannot treat you as I treat him. And you are so...stiff."

Shay muttered, "I'll show you stiff, love."

Aveline chuckled and kissed the top of his head. "Not in the same way, as far as I know. It...I know you have suffered, Haytham, but you ought to have joy in your life as well. Even the simple joy of making yourself a fool for the amusement of others."

Haytham rolled his eyes. "I'll consider it."

She smiled. "Do so. It will only benefit you."

"Certainly this is no time to discuss Templar affairs with Shay," Haytham announced. "So I will leave the two of you to your fun."

Aveline inclined her head in thanks, and Shay stuttered, "I--sir, I'll--I promise--"

"I once absconded into the forest for three weeks, Shay. A few hours is not as bad, I suppose." Haytham sighed. "I could stand to work on my fanorona game."

Chapter Text

The damned pigeon had flown off, and night was falling. Shay was some miles inland, and he knew wolves hunted in this area. Best not to risk it, and he knew he'd seen a hunter's platform in a tree a few hundred feet back. Finding the tree, he climbed to the platform and took stock.

He had some dried meat and an apple, which would do him for dinner; he'd certainly gone hungrier. The main problem was that he couldn't build a fire up here. He'd had worse nights, though, and at least it wasn't snowing. Wrapping himself in his coat, he curled up on his side and quickly fell asleep, sparing only a moment to regret that he no longer wore a hood.

He woke to see his breath misting over a thin layer of snow. He himself was warm enough, and comfortable, and he could feel someone pressed against his back, an arm around him, under a layer of heavy cloth.

He desperately hoped it was Ezio. Or Edward. Someone. Someone who would cuddle anyone. He lifted the white and blue cloth to look at the hand.

Maybe it was Connor. Connor, his hands much smaller than usual and slightly too dark. Connor, inexplicably willing to spoon a Templar. Connor, putting a hat under his head to keep him from the cold platform.

No, of course not. Of course it was Aveline softly sighing into his ear, Aveline's stray braid pressed against his cheek, Aveline's hat warming his ear and face. It couldn't possibly be anyone less embarrassing, like Haytham, even.

But it was Connor's coat covering the two of them, Connor's hood keeping the snow off his hair, and that meant Connor was somewhere nearby. Connor had seen them in this compromising position. Had he assumed they were lovers?

Shay felt his cheeks flush, then realized that he had a bit of an embarrassing problem. To be sure, it was entirely natural for a man to wake in such a state, and it wasn't necessarily because of Aveline's proximity, he told himself. The fact of the matter, however, was that her hand was drifting down his body, and he could not let her touch him there, or else he'd have a much bigger--er, it would be harder--more difficult to maintain his composure.

There was nothing for it. He'd have to hold her errant hand and hope his problem sorted itself out. Otherwise, he'd have to find a hiding place and... no, mustn't think that, he firmly reprimanded his mind, which was making helpful suggestions for fantasies that would assist greatly. He had far too much to do to indulge himself. Plus, how could he possibly offer her such offense, even in his own mind, in return for her kindness?

He clasped her hand, working his fingers through hers, and she squeezed tightly, giving a tiny sigh of contentment (that she'd never have if she were awake and in my arms, he thought) and throwing one leg over his.

Well.

He was certainly warm now, his blood hot in his veins, and not simply from shared body heat. If he woke her, she'd know that he knew she'd held him so intimately. He couldn't cause that kind of mortification for her. Best to feign sleep until she woke of her own accord and could put her limbs to rights. So he determinedly closed his eyes.

Behind him, Aveline's lips curled in a smile and she pulled him closer.

On a nearby branch, Connor waited impatiently for them to either get up, or give in to their obvious urges. He could only hope that they would be warm enough to cast aside his coat, or else that he'd go back to his own time and be spared the whole thing.

Chapter Text

Desmond busied himself with the in-flight magazine, trying to ignore the Assassin/Templar Mile High Club meeting in the bathroom a few rows behind him. He really wished he could stop thinking things like, I can barely fit in there alone, or Wonder what position they're using, or I bet she's standing on the toilet, or Hope they locked their blades in place before they started. Such thoughts were wrong, and wicked, and dammit, she was screaming this time. He shrunk down in his seat, reading about headphones so expensive you could probably run a drug cartel for less.

They kept going.

In frustration, Desmond pulled out his ipod and began to make a new playlist. He added all the cheesy love songs that Shaun had downloaded from his own computer as a prank. (Rebecca's music collection was much better, a fact that eluded Shaun.) Smirking, he saved the playlist. It sounded like a rom-com set in a supermarket. Next time he saw Aveline or Shay, they were going to suffer. (As if airplane bathrooms weren't suffering enough.)

Once upon a time, Desmond's life had made sense. Now he couldn't even illegally watch an episode of Walking Dead without his pirate ancestor blubbering all over him when the girls started singing.

Desmond was on a strict ration of Animus sessions, although he routinely ignored that, intent on working through Connor's memories in time to prevent the end of the world. But sometimes it got to be too much, and he needed to relieve the pressure before, as Shaun put it, "his itty bitty brain went squirting out his abnormally shaped ears." He discovered Rebecca's Star Wars movie collection one such night, and settled in for the classic trilogy.

Halfway through The Empire Strikes Back, he became aware that Haytham was watching the movie as well. He braced himself for a flood of questions, but his ancestor seemed to take the onscreen action at face value. Until a certain scene, when Desmond was embarrassed to discover that he was descended from someone who talked through movies.

"Obviously the hero's father is still alive," Haytham said snidely.

"Is that so?" Desmond asked, annoyed.

"Yes, he's the man in the mask. They're on opposite sides and our hero is going to be crushed when he finds out. His whole world will be shaken."

Desmond gritted his teeth. "I don't remember you talking this much in the theater last time."

"Of course not; I was assassinating someone."

Desmond rolled his eyes. "Almost wish you would, so I could watch in peace."

"I'm willing to bet the hero's mother died horribly when he was very young. And he'll reach some kind of peace with his father, but," his lip curled, "his father will die, and he'll feel simply awful about it, but it'll be too late then, won't it?"

"Stop talking about yourself already."

They watched in silence until the end of the movie.

"I told you so."

"Shut up."

"I bet the man in the mask dies in the next one."

"Go fuck yourself. Just don't make me watch."

Desmond stared down at Agaté's body. "Seriously? That's what he was all about? What a... what a second-rate Snape."

Aveline had no idea what he meant, but she was warmed; he was angry on her behalf and that's what counted.

It almost made up for the music he'd made her endure.

Desmond introduced Connor to YouTube, which was a mistake that led to four hours of his short life being spent watching televised lacrosse and adorable puppies.

Steering the Aquila was hard enough. Steering it with Haytham backseat driving Connor was even worse. When Haytham also visited and started backseat driving Desmond, that was simply intolerable.

It also gave Rebecca conniption fits. "Where's this second track of Haytham coming from? Is your DNA crimped or something, Desmond? I'm going to check for T-T sequences real quick."

"There's nothing wrong with my DNA!" he insisted.

"Shall I list what's wrong with your piloting?" Haytham asked, loud and clear over the Animus speakers.

"He can't even be saying anything now!" she practically wailed. "You're not even hooked up! What's going on??"

Desmond couldn't wait for the inevitable day when Connor would kill his father. He'd never wanted to kill a Templar so badly. Haytham was currently describing every sandbar Desmond had run into, every broadside that missed completely, every time he'd lowered the sails when he meant to raise them, and that time the Aquilahad done a vertical 360 off a rogue wave. (Desmond was pretty sure that was an Animus physics glitch. Although it was pretty cool.)

As Haytham was describing the humiliating time Desmond had desynchronized by accidentally having Connor climb in front of a firing cannon, Desmond hooked his foot around the power cord and yanked sharply. What a relief to be the only one that could hear his ancestor's complaints.

"Really, Desmond?" his father asked, disappointed. "Right in front of the cannon? Are you trying to fail?"

... except, of course, for that ancestor.

"So this is New Orleans," Desmond said, crouched beside Aveline on the rooftop. "It's not Mardi Gras, is it?"

She looked at him oddly. "No, why do you ask?"

"In my time, Mardi Gras in New Orleans is supposed to be amazing. A huge parade, debauchery, awesome food, the world's biggest party. I've never been." He sounded wistful. "Tell you what, after the world is saved and everything, I'm gonna go to New Orleans for Mardi Gras 2013. And you have to visit me then!"

She smiled just as if she hadn't seen him die the day before. "I'll make sure of it."

"Who ordered all the Italian porn?" Rebecca asked, bringing back supplies from the nearby town. "Guys, we're supposed to be hiding here. This was waiting at the town post office."

"Would you believe it was Ezio?" Desmond asked tiredly.

"Oh yes, Desmond, we would totally believe that. And you know what else? That's not at all a sign that you're going crazy," Shaun sniped.

"Ezio is a perve," Desmond insisted. "Amazon doesn't deliver to the Renaissance so I have to be his porn mule."

"Just don't conceal it in your bodily cavities," Rebecca advised.

Chapter Text

"Seventeen... eighteen..."

Haytham was attempting to count banknotes, when a laughing female voice chimed in, "Thirty-four, one, twelve, twenty..."

Sighing, he gathered the money into a pile and locked it up. "Hello, Aveline."

She practically giggled. "Bonjour, Haytham. Don't let me stop you."

He harrumphed. "You know full well what you're doing."

She just grinned.

When he went to meet with Charles Lee, he had to struggle to keep a straight face as Aveline made rude gestures and held up her fingers behind Lee's head like rabbit ears. "Sir?" Lee asked, concerned. "Are you well?"

"Sir," Aveline imitated, "would you like a foot rub or some sexual favors?"

"Everything is... is well, Charles." Haytham rubbed the bridge of his nose and cursed all Assassins in his mind.

"You look pained, sir."

"Pained, yet delectable," Aveline added, making exaggerated kissing faces.

"I simply have a headache," Haytham tried to explain, face contorted with the effort of ignoring Aveline. "I find I am incapable of concentrating on anything today, Charles, particularly Templar business."

Aveline drowned out the answer with, "Perhaps my Pomeranians will help! Cute little puppies!"

Haytham made a show of rubbing his ear. "I'm sorry, Charles, I didn't catch that."

This time, Aveline called out, "Perhaps I should go find a small child and beat him, especially if he looks just like you!"

Haytham sighed heavily. "Charles, can we discuss this later?" He glowered at Aveline, and, once Lee had left, he hissed, "That was extremely tawdry."

"Three grown men abusing an innocent child is far more than tawdry," was her chilly reply.

"Is this how an Assassin should behave?"

"Everything is permitted, Haytham."

"Even my father never behaved so!"

Aveline smiled. "I heard him, once, trading inappropriate jokes with another man in the company of a woman..."

"Yes, well, that was when he was merely a pirate, was it not?"

"And his Assassin friend once threatened to unman him, was that inappropriate?"

Haytham rubbed his temples and decided to change the subject. "You know, Shay is off on a mission. You could find him and make all the improper comments you like..."

She smiled tenderly and chuckled, and for a moment, he was reminded of Ziio. But that wasn't surprising: Aveline had the same boldness, a woman comfortable in herself, powerful in a man's world, quick-witted and sharp-tongued, loyal to her people and fiercely protective of them. And he saw, for a moment, what Shay must see in this Assassin woman, her loyalties and motivations just the other side of the fence from his, a worthy equal. It took his breath away, and stabbed more painfully than any blade.

For Shay had his Aveline, warm and loving in his arms whenever they met, and Haytham would never again see Ziio, hear her, be insulted by her, win back her respect or her trust. All that had gone up in flames; all his hopes of reconciliation were naught but ash on the wind, and Ziio lived only in his memories. The cruelty quite took his breath away, and he buried his face in his hands, unwilling to allow the enemy to see the pain etched there.

A light touch on his shoulder made him look up to see Aveline leaning over him with sympathetic eyes. He cleared his throat and tried to recover. "Yes, as I said, perhaps you would find Shay more...entertaining."

She quirked a smile, scar tugging at her lips. "You are funny enough."

He scowled. "I was not put on this Earth to amuse you."

She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned on his desk. "And yet, you succeed admirably."

"Tell me, what do you even see in him?" he asked curiously. "An Assassin loving a Templar is not unheard of, but nor is it common."

She shrugged. "He is a good man. Circumstances have changed his loyalties, but his beliefs remain the same. He is, in his own way, as unfit a Templar as you."

Haytham blinked. "I do not consider myself unfit as a Templar."

"But you are. You helped kill a Grand Master. You are the son of an Assassin and the father of an Assassin, the lover of an ally of the Assassins, and you work with your son...tell me, if remaining a Templar meant you had to kill your son, would you do so?"

"Of course!" he insisted, but she looked skeptical.

"I don't think you would. You have little enough family that you prize them above all else."

"That's absurd," he insisted. "I have no such sentimentality."

She smiled sadly. "You may think that if you like."

He scoffed. "Well, then, what if you had to kill Shay to remain an Assassin?"

Aveline looked steadily at him. "I wouldn't, unless I had reason to."

"He's a Templar; surely that's reason enough."

She shook her head. "Not where my heart is concerned."

Haytham scoffed. "Your love is stronger than your loyalty?"

Aveline shrugged. "Haytham, I know who I am, and I know what I stand for. I do not need the Assassins to know these things. I have learned these things through being an Assassin, but if I were no longer one, I would still know myself, and I would still fight injustice. And I would still love Shay, because he tries to help those who need it." Unconsciously, Haytham began to fiddle with his Templar ring. He was sure there was bait in her words, and he was determined not to rise to it. The silence stretched on uncomfortably until Aveline smiled at him. "I have noticed you stay your blade from the innocent, though you are perhaps overly free with it when it comes to your informants."

"That was the first thing my father taught me. I saw no reason to abandon it," he said stiffly.

She nodded. "And that is, I'm sure, one thing Ziio loved about you." She smiled gently. "You are still the man she loved."

He sighed heavily. "No, I'm not. I've been betrayed too often, and almost everyone I've trusted has proven themselves unworthy of that trust."

"Who remains, then? Who has not let you down?"

"Shay. Connor. The rest of you lot, actually, visitors."

Aveline grinned. "So, begin there, and figure out who you are, and what you believe."

Haytham scowled. "Only to have my ponderings cut short by my son's blade."

"Even so. Would you rather fall to his blade, or he fall to yours?"

Haytham had no answer, and the room was silent as she disappeared--she could control how long she visited, but only to some extent, and she obviously felt she'd made her point.

Had she?

Chapter Text

Haytham sat in his quarters in Fort George, idly sharpening his left blade and pondering life. Connor was to be hanged tomorrow, an event that conflicted Haytham immensely. He knew Connor would survive, but was he to intervene? If he didn't, would his son still survive, and if he didn't, what was Haytham to make of visitations from a future Connor, his hair styled strangely in the fashion of his people?

His ruminations ceased abruptly as he heard a pathetic whimper and saw a miserable form appear on his bed. Shocked, Haytham recognized his father by hair and beard alone; his brawny frame was wasted, his skin scorched, his clothes stinking with old blood. Edward was rocking back and forth, muttering to himself in disbelief.

Haytham knew, because Shay had told him of doctoring Aveline's wound, that a visitor could take care of one they visited; he had no idea whether anything he was about to do would actually help his father. But he couldn't not try. He fetched bread and cheese, tea and a bottle of sweet wine, and ran a cool bath, which he practically had to drag his father into.

Clean, Edward was alarmingly gaunt, his ankles and wrists rubbed raw from shackles, a nasty puckered scar on his abdomen that still seemed to pain him. He was bright red over most of his exposed skin, which sloughed off in places, leaving oozing blisters. Haytham liberally covered his welts, sunburns, and that awful wound (much like the one he himself had, to be honest) with a soothing salve while Edward crammed food into his mouth.

"Who's done this to you?" Haytham asked, once most of the food was gone.

"Templars," Edward promptly replied. "They want the Observatory, keep asking where it is."

"Why not just tell them?" Haytham practically wailed. Nothing could be worth whatever they were doing to his father. He didn't even care which Templars they were, or what the Observatory was, or why they wanted it. It was intolerable to see his father like this.

"They'll probably hang me then." Edward finished the wine and sleepily struggled into the clean clothes. "You're a good fellow, Hat Man. I know I'll be back there in a few minutes, and I don't know if I'm even here or dreaming, but thank you for this respite. Maybe someone will come for Mary and she'll help me escape, or maybe Adéwalé--" Edward vanished just in time not to see Haytham flinch guiltily at the mention of Adéwalé.

For a long time afterwards, well past midnight, Haytham sat staring pensively at nothing. Around three in the morning, he murmured, "Adéwalé..." then, a few minutes later, "Shay..." and then, half an hour later, "Connor..." Rising from his chair, he found a crate he'd accidentally taken from the Morrigan some years back and repeatedly forgotten to return. Rummaging through it, he found Shay's old dark Assassin outfit, and put it on to check the fit. A bit tight, but it would do. Throwing knives were in another crate, and he spent a good hour flinging them across his home until he could sit in his now-grimy bathtub and hit a string by the front door.

Wait, if his bathtub was this filthy, did that mean Edward was clean, was full, was a little tipsy, was covered in salve, was wearing the shirt Haytham had ineptly repaired after the sleeve was half-torn off? He didn't know, and even though he knew that his father would--somehow--escape this situation and become the man Haytham had known, his heart still ached, and it drove him to practice harder with the knives.

Towards morning, he took a nap in the chair, then woke, dressed in Shay's clothes, and went to the hanging. Nobody would notice a man in a dark hood, caught in the throng. And if--as he suspected--Connor's archer couldn't cut the rope with a mere arrow, why, a throwing knife was more than capable of doing so.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

"Melanie, I need to borrow one of your numbskulls."

"Hello to you too, Violet."

"I mean it. I was checking in on one of my team, the girl looking for anything we could use as a sequel to Liberation? She found some weird stuff."

"Why can't she do it?"

"It's another ancestor of Sample One. She's working on Aveline, I need someone new for this guy."

"What's so interesting about him?"

"What isn't? Look, I'm pulling up the footage. See there, they meet just once, in 1777, and then ten years later he shows up on her doorstep."

"Okay, so?"

"Well, in '77, she's an Assassin and he's a Templar. But in '87, they haven't met in ten years, and the first thing she does is pull him inside and start sucking his face."

"Um..."

"Then it goes totally Hot Coffee, we don't need that kind of controversy. But I looked ahead a little, it looks like they get married and have some kids."

"That won't play too well if she becomes a housewife."

"Yeah, but she doesn't. And also, see, it's scandalous. Remember Gérald, the wimp from Liberation?"

"Oh yeah, I'm totally shipping him with Aveline."

"Yeah, well, you were right, he marries her. In fact, they're still married when Templar Dude shows up. Not for long, though, Gérald's really sick and I think he dies shortly after."

"Did this guy kill him?"

"Don't think so, it seems like cancer. Ugh, Aveline had a memory of looking at the stuff, too. Anyway, she gets pregnant right before her husband dies."

"One last gasp?"

"Uh, not where the cancer was, it's got to be Templar Dude's kid. Like, they were doing it nonstop practically. I didn't look too much further, but she eventually marries the dude. Then her memories end, so then they must have the kid that's the ancestor."

"That's all...really sordid."

"I actually think it'd make a great love story if we play it right. But anyway, Otso Berg saw it and he got really excited."

"Really? What a creep, spying on Aveline getting some."

"No, seems he has a man crush on Templar Dude. Shay or something. He said we needed to look into his memories."

"What's he done other than knock up Aveline?"

"Well, I looked into it real quick, and it seems like he's friends with Haytham Kenway, you know, the Grand Master from Sample 17? Maybe we could make a recruitment piece, combine the Kenway bits from 17 and some of this guy. Or we could develop the Aveline-as-Templar storyline with this love story. We'd have to work at it a lot, though, because it seems like she stayed active as an Assassin even while she was with this guy. There's one part where she's hiding sleep darts in her nursing bra or whatever you'd call it back then."

"Did he know?"

"I think so. He was doing a lot of Templar stuff, too, rebuilding buildings and things. Weird pairing. But I totally ship it, now, they way they look at each other is just sickening."

"I think it's sweet. Even though she was a misguided Assassin, their love transcends that."

"That'd probably play okay. But you see why I need a person just to focus on this. My one girl is busy with the Aveline memories."

"All right, we'll get someone to help you with this one. I've got the payroll for it."

"Thanks! Good to know you're not as stupid as you act, Melanie."

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Haytham dreamed of his father's murder for two nights in a row, afterwards. The third morning dawned bright and clear, and he was not in London.

The landscape was rocky, severe, but it had its own beauty. A small fire burned, and an old man sat before it, head bowed. Haytham looked at him inquisitively, and realized he was crying silently. "Excuse me, sir, do you know where we are?"

The old man raised his head. "Two days' ride from Masyaf," he said, his voice choked. It meant nothing to Haytham, but he'd been raised to be polite.

"Pardon me, but what's your name?"

As if from a great depth, the old man finally said, "Altair."

"That's an odd name."

"It's an Arabic name."

To his surprise, the boy grinned. "My name's Arabic, too! I'm Haytham."

Altair stared at him a moment. Yes, this was definitely Haytham, younger than he'd ever seen him before. "You should be getting home to your father, child."

"I have--my home burnt down," Haytham said, only the tiniest quaver in his voice. "And my only friend killed, and I saw my father..." he trailed off, eyes wide, and whispered, "and they took my sister..."

"I was hardly older than you when I lost my father," Altair told him. Why, though? Did he truly seek sympathy with the future Templar Grand Master?

"Was that why you were crying?" Haytham asked curiously.

"No," Altair sighed. "I was crying for my wife, and my son, and my friend." It was desolate, and he was profoundly lonely; he'd ridden through here with Maria just a handful of days ago, never thinking that soon he'd be traveling without his wife.

Haytham's eyes went wide. "Do you have anyone left?"

"My other son lives, still. And I suppose I at least have... visitors, like you."

Haytham nodded and patted Altair's arm. "You may call on me when you have need." He was so serious that Altair nearly laughed.

"I thank you, little eagle of London." He shook Haytham's small hand gravely. "Before you go, I must ask you this: did your father ever teach you whom not to kill?"

"Innocent people. Beggars and the like."

"That is the most important lesson you will ever learn, child. Others will teach you many things, but you must hold to that."

Haytham stared at him, practically hypnotized, and his voice was nearly inaudible. "I have killed a man." It was a confession, not a boast.

Altair was surprised; he'd been much older the first time he'd killed, as had all the other Assassins of his time and all the other visitors. He'd assumed that Haytham was, at the very least, a Templar before anyone fell to his blade. But here he was, ten years and a day old, trembling and staring. Altair's silence seemed to unnerve him, and he rushed on with, "He was going to--my mother--" then fell silent as Altair clasped his shoulder.

"You did well," the old Mentor murmured. He'd said the same to a hundred novices, and not meant it as strongly as for this little, lonely, grieving boy, his future enemy. "You protected your mother and yourself."

"Mother doesn't see it that way," Haytham said, his voice curiously flat. "She hasn't seen me since." His lip trembled.

Altair looked at him a moment, then pulled him into a stiff hug. Haytham resisted at first, then relaxed with a whimpered sigh. Altair remembered, when Sef was that age, holding his son tightly after a nightmare. Haytham was not too different in his arms from Sef, and was missing his father as Altair was missing his son. He could not tell whose tears on his shoulder were whose.

"Your father was a friend of mine," Altair told him quietly. It was true; as Edward had taken a greater interest in being an Assassin, he and Altair had grown closer, as close as a semi-reformed scoundrel and a legendary Mentor could be. "He would want me to help you."

He'd never thought of it that way, himself. But of course it was true, and he had helped Haytham, saved his life more than once, without even realizing he would want to have done so. He'd done it only because it served his purposes, but now he wished he'd seen this side of Haytham earlier, the vulnerable, brave child all alone in the world. If it had been him in this position, the Templar Order might have seemed like a lifeline, a home and family, something to believe in. Just like the boy Altair had found a home in the Assassin Brotherhood.

Haytham sniffled, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and made a visible effort to calm himself. "I thank you for your help," he said formally. "It is much appreciated."

Altair nodded gravely. Neither of them was warm or given to cuddling and the like. This was as much closeness as Haytham could tolerate, and if he actually needed more, there was nobody able to provide it. His father was dead, his sister captured, his mother lost in her own horror, and all he had was an old stranger from many years ago.

"What will become of me?" Haytham asked.

"I do not know the details, but you will become a great swordsman. You will rescue your sister and your father's killer will be brought to justice. You will be a brave leader, fearsome in war but seeking peace." What else could he tell the boy? "You will stay your blade from the innocent, free the enslaved, kill the wicked, and try to protect the weak."

Haytham nodded. "And you, what will you do now?"

Altair sighed. "I must kill a man I once called my brother, for he has my son's blood, my friend's blood, my wife's blood on his hands."

Haytham extended his hand solemnly to shake Altair's. "Good luck, Altair."

"And to you, Haytham. You have as hard a road ahead of you as I have behind me."

The boy nodded solemnly, and woke in the bed he'd slept in, not well, for the past two nights. There were more funerals today, he thought, and perhaps his mother would see him. And he had to train, didn't he, to become the swordsman the old man said he would be.

Centuries previously, that old man kicked sand over his fire, pulled up his hood, and began to plot how he would kill his former Brother.

Chapter Text

Aveline's first thought, when she heard the knock on the door, was that Marie was astoundingly on time to go shopping for new dresses and shoes. Her second thought, when she opened the door, was that she was being visited. Her third thought, when Haytham failed to attack her, was that she should lighten the pressure of her hidden blades on his neck, because he was, after all, her friend's father. "What are you doing here?" she asked warily. "And how did you know where to find me?"

He raised his chin and somehow managed to look haughty, instead of like he was avoiding having his throat slit. "A Master Templar lived here for many years. Of course I know the address."

Aveline's fourth thought was sheer terror. "Is Shay well?" It wouldn't be fair, if something had happened to him. She'd only just recognized the feeling in her heart as love for him; she hadn't had a chance to see him again in person, after that one meeting in France before she'd... known him so well.

Haytham held up his hands as if to quell her fearful thoughts. "He is well, so far as I know. And I believe he has struck a truce with Connor."

Aveline retracted her blades and crossed her arms over her chest. "Then what brings you here, Haytham Kenway?"

He gestured into the doorway. "Shared interests that I'd rather not discuss outside." When she frowned, he sighed. "I have been here before, you know."

She scowled. "When?"

He smiled tightly. "I remember a cat you used to have, an orange one. You and I ran up and down the hallway with a string, laughing at your cat skidding on the floor as she tried to catch it."

She stared at him. She'd thought it only her imagination, the little boy who was so taken with her cat. He'd told her that he only had a dog and a guinea pig at home. "What was her name?"

"Pierre. You thought she was male until she left kittens on your pillow."

"My stepmother could have told you all this."

"Your stepmother didn't know that we hid from her in a pile of leaves on the street, because she never found you until you went back in because you were hungry. May I come in?"

She wordlessly showed him to the parlor, but once he sat down and she sent the maid to go make him tea, she demanded, "What shared interests bring the Grand Master of the Colonial Rite to my house?"

"Curiosity, for one. I wished to meet in person the woman who has captured Shay Cormac's heart so fully."

She blushed, high up on her cheekbones. "Is that all?"

"I also wished to meet in person every visitor contemporaneous with me--this is a goal I believe you have now completed as well?"

She nodded. "Curiosity and a sense of completion, that is all?"

He leaned forward in his chair, all business. "Since you killed your stepmother, no single Templar has control of this area; instead, two men vie for supremacy."

She nodded. "I am aware of the situation."

He leaned back, nodding. "I am here to kill them both."

"Do you kill other Templars often?"

"As needed."

She smirked. "Careful. Some might take you for an Assassin."

"It's been known to happen."

She examined a conclusion that had popped into her head, debated saying something, finally settled on, "And was that how Connor came to be?"

His brief expression of shock was priceless, but the pain in his voice filled her with regret for her pointed words. "Even so."

She cleared her throat. "I assume you wish me to help you dispose of these two men. Why should I, though? What if I wish to kill the stronger of the two, leaving the weak one to mismanage my enemies and leave them vulnerable to my depredations?"

"France is, as I'm sure you noticed, racing towards a revolution of its own. Aside from their own personal shortcomings, which are severe, both of these men maintain ties to the French crown. Should the crown fall, they might make trouble, which would spread into the former colonies that I have worked so hard to make peaceful and orderly."

"And your solution, instead?"

"A puppet of sorts; a Spanish merchant, who will not care one whit for unrest in France. You will approve; he is weak enough that you should retain your power over New Orleans."

"This is acceptable to you? An Assassin ascendant over your Templars?"

Haytham smirked. "An Assassin I can work with? Yes. An Assassin who will not kill Templars out of hand? Yes. An Assassin I couldn't kill anyway if I wish to retain the loyalty of the most useful man I have left? Obviously."

Aveline frowned in disbelief. "You think Shay's loyalty to your Order has been compromised by me?"

"I would not test it so grievously."

"You are an unexpectedly considerate man."

"I am a pragmatic man. Why oppose Assassins when I have Templars who need killing?"

"Of course that is your only aim."

"Naturally."

Two days later, they found themselves back to back in a dirty alleyway, his sword and her machete carving through some guards that she thought might have been avoided if they'd just gone around that one corner instead of the other. She realized that, one, there were two Templars in the world that she would trust at her back in a fight. And two, Haytham was both an amazingly good fighter and perfectly accommodating to her own style. It was a waste that Connor would not make peace with his father, and Aveline wished she could do something about it. But she'd seen Connor, face painted and head shaved, so remote from the Connor that was her friend, and she knew that he'd done something he regretted furiously.

"Aveline!" snapped Haytham.

Her attention had wandered, and she got a slice across her arm for her troubles. She immobilized the man with her whip and hacked into his neck, took out the man behind him, and realized there was nobody standing but the two of them. "Are there more?"

They both scanned the nearby area, and Haytham shook his head. "None for now." He began to clean his sword while Aveline patched her wound.

She looked up, stared vacantly for about a second, then ducked her head, smiling. "Oh! You're still here!" The entire tone of her voice had changed.

"Where else would I have gone?" he asked peevishly.

"I don't know," she mumbled. "How long was I gone for?"

"A second, no more." He frowned and looked at her arm. The blood had fully clotted, and it was neatly stitched.

"Oh, but this is marvelous! I've never seen anyone when they left to go visiting before!" Her entire demeanor was markedly different, and Haytham guessed she'd been with Shay. "What did I look like?"

"You, ah, merely looked distracted for an instant." He cleared his throat and gestured to her arm. "Shay's handiwork, I presume?"

She nodded, her cheeks darkening with her blush. "I--often, after a fight, I find myself...with him..." She looked anywhere but at Haytham.

"Well...ah...he has deft hands."

"That he does."

"With a needle, I meant."

"Oh! Yes, of course."

Haytham cleared his throat. "I think we'd better get back to your house. This was obviously a dead end."

"Obviously." Her lips were swollen from kissing, and she looked quite disheveled. One of her braids was coming loose, her clothes were rumpled (as if they were on the floor for some time, Haytham tried not to think) and her eyes were a bit glassy. "I'm sorry, Haytham, I don't mean to be..." She gestured to her general disarray. "We're on a mission, after all."

"Well, you can't control when you leave," he allowed. "And obviously, when you have a chance to spend time with him..."

"And after fighting, I feel like an overwound clock," she tried to explain. "He--being with him--it helps."

He frowned. "I've never felt...like that after a battle. When I was with Ziio, we were...at peace." He nodded reflectively. "It was actually quite nice, for those few weeks, not to have to kill anyone. She even did the hunting for our dinner."

Aveline looked up at him. "You never talk about her."

He shrugged. "I see no point in it. It's over. It's beyond over. And, given everything, perhaps I should regret it. But I honestly can't." He smirked. "Do try not to have children who wish to kill you. It's quite distressing."

"I'll keep that in mind, should I have the chance."

Chapter Text

Ratonhnhaké:ton did not know if he could even begin to count how many things were wrong with his life. Some were things that he would have given anything for. His mother had been alive far longer than he knew she had been. Kanen'to:kon, too. The blades on his wrists had been his father's own, long-bladed, with bracers handmade from deerhide, and he was fairly sure that Templars never made their own blades (except for, possibly, Shay). What this meant, he could not say, but he cherished a foolish hope.

But he had watched his mother die, and he was certain he had watched her die before.

He was certain he had cut a short, stolen blade from his father's arm before killing him.

And he was certain he had never gone this long without a visitor from another time, not since he left his home to become an Assassin.

He would give anything to have Ezio refuse to respect his personal space, to listen to some wisdom from Altair, or even to hear his father carping in his ear. Or to pretend he couldn't see Shay and Aveline clutching at each other. Or to be confused by every other word out of Desmond's mouth. Or even to witness his grandfather vomiting drunkenly before passing out in a haystack.

And of course, there were the many things inherently wrong with the world, like Washington being a king, and the effects of the red willow tea, and the people who didn't know him but should have. And in some places, he'd have a jolt of a memory--killing Charles Lee, for example--that he knew was from his old life, from the world he used to inhabit.

One memory, though, was different: Desmond with his hand on the orb that took his life. The minute that memory filled his mind, Ratonhnhaké:ton began to hear whispers, just beyond the reach of hearing. And when he stood in Fort George and reached for the flashing thing only he could see, his memory spoke.

"Connor!"

It was entirely unlike the phantom of his mother that kept haunting him, telling him not to drink the tea again. This was a vision he was accustomed to, his father, calling him by a name that was not quite his.

"Father, what is happening?"

"I don't know! What's wrong with you--your eyes, Connor!"

"Do not criticize! You have no idea, Father, I need these powers to fight."

"Is it that tea thing?"

"How do you know of the red willow tea?"

Haytham came into sharper focus, and Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn't believe his eyes. Instead of his usual coat, Haytham wore much the same clothing as he himself did, only with an eagle's beak on his hood instead of a wolf head. "Why do you think your mother warned you against it?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. "How are you, too, different? Where is everyone?"

Haytham waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, Altaïr put me into here with his Apple. He said you needed help and I was the only one who would work." He gestured to himself. "This, I suppose, is how I looked in this world..." he trailed off, looking wistfully at the beads and feathers on his arm. "I clearly made some different choices, which I expect are partly to blame for this situation."

"His Apple? What choices?"

Haytham smirked. "I stayed with your mother long enough to dress in the fashion of your people. Perhaps that changed the course of your life? I don't know." He looked around as if seeking hidden walls. "You are trapped, Connor, in a--a dream, I suppose, or a vision, created by an Apple of Eden."

"How do I get out?"

"You must seize the Apple yourself, Altaïr told me. You are strong enough to resist its command but you must fight to escape its trap."

"I cannot--!"

"I will help when I can. Now, you must fly."

Ratonhnhaké:ton realized that Bluecoats were approaching, and took wing to the roof of the building where his father had lived. He noticed, as he flew, another eagle beside him, and when he landed, Haytham crouched beside him.

"You see, son?" Haytham frowned. "It will kill you, though. Weeks, perhaps, instead of the months it took for me. We must hurry."

"I am doomed to die?"

"We're all doomed to die, Connor, but if you do so in this Apple, this is what the world will become."

"I cannot believe...Washington..."

Haytham sighed. "I do so wish your mother had used the blade of her knife on him, not the handle. He's been such a thorn in our sides."

"My mother attacked him?"

"Yes, not long before--well, not long before you were conceived, in all honesty. She saved my life; Washington was set to shoot me." He smiled fondly at the memory. "There's none other like your mother, son." He patted Ratonhnhaké:ton on his fur-covered shoulder. "Recovered? Good. Let's go find you this Apple."

Chapter Text

Aveline asked Shay, one afternoon en route from New Orleans to Davenport Homestead, "Do you see that fellow by the starboard cannon?"

He removed his hand from the wheel to wrap it around her waist, smiling foolishly with the delight of having his beloved near him. "Which fellow, love?"

She leaned into him, pulling his hand to rest on her side where he could feel a faint flutter-thump of their child kicking. "The elderly one, that looks like Haytham, but much thinner."

"Him? Why do you say he looks like Haytham?"

"Look at his chin, and his nose."

"Could be a coincidence."

She kissed him and waddled over to the man in question, and Shay could just hear their conversation. "Bonjour, and what's your name?"

The fellow was slow to reply, almost...guarded, Shay would say. "Jacob." His voice was quiet and hoarse.

Aveline smiled her charming smile. "Jacob. Do you know, my husband and I were having a disagreement. I say you look like a man we used to know, and he says you don't. Do you by chance have any brothers?"

Jacob smiled bitterly. "I've no idea, madame. I'm the bastard son of a prisoner dead in childbirth."

She feigned shock. "But surely they have some idea who her lover was?"

He sighed. "I was reared by my mother's friend, and she had her suspicions, but I'd rather not share them, if it's all the same to you. I'd rather be no man's son than someone's poor bastard half-brother."

"Have you been sailing with my husband long?"

"No, madame, I joined the crew for this voyage, and I intend to join a crew up there once we land. No offense to your husband, of course."

"Why'd you pick me?" Shay called.

Jacob considered him at length. "I thought you might be kin to my adopted mother. She was a Cormac by birth, and always good to me. But you look nothing like her, so I don't know."

Aveline giggled. "What a coincidence, that you thought he was related to someone you know, and here we are thinking you're related to someone we know!"

He nodded. "Aye, 'tis truly strange. And now, madame, I really must finish fixing this cannon."

"All right, Jacob...what is your surname?"

He smirked. "Kidd."

Shay nearly let go of the wheel, because Edward was suddenly standing on the deck of the Morrigan, staring at Jacob with pure shock on his face. He called up someone to take over for him, rushing to Aveline's side. "Are you faint, my dear?"

She made a big production of fanning herself. "Very, my love."

He took her arm and guided her to the cabin, jerking his chin for Edward to follow. Once the door was closed, Aveline sat at the table and asked, "Did you catch any of that, Edward?"

Edward looked like nothing so much as a fish, the way his mouth was opening and closing. "That's not possible..." he muttered. "Unless...of course, why not?! She did..."

Shay asked, "Love, do you have any idea what he's saying?"

Aveline shook her head. "Edward, make sense!"

Edward took a deep breath and pointed. "That...is my daughter."

"What?!"

"I think."

"How?" Shay asked.

Edward rolled his eyes. "The usual way, of course. I mean, she asked me...she needed a child, and I was one of the few who knew..."

"Start at the beginning," Aveline suggested.

"My friend Mary dressed as a man for most of her life. I knew her secret. She wanted a child in case she got caught and sentenced to hang. So she asked me for my help." He pointed again. "She's the result."

"What makes you think that's a woman?" Shay asked.

"Anne told me Mary bore a girl. I never saw the child, though, because she was taken away. I guess Anne found her, though." He ran a hand through his hair. "Jaysus, I wish I had found her, I wish I'd kept looking. But I had things to do back home. People to kill. I had to provide for Jenny and then there was Haytham and I just...forgot." He added, "Or more like, I didn't want to trouble my new wife with it."

"How can we know if that's her?" asked Shay.

"Find out if Jacob's a woman?" suggested Aveline.

"I can't believe how old she is!" Edward said, troubled. "It's really been that long?"

"Aye, it has."

"If she knows who her mother is, though, you're in danger, Shay. Mary was an Assassin, and I'm sure Anne would have told her..."

Aveline pushed herself out of the chair and waddled out, returning with Jacob after a minute. "Have you ever heard, Jacob, about women dressing as men to take to the sea?"

"Aye, madame."

Shay asked mildly, "Is there anything you'd like to tell me?"

"No, sir."

"Are you a woman?"

Jacob looked up, eyes narrowed. "How did you guess? Nobody's guessed in years."

Aveline waved that off. "I think I know who your father was."

Jacob's hand strayed to his, her sword. "An Assassin. Like my mother, like me."

Shay held out his hand. "Please. I'm not here to fight with you."

"You're a Templar, of course you're here to fight with me."

He pointed to Aveline. "I don't fight with her, and she's an Assassin."

Aveline scoffed. "You fought with me about how many days you could wear your stockings without washing them." She wrinkled her nose. "He thought he was still in New York, not in Nouvelle Orleans."

"Are you on my ship to kill me, Jacob?"

"No. I just wanted to go sail on the Aquila. I'm tired of having to join a new crew after every time I kill a target."

Shay shrugged. "Then, let's do that. You work on my ship like any other sailor, we go to Davenport Homestead, you join Connor's crew, and you and I will be quits."

She looked at him suspiciously. "You said you knew kin of mine."

Aveline smirked. "You'll meet them soon enough, your sister and your nephew."

"And what would they want to do with me?"

"They're Assassins, to begin with."

Chapter Text

Ratonhnhake:ton managed to grasp the book in his chubby fingers and stealthily removed it from his mother's blankets. Having secured his prize, he made for his hiding place, two trees twisted together into a sort of half a room. Once there, he opened the book, his eyes roaming the strange markings.

"You're holding it upside down," an English voice said from behind him, gently. Ratonhnhake:ton quickly turned the book around, then stared at the white man who had appeared out of nowhere. He looked rumpled, wearing a long, loose shirt and nothing else, not even shoes or stockings, and his dark brown hair was unbound. He was leaning to one side, looking pained.

"Are you well?" Ratonhnhake:ton asked carefully.

The man felt his side, gingerly. "No, I don't believe I am. But come, let's not talk about it. Can you read, child?"

"No. Can you?"

"Yes... would you like to learn?"

The boy nodded. "My father wrote this. I want to read it."

The man looked at him, nodded, and sat beside him, picking up a stray stick and brushing away leaves from the ground. "What is your name?" After completely failing at both Ratonhnhake:ton's name and his mother's, he asked, "Well, what is your father's name, then? That one I should be able to say."

"Haytham Kenway," the boy said carefully, and the man nodded as if that was only to be expected.

"Very well. Let's start there."

Haytham didn't know how many times he visited his son in the little hollow underneath the twisted trees, but before long, his son was able to make his way slowly through some of the journal entries. He also didn't know what he himself did between visits. He had vague, feverish impressions of his sister caring for him, and his friend Holden. He almost thought his father sat at his bedside, sometimes, and once he was certain he felt Connor holding his hand, how foolish. His son could not be older than a year or two (if he knew what the date was he could guess it to within a month). In fact, he was surely imagining the boy as a four-year-old, working the much-scratched dirt in his little hideout as he practiced his letters.

No, but he forgot that he could see the future and the past, his son claiming to have killed him, his father before he became an Assassin. And it seems so unlikely that he laughs at himself, and the laugh turns into a painful cough, and Jenny runs to him, and he's back in the longhouse with his son whose name he can't say.

Only this time, Ziio catches him with the book, and she sends him to play with his friends. They played hide and seek, and Haytham proudly watched as his son's eyes flashed gold. He could already use his Eagle Vision, and it helped him find his friends handily, the fat boy and the girl and the twins (something nagged at Haytham about those twins, they reminded him of someone, especially the one with those icy blue eyes).

And then Haytham watched his son hide, and--

And what were three Templars doing in the forest??

Haytham had expressly told them in no uncertain terms to stay away from the village and the cave. How dare Lee, Johnson, and Hickey defy him?

How dare they hit a child??

Haytham was livid, watching Lee choke his son, hearing the crack of a rifle butt on the boy's head, watching him stagger. This wouldn't do, not at all, and there was only one thing he as a visitor could do--

Possibly his son's head was the only place more confusing than his own, just now. His eyes didn't seem to be registering things at the same time, leaving him with strange afterimages, blurred and shaky. His balance was offset, and his foot didn't quite move correctly.

Worst of all, when Haytham had jumped into the boy's body to dodge the second swing of the musket, Ratonhnhake:ton didn't leave.

He knew his son's name, his real name, his mother's name too, such glorious names and he could have screamed them from rooftops in jubilation, they were family and now he knew their true names

He didn't know if it was his son's age, his stubbornness, or just because of his severe head injury, but they were both crammed into the small body.

Rake:ni, and Haytham knew it meant Father, recognition and plea in one word.

His son couldn't walk right. Not now, not on his own. But Haytham didn't know the way home. So, limping, they worked it out, stumbling towards the

fire

and Haytham froze, because his father was dead and Ratonhnhake:ton tried to run because his mother was dying and they tripped over their grief and fear the smell he'd never forget the smell and ran towards mother father and the house fell in it always falls in

Haytham saw her, for the first time since, and Ratonhnhake:ton saw her, for the last time, and if only Haytham had been there in person he could have, would have pulled the beam from her legs. But even the beautiful synchrony of their desperation could not flesh out their scrawny arms or strengthen their narrow shoulders and she was saying goodbye, she was saying I love you and those words had never come to Haytham across her lips, in any language.

If he'd thought, he would have thought he'd be jealous, but it was right and good that the love they'd shared was eclipsed by love for the child they'd made.

Strong arms carried them away from the burning longhouse, carried them to safety, and they coughed and coughed, sooty phlegm coming from Haytham's son's lips, and his head pounding with every paroxysm. Ratonhnhake:ton, exhausted, eventually passed out, and Haytham was alone in his body.

Village elders, and an old woman who looked so much like Ziio that she must have been her mother, kept urging the boy to sleep, but Haytham remained stubbornly awake. He'd seen more than one man die in his sleep after a head injury, and his son was not going to be one of them.

Night came, and yet he remained. Near midnight, he was almost dozing off when he felt the tingle of visiting--strange, that, since he was visiting himself, but he supposed that whoever was occupying a body at the time would pick it up--and looked up into his own father's face, unable to resist an involuntary sob.

"Connor," Edward murmured, worried. "Connor, it's your grandfather. I--"

"Not Ratonhnhake:ton," Haytham mumbled.

"Who, then?"

"Haytham."

And Edward seized his small body in his arms, and Haytham broke down in tears, sobbing out the story that wasn't his to tell. And for a moment, it was right again: he was small, his father was hugging him tightly, and he could cry on his shoulder about the pain and the fear and the grief. The words dwindled, and Haytham slipped off to sleep, held by his father one last time, only vaguely aware of his son's consciousness beneath the surface.

Edward tucked his grandson's thin frame in more securely, wrapping the blankets around the feverish boy and wiping away his tears. Towards dawn, the dark lashes fluttered open, and Edward was pretty sure that his grandson was alone in his body.

Ratonhnhake:ton flinched, seeing an unknown white man. "Who are you?"

"Edward. ...A visitor, like your father."

"Nobody can see you but me?"

"That's right." Edward went to tuck a lock of hair behind his grandson's ear, but stopped when the boy flinched again.

"I don't want visitors. Especially not him."

"I think your father saved your life," Edward chided.

"He didn't save my mother."

"He couldn't."

"I don't want visitors." Ratonhnhake:ton was insistent and remained so, turning a deaf ear to Edward until, frustrated, he vanished, back to his own time, worried for his grandson.

Edward sat at his desk for a long time, deep in thought, until he heard a piping voice in the back hallway, and went to investigate. Little Haytham was playing with his toy soldiers, and Edward scooped him up into his arms despite his protests. "Father!" he squealed, planting kisses on Edward's cheeks.

"I love you, Haytham," Edward whispered, nearly crushing his son in a hug. "You'll always be my little boy."

Chapter Text

Edward was perched on one of Nassau's rickety roofs, waiting for Mary to finish killing the Templar inside, when he realized he was being visited. It was the man in the hat, who wouldn't tell Edward his name.

"Ahoy, Hat Man," he whispered. "If you'd like, I could use a little assistance watching for these guards."

"Indeed," the other man said, crouching beside him. Long minutes passed in silence, and just as Edward was about to try to pry some personal details out of his mystery visitor, Mary climbed out of a window and jumped into a tree.

"Didn't quite go as planned, Kenway," she warned, pitching her high-heeled sandals into a stream nearby as Edward and the visitor followed her into the tree. He noticed his visitor had some trouble with the tree branch--not as much as Altair had with water, though. Mary ripped most of her skirt off as guards began to surround the tree, and held the balled-up fabric in one hand. "Ready?"

Edward had to force himself to stop staring at her thighs (the hat man cleared his throat loudly) and picked a likely target to leap down on. "Your feminine charms not charming enough?"

Mary threw the flimsy cloth on a guard, and while he was trying to pull it out of his face, she assassinated him from the tree. And then she was in the thick of it, whirling from one to another, blades flashing silver and red. "Not feminine enough, Ah think."

"Perhaps they saw her hidden blades," the hat man muttered as Edward killed one with his own blades, and drew his swords for the rest.

It was brutal, and Edward and Mary were both drenched in blood by the time they'd dispatched them all. "Could have stood to have Ezio or Altair help us out," she said pointedly as they took off for a small house she maintained in town.

"Afraid all you've got today is Edward Kenway and the hat man."

"The hat man?"

"Won't tell me his name," Edward explained, feeling a little defensive. "Carries a hidden blade, but I don't think he's one of you lot, somehow."

The man in question laughed. "Hardly."

"Just what the world needs, more impostor Assassins," Mary grumbled. "Can't wait to get back in my proper breeches," she added, slapping a drunken pirate who had unwisely seen her legs as an invitation.

Edward followed her, both because he didn't quite remember where her little house was, and because the view was spectacular. "Uh..." he replied intelligently.

"Too much charms for the likes of you, Kenway," she scoffed. "Think Ah'd rather talk to your hat man, or is he as handsy as Ezio?" She opened the door, and practically dove into her masculine clothing. Edward watched a few seconds too long, which earned him a thump on the head from the hat man.

"He's too classy for Nassau, I'll tell you that," Edward said, rubbing the back of his head.

"Then Ah definitely want to meet the classy fool'd hang around with the likes of you."

"What say you, Hat Man? Hop on in." And just like that, he was watching himself lean closer and whisper something in Mary's ear. Her eyes widened, then narrowed, then her high cheekbones shaded pink underneath her deep tan.

"Oh. Ah've never gotten a compliment like that before," she murmured through her smile. The hat man tipped his hat, and she bowed, grinning.

"What did he say?" demanded Edward. "What did you say?" His visitor simply smirked, and faded.

Mary laughed. "Can't tell ya," she told him smugly.

"That's it, not again! I won't have anyone else talk to you!"

She just kept laughing. "Weren't nothin' of the sort, Kenway."

"Please!"

"You'll find out in due time."

Many years later, Haytham Kenway sat in his son's cabin, on his son's ship, reading. And then, his father was sitting on the bed. "I've been thinking, Haytham," Edward began.

"Have you, now?" Haytham asked with a small smile. "I hear it's good exercise."

"What did you tell Kidd--Mary--that day?"

Haytham laid down the book. "I told her my name, Father. My full name."

"But the compliment? What was that?"

Haytham weighed his words for a second. "I told her I would have been proud to call her Mother."

"No wonder she blushed."

"Indeed."

When Edward vanished, Connor entered his cabin. "You were lying to Grandfather."

"There are things he doesn't need to know, son."

"What did you really say to her?"

"That I wished she had been my mother."

"Why?"

"That is a story for another time."

Chapter Text

Ezio was sitting rather closer to a beautiful red-haired woman than was necessary on a garden bench that size, when Edward popped in. "So, this is the magical Sofia?"

"Sì, Edward. Come! You must meet her! With your extensive appreciation for the fine women of the world, surely you will understand what a pearl I have found."

"Edward?" Sofia asked with a smile. "This is the famous Edward?"

"Famous?" Edward asked, grinning.

"Yes, my love, this is Edward, a man after my own heart, hailing from the barbarous land of England--"

"--Wales--"

"--Wales, I mean. But come, come, Edward, you must speak with my beloved!"

Edward jumped into Ezio's body with a sly smile. So Ezio wanted him to meet his wife? It was about time to take revenge for that debacle with Kidd. "Ahoy there, lass."

She smiled, her eyes alight with humor. "Ezio tells me you're a fearsome pirate. Is this true, or one of his stories like owning the Pantheon?"

"Aye, 'tis true, but never fear, you're as safe with me as with a newborn lamb. In fact..." and he inched closer. "I've a secret to tell you especially. I've been waiting a long time for this."

"Edward, what--" Ezio began, as Edward leaned closer and whispered something in Sofia's ear, making secretive hand gestures through what seemed like a long explanation.

Sofia, her face flaming red, asked Edward a couple of whispered questions, and actually giggled. "Are you sure?"

Edward gestured expansively. "Positive. I saw it with my own eyes. That was a strange night, mind you, but I was not very drunk."

She smiled again. "If you've lied to me, Edward, I'll be sure to tell Ezio the blame falls squarely on you. Here we are, trusting you not to steer me wrong about such an important matter."

"Believe me, I haven't," Edward swore, hand on heart.

Later that night, Ezio discovered that Edward had been paying very close attention to that one courtesan's fingers that night long ago at the Rosa in Fiore. And he was most grateful, if embarrassed, and kind of sore the following morning. But it was definitely worth it.

Chapter Text

The lightning arcing across the sky would almost have been beautiful, if Shay wasn't in the North Atlantic on a ship made out of wet wood and metal, miles from an icy shore. As it was, he had his hands full trying to keep the Morrigan on its heading for the fort he intended to conquer. Perhaps attacking a fort in a storm was not the most intelligent thought Shay had ever had.

And then there was a naked man sitting on the railing in front of him. He averted his eyes politely, only barely registering that it was Altaïr--Altaïr?? Naked? Shay hadn't even been sure the man wasn't sewn into his Assassin robes. He cleared his throat and muttered under his breath, "Interrupting something, are we?"

Altaïr, for his part, didn't even bat an eye. "Yes. I was in bed with my wife. It was considerably warmer and drier." He looked warily at the raging sea, then at Shay, as if he didn't quite believe the Templar was competent to get them through the storm without drowning.

"Just below you is my cabin. And help yourself to something to wear, you're turning blue."

The legendary Assassin--okay, maybe Shay was still awed a bit--back-flipped off the railing, landing lightly on his bare feet and opening the door.

Gist heard the creak and, naturally, was alarmed. "Captain? I think your cabin door opened!"

"Not to worry, Gist, it'll probably slam shut in this bloody wind." Altaïr took the hint and slammed the door, and as soon as Shay could get to a safe harbor, he made some excuse about checking the map for water damage (damn it, he'd been saving that excuse for a visit from Aveline) and headed below to check on his visitor.

Altaïr was, predictably, snooping through his papers, and also predictably, had found one of Shay's old Assassin robes. They were rather loose across the shoulders and in the chest, but at least the legendary Mentor wasn't freezing to death. (That reminded Shay, what had happened to his dark Assassin robes?) Altaïr's feet were still bare, though, and Shay offered helpfully, "I've a spare pair of socks, if you like."

"No, thank you. I saw your socks. You need to wash them."

"I do n--hey! What happened to all my things?"

"Your dresser drawers were hanging open, so I closed them. And I hung up all your belts and hats and put your gaudy handkerchiefs in the chest up there." Altaïr was matter-of-fact, as if he commonly cleaned up after Templars. Well, maybe he did. He was married to one, after all.

"Listen, Altaïr, while you're here, I've a question for you."

"I thought you would." Altaïr riffled through papers, unconcerned. "You want to know if you and Aveline have a future together."

"Was I that obvious?" Shay asked sheepishly.

"I've been waiting for this since I saw the two of you in that hut together. Yes, you were that obvious."

"Well, what do you think?"

"I think you're very much in love with her, and she's very much in love with you. You have to reach some kind of accommodation on your beliefs or else there will be discord between you." The Assassin gave him a rare smile. "There's nothing like marrying a woman who's your equal, though. It's an experience I recommend."

"I wasn't even thinking about marriage yet."

"Think about it." He went back to examining Shay's fleet map.

"If you're done, then?"

"Don't you worry that an Assassin is spying on your Templar activities?" Altaïr asked.

"With all due respect, it's been over five hundred years since your time. You didn't even know about these lands."

"I could put them in my Codex."

"That you could," Shay agreed. "Are you going to write, 'In 1759, beware of Templars in New York'?"

"I could," Altaïr retorted, peeved, then sighed. "But I won't. That would lead to--friction among us visitors, for no gain of knowledge or power."

"Much obliged."

"Perhaps we should formally declare a truce."

"Thought you already had."

"I have a truce with Haytham. And an arrangement with Ezio, wherein he keeps his hands off my wife." After a moment, Altaïr added, "And he no longer kisses my hands."

"I've not had a problem with Ezio going after Aveline. But Edward has much to say about his pursuit of his friend Mary."

"Yes, and Connor has actually declared war on him, I understand."

"I never thought, when I heard about the things he'd done, that he could be... like this."

Altaïr smirked. "Did you ever think I'd criticize your housekeeping?"

Shay shook his head. "To be fair, I didn't exactly think I'd end up a Templar, either. I suppose life has a way of jumping out at you and surprising you."

"And, to extend the metaphor, slipping its blade in your ribcage?"

Shay nodded. "Metaphorically, aye."

Altaïr sat on the table, which Shay rather thought he might not have done if he knew the things that happened with the only other Assassin who liked to sit there. "Why did you become a Templar?"

Shay shrugged. "I did... something horrible. One side burned bridges with me. The other side built them."

"Reasonable. Maria left the Templars for much the same cause."

"And being hot for you had nothing to do with it, did it?"

"Aveline's charms aren't swaying your beliefs, are they?"

"Well, no, nor I hers."

"One must accept the lack of control over one's beloved. Perhaps by starting with opposing beliefs from the women we love, we have been given a head start on that realization."

"Or perhaps we just accept that we love stubborn, fearsome women," Shay suggested, grinning.

Altaïr smiled. "That too. Have you ever sparred with her?" Shay shook his head. "Try it. It will bring you closer together. It also gets the blood flowing," he said blandly.

Shay blushed, and muttered, "I'm sure it would." Then, noticing what the legendary Assassin was doing, he called out, "Hey, keep those on! What kind of--"

"I am about to leave," Altaïr explained. "I can feel it. Thank you for the loan of your clothes; I do feel much warmer." After folding the robes back up, he returned them to the chest, and latched it neatly just before he faded, leaving Shay shaking his head.

Chapter Text

Haytham was bored beyond belief. It was but a handful of days he'd been on the Providence and he was already nearly out of his mind, even though there was some sort of mutinous plot afoot. He'd written in his journal--he'd sketched in his journal--he'd met all the sailors that would talk to him--he'd taught a couple of them a few new moves with the sword--but mostly, he'd been bored.

So when he found himself on dry (if muggy) land, in an airy and brightly-lit room, he was most grateful for the distraction. And his curiosity was piqued when he realized that he'd dropped in on a Templar initiation. The words used were the old-fashioned and somewhat ridiculous ones that were mostly used in Spain, not the briefer English text that Haytham himself preferred, but this was still infinitely preferable to visiting an Assassin.

There was a man in Assassin robes, to be sure, and Haytham startled as he realized that the Assassin was actually going around and pickpocketing the various Templars. "What the devil do you think you're doing?" he asked in his most frosty tone.

The man in the Assassin robes--so it was him that Haytham was visiting, more's the pity--looked up, and Haytham nearly fell backwards from shock, recognizing his own father. Edward was very, very young, not nearly as scarred as he had been when Haytham was a child. He had a rogueish grin as he held a shushing finger to his lips, and then pickpocketed the last of his--apparently--fellow Templars.

Edward returned to his place around the table, and Haytham cursed whatever Templars were too wrapped up in their grandiose nonsense to notice their pockets being emptied. They went on prattling about the Observatory, and Edward took the time to examine the ring that had been placed on his finger, frowning deeply as he did so.

Haytham seated his hat somewhat forward so it cast his face into deeper shadow, and stealthily stowed his own ring in his pocket. His father seemed displeased by it for whatever reason; no need to cause friction. When at last the Grand Master (it must be Torres, Haytham decided) dismissed them, Edward seemed lost in thought as he walked, not even acknowledging his visitor. What could Haytham say? Rather, what could he say that would be believed?

"So, you are a Templar now?" he asked.

Edward scowled. "I thought it was some bloody little gentlemen's club at first. Believe me, I've nothing to do with these fellows."

That was not entirely the reaction Haytham had hoped for. "But aren't you an Assassin? Surely you must know of the Templars already!"

Edward laughed. "No, mate, I'm just wearing the clothes. Killed one of 'em--he tried to kill me first--and my own shirt was the worse for wear. Apparently he was ready to betray his fellows, so here I am, and I think the world's a better place for the lack of the real Duncan Walpole."

There was another shock for Haytham: to him, a Duncan Walpole was a trick, someone who claimed to join the Templars only to be revealed as the fraud they were.

Someone like Edward Kenway, apparently.

Haytham could feel his childhood dreams vanishing. It was an unnerving feeling, knowing that his father was so infamous. It was also strange to know that he couldn't tell his own father his name. The man had named him, for goodness sake.

Edward stared at Haytham, lost in thought. "Ahoy there, hat man, you have a name?"

Haytham drew himself up and did his best to look affronted. "I do, but I'd rather not share it, if it's all the same to you."

Edward frowned. "It's not all the same to me, how am I supposed to refer to you? I thought it was just the one fellow, but now if there's more of you haunting me, I can't just call you Hat Man."

"I fail to see why not."

"Fine, then, Hat Man." Edward clearly thought he'd made some rhetorical point.

"That's right, erm, Edward Kenway." It was beyond strange to call his father by name.

"That's not fair! How do you know my name without me even telling you?"

Haytham went for his 'inscrutable' face. "I just do."

Edward cursed under his breath and stomped off, dragging Haytham behind him. Apparently this whole 'visiting' thing required maintaining a distance of no more than a few yards. Edward stopped and glared. "You can bugger off now."

"I wish I could," Haytham replied. "Unfortunately, you may not have noticed, but this isn't under my conscious control."

Edward muttered and headed for the docks. Haytham followed, as if he could do otherwise. Surly pirate, fake Templar, impostor Assassin, this was still his father.

Chapter Text

Mary's out the door before Edward knows how to think again, which means at least she's not a part of the awkward conversation that's about to happen.

"Desmond," Edward says gently, "We're done. You can turn around now."

Desmond is staring fixedly at the corner. "Are you sure? Are everyone's clothes on?"

Edward's got breeches on, but no shirt. "It's all right. You won't see anything."

Desmond turns around, looking deeply uncomfortable. "Look, dude, it's not my business who you want to do, I just want to know who that guy was." He thinks he's got a right to know, given that Edward is his ancestor.

Edward stares at him for a moment, then laughs. "That was Mary, honestly, Desmond."

"Mary." Desmond thinks for a minute. "Your BFF Mary? You're banging your BFF?"

"B...F...F?"

"Best Friend Forever. Like, I thought you two had a bromance only."

Edward tries to make headway through that sentence, gives up. "Uh. Mary was, um, she asked me for help with something."

Desmond stares. "By help, you mean sex?"

Edward nods. "But we're not...I mean, if she wanted...I thought she...you know, I always thought she had someone. She definitely looks well satisfied sometimes. But why would she...? I mean, she needed a man, any man tonight, so why wouldn't she--"

"Unless she's doing another chick," Desmond suggests. Edward stares at him, and Desmond sighs. "Look, clearly you're from a time before gay pride."

"What's that now?"

"Like...men with other men, women with other women. Okay? In my time, it's okay, I mean some people are still assholes about it but it's not illegal or anything except in like Uganda." Desmond runs his hand through his short hair. "I can't believe I'm explaining this to you."

Edward looks a little affronted. "I do know what goes on amongst my crew, you know."

"Right, so, in 2012, that's cool, lots of guys do it, even people who aren't pirates. I was just surprised because...because I thought you liked women."

"I like Mary."

"I got that. Are you guys dating now, or what?"

Edward scoffs. "First she'd have to let everyone know she was a woman. Then she'd have to actually want to be seen with me. Hardly likely."

Desmond looks at him sympathetically. "Well, cheer up. At least you're probably not going to have to kill her."

Edward stares. "Why do I think there's a story there?"

"'Cause there is, but it's not one I wanna tell."

"Yeah?"

"She was apparently a Templar, and apparently that's okay dating material for everyone but me, because this creepy immortal god-thing possessed me and made me kill her." Desmond kicks at the floor, because he's not about to go around breaking Edward's furniture. That would be a dick thing to do.

"Oh."

"Look, uh, enough about my problems. Did you really get a tattoo on your nipple? Didn't that hurt like hell?"

"I was drunk."

"Yeah, I figured."

"Hey." Edward puts a comforting hand on Desmond's shoulder. "I'm sorry about your lass."

"Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for the comfort, but your hand smells like sex. Not helping."

Chapter Text

It was a dreary day in January when Shay presented himself, in his fashionable clothes from Versailles, at the address specified in Aveline's letter. A servant opened the door, but Aveline rushed out to him. "Come in, come, come, quickly," she whispered. All he could do was stare at her--so young, still, not even forty, hair still dark, her only wrinkles the laugh lines at the corners of her weary eyes. "Quietly, please," she murmured. "He's asleep, he sleeps so rarely these days."

Chapter Text

Ratonhnhake:ton returns over and over to the two sites, where he saw the memories of his father and of Desmond. Maybe it's silly, but he feels more grounded, more... himself somehow.

"Don't be ridiculous, son," his father tells him, as he sits on his haunches atop the roof. "You've got to go find Washington and take the Apple from him."

Ratonhnhake:ton whines, his ears drooping.

"No," Haytham says firmly. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself, get up, and for heaven's sake, be human."

This bothers him, once his father has disappeared and he's shimmered back into his own form. How did he not realize...? He flies down, right into a swarm of Bluecoats, and he calls the wolf pack to help him, then slams the earth to rid himself of the last of them.

"Human!" his father calls. "Stay human! You're not a wolf, Connor!"

And so it goes, as everyone he knows continues to die again, all around him. He reaches Washington and, broken, he watches the phantom of his mother stealing Washington's scepter. He feels a tingle demanding attention, sees something out of the corner of his eye--

--but it is just his father, an unreadable expression on his face, his eyes following the same visions. "Ziio," Haytham murmurs, and Ratonhnhake:ton turns away, unable to bear seeing such pain, regret, wonder, and awe on his father's face. He feels he's intruded on something intensely private.

"Well," Haytham says at last, "you've got your work cut out for you, son." It understates the case so thoroughly that he laughs-or-barks.

Ratonhnhake:ton follows his mother's footsteps, arriving at the apex of the pyramid. Something clamps onto his shoulder, and he starts, before he realizes it's a large eagle, the brown wings and tail splotched here and there with white. "Good luck, Connor," his father's voice comes from the bird, "I will help where I can." As Ratonhnhake:ton stares, the eagle clicks his beak. "Don't be ridiculous. Where do you think you got it from, anyway?"

And so he throws himself into combat, sometimes noticing his father flying around Washington, distracting him--it seems that the corrupted King can see Haytham, which might usually have troubled Ratonhnhake:ton, but now simply spurs him to fight. And finally, Washington collapses on his throne.

As Ratonhnhake:ton approaches, the King's form changes, demanding in his oldest friend's voice, and his mother's, that he not touch the Apple. He keeps moving forward. The form changes again.

"Shit! Fuck! What the hell!" Desmond bobbles the Apple, transferring it to his left--only--hand. "Dude, what's with your eyes?"

Haytham ruffles his feathers, on Connor's shoulder again. "What happened to your--oh, it was that precursor relic, wasn't it?"

"Augh! Haytham! Shit, what's going on? You're a bird, Connor's--well, I don't even know, and where the fuck are we?"

"How are you here?" Ratonhnhake:ton asks, and Haytham is relieved to see he's human enough, still.

Desmond lifts the Apple, then adds, "But this place feels weird. Like, it’s in the Apple."

"I know," says Haytham. "Altaïr said--"

Desmond frowns, waves the Apple at him, and Haytham is human again himself. "Ratonhnhake:ton, you have to take it."

"What if I become a mad King as well?"

"You??" Haytham scoffs. "Hardly."

"Haytham's right," Desmond says, his eyes glinting oddly. "You're the best of all of us."

"No, you are," replies Ratonhnhake:ton stubbornly. "Sacrificing yourself to save the world. I aimed no higher than my village."

"Well, I'm not dead, am I?" Desmond asks, flapping his empty sleeve. "Anyway, you and Washington are the only real people in here--Haytham and I are just visiting--you guys made this world and you can unmake it. He won't, so you have to." He holds up the Apple, and Ratonhnhake:ton lays a hand on it.

Some days later, Connor stands on the deck of the Aquila, holding a sack pensively. He considers it a while, then swiftly opens it and takes out the Apple.

"Hi," says Desmond when he appears, waving his empty sleeve.

"If I sink this in the ocean, I will not see you again," Connor tells him, regretfully.

"Sure you will," Desmond assures him. "I just won't see you. Maybe. Anyway, that Apple's crazy." He dismisses it with a flick of his fingers.

"What did it feel like," Connor asks, "to save everybody?"

Desmond thinks for a long moment. "It hurt. A lot. It felt like everything I was giving people, every part of their life that they got because of me, was being cut out of me and given to them. Over and over times seven billion. And my arm..." he frowns at the stump. "It felt like I was holding the sun in my hand, the whole sun. That's why it burned." He adds, "And you know what people are going to do with their lives that they wouldn't live if it weren't for me? They're going to fuck them up. They're going to hurt other people and themselves. They're going to continue wrecking the Earth with their own selfishness. Everything that I gave, all that pain, they're just wasting it." He looks straight into Connor's eyes. "But they're alive, and it's their lives to waste, and that's what matters."

Connor's brow furrows. "Would you do it again if you had a chance?"

Desmond nods. "Of course. That's what you have to do. You understand that, don't you?"

Connor nods slowly. "I do. Farewell, Desmond. You are alive, too, and that matters."

Desmond sighs. "I just wish I wasn't so lonely."

Connor reaches out, and clasps Desmond's forearm, a rare touch that surprises Desmond to no end, and then he replaces the Apple in the sack. Desmond fades out, and Connor ties the bag shut, pitching it over the railing before he can change his mind, ruin the world out of his own loneliness.

He takes the wheel of the Aquila and pilots it back to the silent Homestead.

Chapter Text

Aveline had found herself in a lot of uncomfortable situations in her life because of Templars; this was no different, although she could at least admit that this one was her own fault as well. For some reason, she and Shay had decided that three small children wasn't enough and they needed a fourth. She couldn't quite remember why she had thought this, but she was sure that Shay's heavily muscled chest had a lot to do with it. And his arms. Oh, his arms. And quite probably his lips--but whatever the reason, here she was, large enough for discomfort.

And Shay, loving husband that he was, had convinced the nanny to take the children out, had run a nice warm bath for her, and had offered to scrub her back. Things had proceeded nicely from there, and he was theoretically in the middle of combing out her hair, although his hands were nowhere near and Aveline wasn't even sure where he had put the comb, not that she cared. As soon as she had put up her hand to pull him closer and deepen their kiss, she found herself cold, wet, and far from Shay.

She didn't often curse, but she let fly with a string of them now, in every language she knew. Just when things had been getting good! And she knew from past experience that her current arousal was the biggest obstacle to ending the visit and going back to her bath, to Shay.

"I was going to complain about you ruining my papers," Ezio told her, his voice full of gentle laughter, "but it seems you were in the middle of something more important."

"Yes," Aveline groaned, curled up into a shivering ball on the desk. "We had the children out of the house and everything." She heard Ezio's footsteps leave the room, then return, and he gently wrapped a large blanket around her.

"Come along, my friend, the cold is not good for you just now. Sit by the fire and warm up."

She followed him to the fireplace, and he found a comb and finished her hair, chatting with her lightly all the while. Even though he didn't know quite how to handle her hair texture, and she had to explain the purpose of heating up the comb to him, and--the biggest problem--he wasn't Shay, she had to admit it was nice, just to talk of light things, to tell him about her latest missions and her children and the city and the life she had made with Shay. When she was dry, he found more blankets and insisted she take a nap in his armchair, so that when she returned she'd be sitting up in the bath. She protested feebly, but it was a very soft armchair and she'd been on her feet all day chasing little Rory who'd just learned to run and used his new skill at every opportunity. She gave Ezio a grateful hug and settled into the chair with the extra pillows he'd gotten her, drifting off in the pleasant warmth.

When she woke up, the bath was still warm, and Shay was looking at her, concerned. She pulled him close for a kiss and felt even warmer. Maybe it wasn't too late to get back to how she felt before visiting. She certainly felt better rested now.

Chapter Text

Mardi Gras was the biggest party Desmond had ever seen that wasn't in Times Square, and he was aching from loneliness. He'd promised Aveline they'd go together, but without the ability to visit or be visited, that wasn't going to happen.

He'd already gotten a neckful of beads, eaten pancakes twice and crepes once, and been vomited on, but he felt strangely distant from it all. He ducked into a small, dingy coffee shop and ordered something to get the privilege of sitting at one of the tiny tables.

A noise at the other end of the miniscule shop had him reflexively using his Eagle Vision, and he stopped when he noticed a gold glint out of the corner of his eye. Down on the floor, he pushed aside a chair, ignoring the increasingly angry noises from the barista. He could barely read the glowing engraving on the keystone.

She'd remembered. And she'd told everyone. And if only he could hear and see them, they'd all be here.

"Excuse me, sir, you have to stop crying on the wall," the barista complained.

"What's this place called?" He meant, how did that message get on that stone, but of course it wasn't visible without Eagle Vision.

The barista sighed. "Grandcor Coffee. Like it says on the sign. We've only been here for hundreds of years."

Desmond sat back, slammed his head on the surprisingly solid table. "Really?" Well, that would explain it. It was like someone had smushed together her last name and Shay's, which come to think of it, they probably had.

Another sigh. "Yes. Can you get up off the floor? Your latte is ready."

"Sure," Desmond mumbled, and cradled the stump of--no, his arm--close as he used his left hand to pull himself up. "Sorry about that. I thought I saw something on the stone."

"Yeah, we get that all the time. Nobody remembers what it says, though."

Desmond tipped heavily, on the off chance that the place had stayed in the family, and let his tears roll into his coffee as he watched the throng of revelers outside.

Chapter Text

She's sure she must be over a hundred now, and it's been two decades since she laid her husband to rest, but Aveline doesn't count herself a widow. A widow doesn't see her husband, but Aveline’s never stopped seeing Shay. He's usually old, like her, and eventually the grief and rage she felt at his death ebbed away--and really, how silly to feel so angry that they were back to visiting, when that was all they had for nearly ten years of her life, thirty of his.

He loves to watch, with her, their children grow from middle-aged to old, although they were both sad the day Rory's arm snapped like a twig and he and Jeanne decided they were well beyond fighting every time they met. And so, the chronic skirmish between Assassin and Templar ended, in their family, at least.

Today, all their children are home in the house where Aveline was born, where she was freed, the house she grew up in, the house she used as a base of operations for her Assassin missions until Gérald converted the warehouse. The corridors and rooms are full of chattering grandchildren and rowdy great-grandchildren. Her eldest son, Philippe, employs the best servants he can find, and the nurse that wheels her out to the garden is the perfect mix of cheerful and concerned, putting her feet up, arranging her parasol--sadly, this one's not a weapon--and taking her pulse.

She's stopped trying to conceal talking to her visitors, even though it worries her children, but she's elderly enough not to care if others think her senile. The nurse listens with half an ear, no doubt wondering who "Ezio" is, or why she keeps laughing. But she's an easy old lady to care for, not a problem like some, and so the nurse gets her situated with water to sip and a lovely view of the flowers, the exact amount of sun to warm her aching bones and shade to keep her cool, and leaves her to Ezio and Edward and anyone else who shows up to keep her company.

Shay stands by her side, like most days, occasionally tucking the blanket back around her legs, but mostly just holding her hand quietly. Two of their great-grandchildren run through, giving her a giggling greeting as they chase each other back into the house. She smiles benevolently down on them and drifts off on the tide of conversation; Edward is attempting to impress Altaïr with tales of punching sharks in the face.

Time passes, and she's not sure how much of it, but the shadows change in her blurred vision. Only her visitors remain crystal clear, proof if any was needed that she doesn't see them with her eyes but with her heart.

"Sing for me, love," she asks Shay, hoarsely. "Please." He clears his throat several times before he starts, not that that helps his voice not creak. But Edward's strong voice chimes in, supporting Shay's. More voices join in--Altaïr could be a pirate on singing alone, if it weren't for all the water; he's ferociously good at singing all the sea shanties Edward and Shay have taught him. Ezio can't carry a tune in a bucket, but he makes up for it with gusto. Haytham is curiously reluctant to sing, but he kind of hums the words. Connor's voice is surprisingly soulful in its depth, and the contrast of Desmond's young voice is heart-rending.

After several tunes, Aveline is tired, so tired, and she closes her eyes and smiles as she leans her cheek into Shay's hand. "Just one more," she begs. "Lowlands Away. My favorite." He obliges, and she revels in the mournful tune.

My love she came, dressed all in white

It seems like--it was--so many years ago, her hurried little wedding to Shay, but she'd not have it any other way. And now their children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren fill the house with noise and life.

And then I knew my love--

The singing ends abruptly, seven voices silenced at once as they vanish, and all that's left is one old, still woman sitting in the garden with tears drying on her smiling face.

Chapter Text

Shay wasn't sure why he hadn't come back to New York right away. He'd've missed the funeral, either way, but somehow he didn't want to go home and find his visitor, his boss, his friend wasn't there. But he realized that he could only go up and down the river for so long before he had to stop in.

He took a circuitous route, checking on all the buildings, the churches and shops he'd renovated. Some of them had burnt down--it was shocking to see the damage the town was just beginning to recover from. He debated whether to go to Fort George or that one church first, and the church won. As he approached, he "heard" faint whispers, and his hackles rose. Who would be stalking him here, now? He looked around with his other sight, and at first didn't see him; but of course he should have realized: a brawny, half-Native man in a huge white hood had no business blending into the crowd on that bench. He'd never met him in person before, but of course he'd seen him a hundred times, visiting.

"Ahoy, Connor." He dropped down on the bench beside the Assassin, and the civilians on either end looked at them nervously and fled.

"What are you doing here?"

Shay pointed at the little graveyard. "Paying my respects. You?"

"The same."

"From across the street?" Connor said nothing. The moment stretched on. "I wanted--" Shay began, but Connor interrupted him.

"I understand now."

"Understand what?"

"What you tried to tell me. I would not listen, but I remember." Connor's stare was intense, and Shay remembered their aborted conversation over the body of Connor's friend.

"It's--"

"I am sorry."

Shay blinked. He hadn't expected that. "Sorry?"

"I have taken your friend from you," Connor explained.

"I've lost friends before."

"By another's hand?" Shay said nothing for several long minutes, and Connor spoke again. "Achilles is dead."

Shay had to swallow twice before he could talk. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Are you?"

"Aye. He was my Mentor once, too, you know." It was a little silly, really, to be choked up over an enemy's death. But Shay could remember the all-consuming grief that had wracked the man after his wife and son had died. He could remember his own joy and determination the day Achilles had accepted him as a novice. He could remember a hundred things about him, all now tinged with regret for--what? Had he secretly wanted to seek out the old Assassin for some kind of explanation or absolution?

"I had always wondered why he did not send me to kill you as well," Connor said carefully.

"Probably because I showed him mercy." The blood on the ice, the blood on his clothes and his face, Achilles clutching his leg and staring up at Haytham with such rage. Shay knew, suddenly, in a moment of perfect clarity, why the old man had renamed Haytham's son after his own: it was an act of war, of theft, of revenge, of resentment. And yet, the grief in Connor's shaking shoulders spoke of fondness and trust between the old man and the boy.

"Yet you tried to kill him, once, through me."

"That was many years ago. For me, anyway. I grew up." If he hadn't tried, then, to kill him, he might have done it in truth in the far north.

They were silent again for some minutes, and Shay found himself thinking back, trying to remember when he was a child, when his father had died. He had some vague recollection; but he knew that everything he had experienced, Connor now felt hot and fresh and twice over, compounded by guilt and regret and emotions Shay didn't think he could even name. "I'm sorry, Connor. For your losses."

Connor laughed, almost. "One by my own hand."

"And who would understand that better than me?" Shay gestured across the street. "Come. Let's go see it then."

"Is it not...inappropriate?"

Shay shook his head. "What's inappropriate is if a man doesn't visit his father's grave. Even if he hated the man." And how many years was it since he'd seen his own father's tiny headstone?

"I did not hate him," Connor surprised him by saying. "I made a mistake. I see that now." He added, after a moment, "Far too late."

Shay nodded. "And that's something I understand for sure." He wondered where Hope was buried, and Liam, and if he'd be allowed to visit their graves. He wondered if Connor would let him come to the Homestead, someday, to lay a feather on Achilles's grave.

"Wait," Connor nearly begged, and Shay was surprised to see the young man's severe limp, the way he favored what seemed to be an injury in his side. He offered his hand to help, but wasn't offended when Connor refused it; he waited for the Assassin to make his own way across the street, and they walked to the grave together.

Chapter Text

"That's more like it!" Shay crowed, lifting up the little Templar artifact, only to hear guffawing behind him.

"Do you always congratulate yourself on finding things?" Aveline asked. "It seems a simple matter of understanding a map."

"Aye, and with no map I've now found the prettiest Assassin ever to walk this Earth," he told her with a smile, tucking the artifact in his pocket. "Certainly should be permitted to congratulate someone for that."

"You could congratulate the Assassin in question," she suggested. "Beauty requires hard work, I'll have you know."

"Hard work that's much appreciated," he assured her, taking her in his arms as she reached up to meet his lips with hers.

"As I appreciate your hard work," she murmured, one hand reaching down for his trousers and worming in past his belt.

"Wait--hey--your hand is really cold!" he practically yelped, and she smiled and pressed her body to his. "And you're definitely not dressed for this weather." He felt very protective of her exposed cleavage, and her impractical little shoes were already full of snow.

Haytham walked up at just that moment; he'd been standing in a thicket of trees nearby for the past couple of minutes. "Oh, please, can't the two of you wait until you can get to an inn?"

"Haytham, you have no idea how long it's been since I've seen him."

"Judging by your reaction, at least a century."

"Where are we?" she asked, "somewhere in Acadia?"

"Aye, and it's bitterly cold," Shay told her, taking her in his arms and kissing her.

"Then perhaps you should, ah, what was it? Find out about my presence here and rent us a room?" she suggested. "A room with plenty of warm blankets...and you to warm me up..."

He blushed, then took her by the hand as the three of them walked back to the Morrigan. Aveline kept nearly tripping in the ankle-deep snow, and Shay had to steady her more than once. "Gist! We're staying overnight here, tell the men!"

Gist laid a finger alongside his nose and winked knowingly. "Will do. Enjoy your visit with Aveline!"

"I will!" Shay called, grinning.

"I'll stay aboard the ship--" Haytham began, then frowned as Shay walked alone towards the town. "Run along, Aveline."

"I find that I can't," she muttered, annoyed.

"What? Oh...Shay, a word, please," Haytham called.

Shay returned, frowning with confusion. "Aveline? What's going on?"

She pointed to Haytham. "I'm visiting him."

They all stood, staring at each other for a minute. "Oh, absolutely not," Haytham insisted. "I'll not be sharing a room with the two of you. I know what you get up to, I don't need to watch."

Shay began, "We could..." but then trailed off.

"Don't be ridiculous," Aveline said briskly. "We'll rent two rooms, one for Haytham and one for Shay and me. Then I should be able to be close enough."

Finding a room proved to be relatively hard; the only inn was more along the lines of someone's unused bedroom. At least the door locked.

"No," said Haytham. "Two rooms or the deal's off."

"You could sit in the corner with a blanket over your head," Aveline suggested.

"No," he repeated stubbornly.

"Erm, Aveline, love, I don't think I could if he was sitting right there," Shay added.

"Then Haytham can sit outside the door and wait for us to finish," Aveline tried.

"I'd still be able to hear you, I'm sure," Haytham said with another long-suffering sigh. "But very well. Only call out to me when you do; I'm tired and would like to sleep as soon as it's safe."

"He acts like his eyes would be scalded by the sight of an inch of my skin," she complained to Shay, once they were inside the small room.

"I think he’s just prissy."

Aveline looked out the window. "You should open this and close it, as if I were sneaking in through it." It was nice and creaky for what she always called "verisimilitude".

"And now, my lovely lady Aveline, I think I must get you into this bed quick as a wink." Shay pulled her over to the rather narrow and lumpy bed spread with an ample amount of blankets and quilts.

Aveline pretended to gasp. "Oh! And here I thought you were a gentleman. Well, this will make things easier." She pushed him onto the bed and climbed atop him, nimble hands working at his buckles with practiced speed.

"I can hear you!" Haytham hissed from the armchair he'd wrestled into the hallway. "And what do I do if the family asks why I'm here?"

"Tell them the truth, but loudly. Your friend needed some privacy," Aveline told him matter-of-factly as she tore open Shay's jacket.

"Oh, and that won't get us thrown out for immorality," Haytham snapped.

"At least you'll have a place to sleep," Aveline said cheerfully.

"You'd better stay off that trundle bed, that's mine and I don't want it dirtied before I sleep in it," Haytham griped.

"Too late!" Aveline giggled.

"I do hope you're joking," Haytham told her mildly. "If I find that you've desecrated my bed I'll go sleep on the ship."

"Too much talking," Shay complained, and Aveline returned her attention to his amazing hands under her skirt.

Haytham sighed and tried to block out the noise--Shay was trying to keep quiet but Aveline clearly wasn't--to read his book. Yet again, distraction intervened, in the form of another visitor.

"Whoa! What's up? Why are you sitting outside this door?" Desmond asked, nearly losing his balance as he appeared on the floor in front of Haytham's chair.

Haytham sighed. "Shay and Aveline."

"Say no more, dude." Desmond frowned. "Why aren't you in, like, another town by now so you don't have to hear them?"

"Because I'm too kind for my own good."

Desmond stared as if he couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "You're what?"

"I value Shay," he said through gritted teeth. "Therefore, when Aveline visits me, I do foolish things like sit outside a door so that Aveline can be close enough to him to be...close to him."

Desmond nodded. "You're a good wingman."

"Indeed, whatever that means." Just then, Aveline made an unidentifiable noise that probably signified intense pleasure, and Haytham firmly stared at his book.

"Why don't you get your own room?" Desmond suggested. "For both of our sakes."

"I very much wish I could," said Haytham, yawning.

"Dude, you got sexiled when you were tired? Not cool, guys, not cool!"

"Don't make a fuss, Desmond," Haytham insisted.

Desmond banged on the door. "Make it a quickie, you two! Be nice!"

Aveline's voice floated out. "We're done, but he ripped my dress."

Desmond made a face. "Tacky templar!"

Aveline giggled. "Is 'tacky' another word for, what do you say, 'sexy'?"

"You're such a good wingman, Haytham," Desmond told him.

Aveline leaned out the door, eyes alight, Shay's shirt falling off one shoulder, and smiled. "We finished," she said simply. "He's asleep."

Desmond and Haytham waited until they heard the rustling of blankets that meant Aveline was back in the bed, and only then opened the door. "I'll sleep on the floor," Desmond was quick to offer.

Haytham rolled his eyes and marked an imaginary line on the trundle bed. "You may have this half." Aveline chuckled from where she was curled up with Shay.

Desmond nodded. "Fair deal!" He figured if Edward showed up, they could deal with that problem when it happened.

Chapter Text

Cannons still thundered about him, a counterpoint to the throbbing in his ribs, but Haytham barely noticed. He hadn't intended for anything to go this way, but here he was with his hands clasped around his son's throat. And then--it shouldn't have been such a relief, but it was and he couldn't deny it--he wasn't in Fort George anymore, but elsewhere.

He took a shaky breath, aware that it might be one of his last, and looked around. Well, it was obvious who he was visiting; nobody but his son had ever lived in a longhouse. He looked around, confused, not seeing Connor, then realized that most likely he'd be a lot smaller than the man he was just fighting. And then he saw him, and then he saw her.

Ziio was asleep and looking exhausted, her infant son wriggling determinedly out of her grip. Haytham had no idea how old Connor was; his only experience with babies was through a series of disjointed visits throughout his life. He didn't look like he could walk or talk yet, but his fat little legs seemed sturdy and were pushing him away from his mother.

Haytham knelt beside his lover and son, momentarily undone by the tableau, then he put up a hand to restrain Connor. "You're meant to stay with her. I know, you want to go explore, you always will. But treasure every moment you can have by her side. There won't be enough of them, and she's worth staying close to."

The baby boy looked up at him, unimpressed, and drooled. Haytham stared back at him for a moment, thinking, then carefully, awkwardly, wrapped his arms around him and lifted him.

His son was surprisingly heavy for his size, a bundle of deerhide and baby fat, and Ziio stirred momentarily in her sleep, causing Haytham to freeze. If she woke, what would she see? Her son suspended in midair? Haytham almost put him back, but then chubby fists closed on his jacket. "There you go," he whispered, trying and only partially managing to rock him. "There you go. I've got you. I'll never hurt you."

As the words left his mouth, he realized they were true, and he knew they spelled his doom, slain at his own son's hands because he would never fight back in earnest. But how could he hurt the squirming bundle he now held?

This would be, he realized, his last ever visit. How appropriate, to spend it holding the very child who would grow up to kill him. He had given Connor life, and now Connor would take it away from him. "Your face will be the last I see," he murmured, "and mine the last you see." And that he knew, he'd seen Connor an old man, dying on a sunny morning.

"I'm sorry I couldn't give you more than that. I didn't, and I don't, know how." He pressed his lips to the soft skin of his son's forehead and sighed. "If you knew what I was saying, I'd never be able to say it. Not like a proper father should, anyway."

The longhouse began to fade around him, and he barely managed to tuck his son securely back in before he was back in Fort George, and the pain in his heart was only relieved by the blade at his neck. He hadn't done the unthinkable, he hadn't killed his son. And now this was his last chance and even though Connor could actually understand him this time, he had to get it out as best he could. "I'm proud of you, in a way..."

Chapter Text

Shay noticed the extra child right away, of course. Not just because he suddenly counted five small figures, or because one of them was paler than the other four, but because his and Aveline's children completely ignored the boy, who eventually wandered despondently over to Shay.

"What's your name, lad?" Shay asked in an undertone, although he had a pretty good idea from the boy's dark hair and blue eyes.

"Haytham," he said forlornly, then brightened just a bit. "You could see me!"

"Aye, that I can," Shay confirmed. "You're not really here, is the thing. That's why my children can't see you."

"Then how come you can?" the future Grand Master asked.

"You're visiting me. Haven't you ever had friends appear out of nowhere, that nobody else can see?"

"No," Haytham promptly replied. "My father can see them too."

"All right," Shay allowed. "Friends that only you and your father can see. Well, you're a friend that only my wife and I can see."

"How do you know she can see me?" Haytham asked curiously.

Shay laughed. "I'll tell you a secret, if you promise not to tell anyone. Not even me, if you meet me and I'm not wearing my wedding ring."

Haytham pursed his lips (he was honestly adorable) and nodded very seriously. He couldn't have been more than seven or eight, about Rory's age.

Shay whispered, "I met her this way. Before we ever met in person, we visited each other, like you're visiting me, and fell in love." He felt secure in explaining all this to Haytham; his fellow Templar had told him, once, that he'd found himself in strange places as a child, he'd played with children nobody else could see, and he'd thought it not at all strange.

"Oh..." Aveline's voice was quiet enough for their children not to hear over the clack of wooden swords--they were playing pirates and bounty hunters again, Rory and Tomas trying to escape the law in the form of Philippe and Jeanne. "How darling! Haytham, is that you?" She tried to cover her smile as Shay nodded.

Haytham eyed her warily. "I'm Haytham Kenway, yes. Who are you?"

She leaned close and pulled him into a hug. "I'm Aveline. And someday we'll be friends, and I'm going to hug you now and you can't stop me."

Haytham squirmed restlessly, and looked up at Shay, pleading. Shay debated rescuing his future boss, but decided, instead, to join in the hug. "Ack!" Haytham squawked as he was crushed between them. "Do friends always crush each other?"

"No," said Aveline, "but they should."

"I don't even know you," Haytham whined.

"But we know you," Aveline insisted.

"And you're a very good friend of ours," Shay added. "The very best."

"What've I done that's so great?" Haytham asked, dubious.

Aveline laughed. "You'll find out when you're older." Haytham made a face.

"Mama," Tomas asked, "who are you and Papa talking to?"

"A friend from another time," she told her youngest child, smiling.

Tomas scrunched up his cute little nose. "I don't see anyone but you two."

"Of course you can't, he's from another time," she explained.

"Leave it," Philippe called out, as Rory whacked him with his wooden sword. "Ow! It's just Mama and Papa's invisible people. Ow! You're going to pay for that, Rory!"

Haytham pointed to Jeanne, who was sneaking up on Tomas. "Who's she? She's pretty."

"That's Jeanne," Aveline told him with a smile, as her daughter thumped Tomas with her sword and ran off, her two long braids bouncing behind her.

Haytham watched her, mesmerized, as she aimed a good whack at Rory's leg. "She knows how to use a sword?" he asked, amazed.

Shay laughed. "Not well. She's still little. When she's older, she'll fight as well as Aveline and me, I'm sure."

Haytham shook his head. "My sister doesn't know how to fight at all. I'm the only one who has weapons training."

Aveline frowned deeply. "I know. I still can't understand how Edward could think it was a good idea not to teach her to fight."

Shay laughed. "If Jenny could cut with a blade like she cuts with her tongue, nobody would be safe."

Aveline glared at him. "But sharp words were of no use when--you know," she said evasively, eyeing Haytham.

Shay held up his hands. "I tried talking to Edward about it, but--aye, now, what's this?"

Haytham had thrown his small arms most of the way around Shay's waist and buried his face in Shay's coat. "You care," he said simply.

"Well, ah, you do too," Shay replied. "I know you do. There's things you'll do that arise from that caring. And I know about some of that." He ruffled Haytham's hair fondly.

The boy turned and hugged Aveline now. "And you care. Even about Jenny. And you tried to explain me to your son." He squeezed her. "The people next door, they're scared of me. Or...my family, anyway. Would you let me play with your family if I could?"

"Of course!" Aveline told him, pulling him into her arms and squeezing him tightly. "You're a good man, Haytham Kenway, and we're meant to be friends. Family, even. And if it seems I've forgotten when next we meet, just be patient and wait for me to realize it." She kissed his forehead before letting him go.

Haytham half-smiled. "Mother and Jenny can't see you but you're all real friends." He frowned. "Will they? Ever see you, I mean?"

"Aye, lad," Shay assured him, "Jenny, at least."

"And will I meet you? Like regular people?"

"Most definitely," Shay told him with a broad smile.

Haytham grinned, then vanished, back to his lonely childhood.

"Mama, why're you sad?" Rory asked, managing to parry Philippe's sword, to both of their surprise.

Aveline sighed, then smiled. "Do you all know how lucky you are?"

"Lucky?" asked Rory. "I have to share my bedroom with Tomas! That's not lucky!"

"Hey!" Tomas complained. "I'll let the bounty hunters get you!"

"You have brothers and a sister, you have friends, you live with your Mama and your Papa...you're very lucky children," Aveline insisted.

Jeanne climbed into her father's lap to hug him. "We live with the best Mama and Papa," she corrected.

Philippe wrinkled his nose. "The only thing better would be if Papa's socks were less scary."

Aveline laughed. "Nobody's perfect, not even your Papa." She leaned over to kiss Shay.

Philippe asked, "Which invisible person was it today?"

"A lonely little boy," she told him. "He has no friends and nobody to play with."

"He has friends," Jeanne informed her. "He has you."

Chapter Text

Desmond reaches to touch the sphere--

--Haytham lifts the amulet from the Assassin's chest, and he sees, for a moment, Desmond's fingers around it--

--Altaïr picks up the Apple for the first time, and sees a projection of what he knows to be the world, but all he hears is Desmond screaming--

--Shay touches the spiky thing, and as it crumbles into powder in his hands, he feels Desmond's skin blister and burn--

--Ratonhnhake:ton takes the Apple from the specter that looks like him, and smells flesh, Desmond's flesh, scorching--

--Aveline puts together the Heart, her own racing as she feels the waves of pain crashing through Desmond's nerves--

--Ezio raises the Apple, and as it drains him he feels the life draining from Desmond--

--Edward replaces the Skull in its place in the Observatory, and for a moment he sees through Desmond's eyes, watching his hand wither as strange lightning plays up his arm.

Desmond's heart stops--

--and Aveline starts it beating again.

The prison opens, that he used the key for--

--and Haytham's eyes narrow in anger.

The energy surges out of him--

--and Ezio keeps just the tiniest sliver for Desmond.

Fire strikes the Earth--

--and Ratonhnhake:ton fortifies him against it.

The world trembles--

--and Shay holds it together.

The air bursts into rainbowed brilliance--

--and Altaïr traces it into lines, makes sense of it.

And the prisoner slips from her cage, diving into the networks of the world, hiding herself among porn, and spreadsheets, and advertisements, and cats.

But Edward sees her, and he sees a Sage.

For a moment, a moment without agony, Desmond looks over his shoulder at the projected images, and he remembers the face, remembers the eyes.

And he slips back to himself, with the most tenuous hold on life and sanity, and something in his mind burns out.

All is darkness, and silence, but for his beating heart.

Chapter Text

Ezio wakes up, and--

--no, whatever he was planning to do has to be un-planned, because his father and brothers are dead and what that means for his personal safety comes second in his mind to knowing he will never again see Federico or Petruccio or, Dio mio, his father.

Only gradually does he realize that there is a small boy, younger even than Petruccio, sitting on his feet. The boy's face is stony and closed, and Ezio wonders what's happened to him.

"There you are," the boy says, civilly enough, as if sitting on a stranger's feet is a perfectly normal occurrence. "I don't know that I've seen you before. I'm Haytham Edward Kenway," and the catch in his voice on his second name piques Ezio's interest.

"Ezio Auditore da Firenze." His voice sounds rusty, and he tries to remember the last time he spoke. "I'm sure I've never seen you." Unless this Haytham was one of his playmates from long ago, but--no, his name isn't remotely Italian, so how would Ezio have ever known him?

Haytham seems like nothing so much as a ball of lightning forcefully held at rest, and Ezio envies him for a moment. His mother would have--no, would, he had to believe she'd come back to herself someday--approve, if Ezio could ever have that kind of self control. "You were crying," the boy tells him directly. "Why?"

Ezio bites back his first retort. A rude child was hardly the worst thing that could happen to him. "If I was," he refuses to admit, "it was because my father and brothers are dead. Were killed," he amends.

"I've no brothers but my father was killed as well." He neither brags nor sympathizes. "It's been a week, now. I can't say I miss him any less than I did right after it happened."

Ezio feels the need to add, "They scared my sister and--did awful things to my mother."

Haytham nods once, firmly. "My mother was nearly killed, and my sister was kidnapped. Are you going to avenge your family? I am."

"I...yes," Ezio replies, narrowing his eyes. "You're a violent child."

The boy turns his gaze fully to Ezio, who at last sees the agony within. "They also killed my dog and my only friend. What else can I do but avenge Father and find Jenny? Mother won't even speak to me. She--" he gulps. "She saw me kill a man. I know--I mean, Altaïr said I did well, but--"

"Who?" Ezio asks. The name is vaguely familiar.

"An old man. I met him far away, a few mornings ago."

"Can he help us with revenge?" It's a seductive idea, doing to them as they did to his family. Whoever exactly they are.

"Maybe," Haytham tells him uncertainly. "I don't know how to find him, though. I woke up, and there I was, and there he was."

Ezio frowns. This boy is the second strange person in strange clothes he's seen since his family (more than half of it) was killed, and he's not entirely sure what to make of either him or Desmond. "Are there more? More people who will...visit?"

Haytham nods. "I don't know quite how it works. I've...gone elsewhere, and had people come to me."

"How many?"

"I don't know that, either. Several. Fewer than ten."

Ezio chews his lip. "Why?"

Haytham considers him. "To help, perhaps?"

"How can you help me with revenge?" Ezio is perhaps too dismissive, because Haytham gets defensive.

"Well, I'm the one who gave you the idea, aren't I? And I can wield a sword, you know."

"Perhaps you are here for other reasons."

"Such as what?" Haytham sounds incredulous.

"Comfort?" Ezio ventures. "Perhaps we both need a friend as we begin to take revenge."

Haytham looks at him skeptically, then stiffly folds his arms around Ezio's bigger frame. "I doubt we're just here to hug each other."

Ezio pulls the child into a big hug, squeezing him tightly. No, he's not Petruccio, but he's close enough to warm his heart just a bit. And to hurt, of course, because Ezio will never hug Petruccio again. "I can't believe they killed your dog."

Haytham very bravely and very obviously doesn't cry. "Do you think it's the same people, the ones who killed my father and yours?"

Ezio considers. "Perhaps. I don't want to think that there could be so many terrible people in the world."

Haytham nods gravely. "Well. If I can render any assistance..."

Ezio smiles. It's not like he's going to ask this small boy to help him fight. "I'll let you know."

Chapter Text

The thin coughing noise anchored Haytham in the tiny, unfamiliar room, and he turned around to find who caused it.

It was a strapping young lad, looking sick and miserable in a pile of blankets. What's more, it was a strapping young lad with blond hair, and only one of the visitors was blond. "...Edward?" How odd, to look at his father as a child, to call him by his given name.

"Aye?" Edward rasped, looking utterly miserable.

Haytham sat on the side of the bed, feeling his father's forehead. "You're burning up." He was also bright red over most of his skin, but Haytham figured he already knew that.

"I'm bitterly cold," Edward corrected him, shivering and sweating. He reached to scratch his shoulder, and Haytham slapped his hand gently.

"Stop that. You'll scar."

Edward stuck out his tongue, and Haytham sighed at the white spots on it.

"Measles?"

Edward nodded, burying himself further in the wool blankets. "Mother says I have to drink foul tea."

"Then drink the foul tea," Haytham insisted. "Measles is nothing to trifle with."

Edward scowled. "Why? I'll just be back among the sheep as soon as I recover. Better to enjoy a week off."

"You're having so much enjoyment, I can tell."

Edward stuck out his tongue again, and Haytham handed him the cup of tea. The boy made a big production of sipping the tea and mock-gagging, which turned into a coughing fit. The sound was so pathetic that Haytham found himself holding his father as the boy struggled to clear his airways of the irritation. "Let me help," Haytham whispered, and Edward nodded.

Haytham had forgotten how wretched it felt to have measles, but was reminded all over again as he took over his father's body. The light was too bright, his skin itched enough that he couldn't bear not to scratch it, he felt cold and clammy and overheated all at once, his nose was stuffed up, he ached all over, and--Edward was right--the tea really was foul. Haytham forced himself to drain the cup, even when he coughed and sputtered and some of it went up his (Edward's) nose. Edward laughed at him as he wiped his nose on a grubby handkerchief, and Haytham scowled. "You could thank me."

"I could," Edward said with a shit-eating grin, and instead skipped around his room singing a little song. Haytham sighed and smiled. Even if his father was an obnoxious child, he still loved him and still wanted to spare him pain, any pain, which was why he wound up having the measles for two hours, including taking a bath that smelled like porridge. "I hate baths," Edward told him cheerfully. Haytham reflected on how foul Edward had been sometimes when he'd visited him on the Jackdaw, and could definitely see that Edward hadn’t grown out of it.

As he could feel the end of the visit draw close, Haytham beckoned Edward over, back to his body, which he hopped into without complaint. Haytham tucked the blankets up around his father, only to have his work undone when Edward reached up to give him a big hug. "Thanks, fellow-with-a-hat. I think I do feel a little better, and I didn't have to taste that wretched brew!"

Haytham chuckled. "It really was awful. I'm afraid to ask what's in it."

"Me too," Edward chirped. "Mother says it's a great tonic. I think it makes you so afraid of being sick that you stay well just to avoid it."

Haytham squeezed his father close, wishing for the millionth time that he could do so without the distance of visitation, but at the same time, glad that they could at least see each other on visits. "You need some sleep," he told Edward. "You're very tired."

Edward nodded, yawning. "Probably the whiskey she puts in it."

"That would do it." Haytham was wondering why, exactly, he'd never met his grandmother before. She sounded like an interesting person. He looked up as the door opened, and he saw only a sturdy, blonde woman with a determined expression, before he was whisked back to his own time.

Chapter Text

Desmond was exhausted from more than twelve straight hours in the Animus, a marathon stretch of Connor’s memories. Before the van was more than five miles from the cave (Ziio's cave, he still thought with a pang) he was out cold, his head lolling to the side at an uncomfortable angle to the seatbelt.

"Aww, lookit," Shaun said in a fake cutesy voice, spying him in the rearview mirror. "He's drooling."

"He has a right to drool," Haytham said beside Desmond, but of course Shaun couldn't hear him. "Don't you listen to him, Desmond, you're doing things so important he couldn't comprehend them." Haytham knew that this voyage in the warm, self-propelled carriage was bringing Desmond another step closer to death.

A sharp turn meant Desmond's head wound up on Haytham’s shoulder, and Haytham held up a hand to steady his descendant. After some minutes, he spoke. "You're going to get that thing from wherever Connor’s hidden it. And then you're going to die, I've seen that, so it looks like this is my last chance to tell you a few things.

"From what I've seen of your father, Desmond, he's an idiot. How he has failed to see your worth for so many years... I know I have been one of the worst fathers in history, so this may be presumptuous, but..." he shook his head. "He's got no business being a father, no business having such a son as you."

Haytham laughed, quietly. "Of course, I've no business having a son like Connor, either. I'm...I'm proud of the both of you, prouder still when I recognize some bit of myself reflected in either of you, as you invariably elevate it. Both of you are so noble and self-sacrificing, which I know you didn't inherit from me. Your father should be proud of you; I don't know if he is or not, but I wouldn't be surprised if he isn't. Well, you've got at least one ancestor who's proud to have a descendant who'd sacrifice himself for the whole world. I don't know that I could. The world is such an abstract concept...." He trailed off, and Desmond drooled a bit on his shoulder, unnoticed.

"Desmond, I firmly believe there should be more Assassins like you. Believe me that I say this not as a Templar, but as a man--there should be more humans like you. You are far better than where you have come from, who you've come from.

"And if I could take away one jot of the pain you're about to feel, I would. I've seen it, and the more I get to know you, the angrier I am that you will suffer so.

"No man should be made to suffer like you will, to do the wondrous thing you will do." Haytham sighed, and added, "No man should be made to suffer like you have, either."

Desmond's head slipped from his shoulder, and Haytham caught his descendant against his chest, wrapping his arms firmly around him against the jostling of the van. "Sleep, Desmond. Dream well, and know that you are loved."

They rode the rest of the way to the old, broken-down Homestead in silence, and Haytham never noticed the tiny, peaceful smile on Desmond's face.

Chapter Text

"Ahoy, Hat Man!" Edward greeted Haytham outside White's Chocolate House. Haytham instantly remembered all the delicious birthday cakes of his childhood, and was sorely tempted to ask his father if they could stop in and get some cake. But no, Edward was walking away from the shop, and Haytham could do nothing but follow him.

Follow him home, as it turned out, and of course Haytham recognized the route that they walked. Edward chattered the whole way, none of it really registering until they were at the house, Edward closing the door with exaggerated care. "Quietly," he whispered, smiling fatuously. "He's sleeping."

Haytham almost asked who, then realized what the answer had to be.

No.

No.

He didn't really want to be here.

He wished he had Aveline's talent for ending a visit early; this was about to get very uncomfortable.

"He's so perfect," Edward gushed, "You just wait, you see him and you'll want one of your own."

Haytham bit his tongue. How many of the problems in his life were precisely because he had the son he'd always wanted?

"Shh--well, I don't think it matters much, he wouldn't be able to hear you anyway." Edward tiptoed to the nursery and opened the door stealthily. As soon as baby Haytham saw his older self, he began to wail and scream. Edward, startled, picked up his son and shushed him, rocking him desperately. "I don't know why he's so crabby! Usually he's a very sweet baby. Maybe it's your hat."

Haytham smirked drily. "Perhaps. Or perhaps he's afraid he'll grow up like me." That would make sense; who would choose a life like his?

Edward made a rude noise. "I'd be proud if he grew up like you, Hat Man. Oh! Hat Man, may I introduce you to my son, Haytham?" Baby Haytham quieted down as Edward rocked him, gurgling contentedly and clinging to his father's coat. Edward chuckled. "Heh. Hat Man, Haytham. They sound alike."

"Where'd you get a name like Haytham?" It was almost impossible to talk past the lump in his throat, his dry mouth. Surely his father would realize any minute now whom he talked to.

"I figured, I'm an Assassin now, let me give my boy an Assassin's name. There was a Mentor, once, named Haytham. And I liked the name, it means little eagle, and he belongs, not like a sly old jackdaw like me." Edward gazed adoringly at his infant son. "He's my chance to do something right from the very start." He cradled the baby lovingly in his arms and gazed at him with eyes overflowing with radiant happiness. "And he's the best little boy, I love him so much, and he's so perfect."

Now the older Haytham couldn't help himself, he blinked back tears thinking what a disappointment he'd surely be if his father knew. "What if...what if he doesn't become an Assassin?"

Edward hugged the infant closer and laughed. "I know! Can you imagine this little lovely child killing people?"

Haytham scowled. "He's going to grow up someday," he muttered.

Edward smiled, entranced. "Yes, but not today! Today he's my little baby." He offered his contented son to his visitor. "D'you wanna hold him?"

Haytham, the adult Haytham, looked alarmed. "I...I don't think that's a good idea. I don't hold infants often."

"Nonsense," Edward told him cheerily. "You'll do fine." And before Haytham could protest any more, his arms were full of baby...himself.

He was, had been, a very round newborn, nearly bald, with bright blue eyes and a penchant for waving his chubby arms around aimlessly.

"Now, don't tell Aveline this, but he's ten times handsomer than any of her sons," Edward whispered.

Haytham blinked in surprise. He hadn't realized that Aveline had children or even a husband. Surely, when visiting, Shay couldn't... but leave it to Edward to give everyone what Desmond called "spoilers".

Baby Haytham smelled sweet and clean, like milk, and he clung to the blue coat he would one day wear. Adult Haytham smiled nervously and held the baby tighter. "There now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Edward asked cheerfully. "I wonder what he's thinking, being held by someone he can't even see."

"Maybe he can," Haytham replied vaguely, strangely unwilling to let go of himself and give the baby back to Edward's waiting arms.

Edward chuckled. "Wouldn't that be something? C'mon, we'd better put him back to bed or Tessa'll have my head."

Regretfully, Haytham handed himself back to his father, who perhaps noticed the strange expression on his face. "Don't worry, I'm sure you'll see him again," Edward said, clapping him on the back.

"I'm sure," Haytham echoed forlornly.

Chapter Text

When Desmond gets to the old Homestead, Connor is waiting for him. Desmond nods an acknowledgement, and Connor nods back. He's always been one of the best hallucinations at not forcing Desmond to slip up and reveal just how crazy he is. Considerate, for a hallucination.

"No telling which of these graves is the one," Shaun begins, but Desmond is already pointing to the correct one. It's easier if one's ancestor is helping out, obviously, although Desmond decides it's more likely that he's having Bleeding Effect knowledge of the lay of the land. There's also more graves than Desmond expected, and he wonders with a chill if Connor is standing on his own grave. It's the kind of morbid thing he'd do. He gets it from his father.

They dig at the unmarked grave for some time, until Desmond's shovel hits a wooden box. "Rather larger than needed, isn't it?" Shaun asks, and Desmond can’t help hoping for some kind of sign that these are more than hallucinations he's been having.

When they've unearthed the box and torn off the rotting wood lid, Desmond can’t stifle a cry of surprise. Because there’s his lion, lying on top of some books and the object of their search. He'd almost forgotten about his lion, and his only path to a memory he'd forgotten he'd forgotten was a half-remembered comment from his mother that he'd once hidden a toy so well they'd never found it.

An opulent little room, a dead man, and the killer holding him close and carrying him out, gently, even going back for his lion. He'd named the lion after the man, he realized, and he remembered the name in a flash. "Haytham." (Someone had embroidered an H on the lion's back, in coarse thread and coarser technique, and he wondered if this was by Haytham's own hand.)

Connor stared at him, surprised, then nodded. "I found this among Father's things. He left a note saying it was yours. I did not know how else to return it." Desmond could see it: morose, angry Connor tearing apart his father's home, finding nothing that he sought but--

Desmond stared at the books. They were spotty with age, but definitely the ones Connor had taken from Haytham’s home. He opened one, and read the text on the first page.

This journal belongs to Haytham E. Kenway

It was neat handwriting, but childish.

"Don't mess with any of this junk, Desmond--" his father begins, then stares at the lion. "Where did you dig that up from?"

"It was in the box," Rebecca interjects, and William scowls.

"Why'd he pack the box full of trash?"

"It's not trash!" Desmond finds himself yelling, defensively.

"A child's toy? A Templar's diaries?" William is cutting and sarcastic. "A broken hidden blade? That's what I call junk. Find what we came for. I'll be in the van. We have a world to save."

"They were his father's things!" Desmond shouts.

"And he killed his father, didn’t he?" William asks brutally, walking out.

The tears in his eyes are hot as Desmond packs his bag full of books. Rebecca helps, silently.

As they leave, Connor whispers, "Thank you." Desmond nods, not looking as Connor vanishes.

Desmond spends the whole ride back to the cave holding his lion and what's left of Haytham's hidden blade and reading the journals, all but the one in Edward's semi-literate scrawl, which is in some sort of code. Haytham's annotated it, and Desmond thinks he recognizes comments from Connor and Aveline and the occasional "NO" and "BAD" and "STAY AWAY" in Shay's chicken scratch, but it's too dense and makes his head hurt, so he sticks to Haytham's journals, which leave him profoundly depressed. The last one ends with a note from Connor, full of remorse, and then two pieces of paper tucked in between the last few blank pages. Desmond pulls them out, and isn't incredibly surprised to find that they're both addressed to him.

Connor's missive is short: You have been, in many ways, a better son to him than I have. Thank you.

Haytham's is shorter: Be brave.

Desmond wedges them into his pocket. He doesn't want anyone finding them. Not while he's still alive, anyway.

If they're not just hallucinations, what are they? It seems utterly impossible to genuinely be connected across time and space to five Assassins and two Templars. So they must be hallucinations. But why the notes, addressed to him? Maybe it's something like Minerva talking to him through Ezio. Stupid Precursor stuff. But then why would Connor write the note he did, as if Desmond had actually been interacting with Haytham? His mind spins around and around and when he opens the last door in the Temple, when he sends away his father and Shaun and Rebecca, it's almost with relief.

It's got to be hallucinations. It's got to be the Bleeding Effect. But it doesn't matter, because Desmond with his head full of crazy has something more important to think about.

He's got his lion in his messenger bag, its light weight barely noticeable on his shoulder.

It's time for him to be brave.

Chapter Text

Shay found Aveline determinedly climbing the stairs to the roof of the de Grandpré mansion, bucket of water in one hand and rag in the other. "Wait, wait, where are you going?"

"To clean the dovecote," she replied as if it was the most normal thing in the world. "And then feed the pigeons."

"No, no, no," he insisted, trying to take the bucket. "You can't be scrubbing that filth. Not now! Let me do it."

She stopped to smile tolerantly at him. "Shay. Love. You hate pigeons. Also, they're Assassin pigeons. You're not responsible for them! You Templars send messages by courier."

"But you're my wife," he objected, "and you're...you're..."

"Pregnant," she supplied the word for him with a broader smile. "You're blushing like a schoolboy, my darling."

"So you shouldn't be cleaning up after those filthy birds!" he insisted. "Let me." He made a grab for the rag and she hid it behind her back.

"What are you going to do if I don't?" she asked, nimbly keeping the rag and bucket from him.

"I'll get my own bucket and clean them myself!"

She kissed him on the nose. "You're adorable!" She then evaded his grasp with a grin. "I've got this under control, Shay. I'm not some frail little thing. And I'm not even very large yet."

He managed to catch her, only to pull her close for a passionate kiss. "Please, let me help."

She leaned into him and smiled--she didn't think she'd ever smiled so much as she had since their hurried and slightly scandalous wedding. "I suppose you can help. You are good at catching the little beasts." She smirked at him. "You hold them so they don't get in my way while I clean."

He sighed heavily. "All right. But once you've increased some, you have to let me take over cleaning up after them. They're filthy. I don't even know why you like them so."

She led him up to the dovecote and opened each compartment, letting him catch the pairs of pigeons while she scrubbed the vile floor. "They're sweet little birds. You know they bring messages back and forth out of love; each messenger bird is flying to be with his wife, or her husband." She stopped for a moment to squeeze Shay's hand, smiling at him. "They marry for life, just like people, but without silly ceremonies. They only remarry if--" and she frowned, a shadow dulling her lovely hazel eyes. "--if they're widowed."

Shay carefully maneuvered his hand around her so as not to upset the squirming pigeon he held, and squeezed her close. In the months since Gérald's death, she'd rarely spoken of him. "Aye, I can respect that."

Aveline smiled up at him again, but it was definitely a weary and tear-stained smile. "They talk about us, you know? All the friends I've had since I was a girl. All the friends who know nothing about me but what they see."

He carefully returned the very rumpled pigeon, so he could take Aveline in his arms. "I've heard them, aye. But don't you worry about their gossip. You're an Assassin, you do more, and more good, in one afternoon than they have or will in their entire lives. They've no right to judge you."

She curled into his protective embrace. "Ah, but you see, they think they do. To them, I'm the odd one out, and not quite to their level."

He scoffed. "And if they were attacked in the street by muggers, they'd shriek and run. But you, you'd not only defeat the muggers, you'd have them rethinking their life choices."

She closed her eyes and smiled, tired. "They natter cruel things behind my back, and worst of all is that many of them are true. I was false to Gérald, false in my heart, because it was always yours to keep, not mine to give away. Not anymore, not for many years."

He stroked along her hairline, tucking wisps of hair behind her ears. It always soothed her. "And do you think less of yourself, or me, because of how we've carried on?"

Her eyes flew open. "Of course not! Our situation is unique. And I could hardly refuse Gérald..."

"If you didn't love him--"

"Ah, but Shay, forgive me, but I did," she interrupted in a very small voice. "The quality of it different from the love I feel for you, true, but most definitely I held love in my heart for him."

He curled his hands around her arms and held her close to him, murmuring, "I know."

"You know?" she nearly cried. "You must think me--I don't know--"

"--a warm and loving person, Aveline, the most loving. Your true heart has room aplenty, since you can keep both an Assassin and a Templar within." He smiled a little. "It is not lack of love that spurs you, but an excess of it." She gazed up at him, weaving her fingers through his, seeking comfort. He squeezed her hands and kissed her tenderly, then smiled. "You're like one of your doves. You would fly anywhere, my little bird, to follow your heart," he whispered in her ear.

Her eyes filled with wonder as she stroked his stubbled cheek. "Shay...husband...love...you've a way with words I'd never have thought to hear."

He leaned his head into her hand and smiled. "I've the best inspiration a man could ask for." He kissed her fingers and finally managed to grab the bucket. "Ha! Now you have to give me the rag, too!"

"Devious Templar!" she laughed. "I should have known better!" They engaged in a brief tug-of-war over the rag, which she managed to snatch away and shove down her shirt. "Ha yourself!"

"Sneaky Assassin, you think you've got the better of me?" He followed the path of the rag with rather a lot of groping, both of them laughing as he repeatedly grabbed her breasts, pretending that he just couldn't find it.

"I know I've got the best of you," she laughed, fondling him in return. "Any time I want it."

"And would this be a time that you want it, Assassin?"

"Oui, it would, Templar," she told him, kissing him hungrily and unbuckling his weapons eagerly.

"Then come and take it!" He spread his coat out on the roof, and pulled her down on top of him.

Chapter Text

Altaïr is standing in the midst of a group of scholars, just about to clasp his hands in feigned prayer, when he's suddenly transported to somewhere just as hot as Damascus, but far more humid. He looks around to see whom he's visiting, and spies two young men, one burly and blond in Assassin's robes, the other slight and dark-haired in a green coat and canvas pants.

The blond man breaks off in what is obviously the middle of a word and looks about warily for his visitor. His eyes alight on Altaïr with what is inexplicably obvious relief, and he beckons the Assassin over. "Kidd, I've got a treat for you tonight," he tells the young man sitting beside him, who looks wary.

"If it's like that last treat ya promised me, Edward, it'll leave me wi' a splittin' headache and vomit all down my front, an' that's more your look than mine--"

"Nay, Kidd, this is something you'll like much better than a barrel of spoilt rum." He has the grin of a man who's sitting on something immensely valuable. "Altaïr's here." So this is not their first meeting, from this Edward's perspective.

Kidd's eyes widen. "The Altaïr. Not some imitation Altaïr like you're an imitation Assassin?"

In a flash, Altaïr's blade is at Edward's neck. "You feign being an Assassin?"

Kidd bursts out laughing. "Ya tryin' to slice your own neck open, there, Kenway?"

Altaïr tenses his wrist, ready to slice through Edward's carotid artery. He knows a man named Kenway, a Templar, through this process of visiting. Is this another?

"Not as funny as it looks, Kidd!" Edward chokes out. "He's got a blade to my neck, here! If he kills me, you'll never get to chat with him."

Kidd is still laughing. "All right, then. Altaïr, sir, you don't know me from any other lad, but Ah promise you Ah'm a Master Assassin," and Kidd brandishes two rather hefty Hidden Blades. "Edward Kenway's an arse and a fraud but he's got potential an' Ah'm workin' on 'im to change 'is ways an' make a better man of 'imself. So if ya could please not kill 'im, although Ah promise ya Ah understand the desire to, he may become a Brother in time, if Ah've anythin' to say about it."

Altaïr, frustrated, drops Edward. "Very well, then, I spare you for the sake of your friend, my Brother."

Edward chuckles ruefully, rubbing his throat, and looks around before muttering, "More of a Sister than a Brother."

"Edward!" Kidd snaps, then relents. "M'name's Mary Read, sir," she mumbles deferentially. "Be honored if ya talk to me proper."

Altaïr stares, nodding once. How did he not see it, the chin too narrow for that prominent jaw, the thin hands? She's wrapped up in more layers than can be comfortable in this sweltering heat, and Altaïr supposes now it must be to hide her form from the world. He's heard of such women, living as men, but never seen one until now. It's... intriguing.

Edward chuckles. "I suppose he's safe. Not like Ezio, anyway." He closes his eyes and focuses, and Altaïr's in his body, head tilting this way and that as he analyzes his surroundings with his Eagle Vision. The Assassin--Mary--is a reassuring blue, and the specter of Edward a faint wisp of gold, like a target he can't lose sight of.

"Very well," Altaïr says, feeling the strange language on his tongue--he's never noticed what he speaks while visiting, but now he's uncomfortably aware of the surfeit of vowels at Edward's disposal, the consonants piling up and tripping over each other in his mind, and makes a face. "How can you stand to speak this strange tongue, Edward?"

Mary laughs. "His accent's foul, innit?"

"Oi!" Edward protests, heard only by Altaïr. "Lay off my accent! Talk about Assassin things like I thought you would."

"He wishes us to talk of the Assassins rather than his strange dialect."

"So," Mary asks, unaccountably twisting her hands against each other like a bashful schoolboy, "how goes the Brotherhood in your time?"

"Well," Altaïr says after a moment, mindful that they're in the presence of a non-Assassin. "And in yours?" His eyes travel over her torso, looking for any hint that she's not the lad she plays. No, her disguise is practically perfect.

"Could be better, if it weren't for this fraud," she says scathingly. "Not quite like it was in your day." She makes a vague gesture. "Ya see we no longer cut off our fingers for our blades, though."

Altaïr raises Edward’s hands to examine the blades. "It seems no longer needed." He half-lowers them. "And the blades are much larger."

Mary, unaccountably, flushes. "As if we were makin' up for a lack of somethin'?"

"You lack nothing," Altaïr says, ducking Edward’s head. "I am proud to call you Brother. Or Sister, if you please."

Mary smiles and scratches the back of her neck, embarrassed. "Ah thank ya."

Edward is staring at them both. "Are you... are you... flirting with Kidd? You're the one who told me about that lass you knew--aw, wait, you're here from before that, aren't you?"

Altaïr ignores Edward and half-reaches for Mary. "And you are... your disguise is perfect, but that you..." he trails off. "Well... you are both fierce and beautiful...."

"No, no, man, you can't! How could you? I thought you'd be safe!" Edward groans.

Mary grins at Altaïr and fiddles with one of her braids, which is matted from sun and salt spray. "Ah thank ya kindly, sir. An' for your part, ya fancy up this mangy jack tar whose body you're borrowin'. That look of determination sits well on 'is face, and Assassin words come nice out of 'is mouth." She reaches out and squeezes his, Edward's, hand. She's still grinning.

Altaïr smiles and squeezes back, his voice so quiet Edward can barely hear. "And it would be a waste to clothe you in women's garb, when men's suits you so well in both form and function."

Edward is in shock, staring at them. "What...you...I am never letting any one of you... this is unbelievable!"

Mary blushes, and pulls her hair out of her face. "Ah'm sure Edward's gone half mad by now. Ya shoulda seen him after I kissed Ezio. Thought he was going out of his mind for sure." She smirks and murmurs something to Altaïr.

The other Assassin smiles, and whispers something back, then abruptly, Edward's back in his own body, Mary's lips close to his ear and--dammit, having a little trouble with his trousers now because of her closeness. Altaïr is standing behind him, smirking. "I can't say I think much of you, Edward, this first time I've met you. But your friend..." he trails off, and Edward curses to himself. Altaïr smiles. "Your friend is quite the Assassin. Stay close to her; it can only improve you." And with that, he vanishes.

"What'd he say about me?" Mary demands.

"He said you were quite the Assassin and that I should stay close to you," Edward grumbles.

Mary crosses her arms over her chest. "Ya told him about your damn fool plan for finding Bart Roberts, have you? Or is this just in general?"

"In general, I think," Edward mumbles. "I already know your feelings on Roberts. And now I know your feelings on Altaïr."

She laughs. "Ya don't even begin to know, Edward. He looked at me like he'd never seen a woman play the man before."

"I know you'll not be the last he sees."

"But Ah'm the first, then? That's somethin'." She grins. "Come along, then, as it happens Ah have three bottles of posh wine and no targets around. Let's pretend we're rich men and get sodden drunk on high class spirits."

"All right, then," he tells her. "Let's make a night of it."

"'S'all we'll make a night of," she warns him.

"You'd make a night of it with Altaïr," he grumbles.

"Wouldn't," she insists.

"What d'you do, then, when you're lonely?" he asks, realizing that he never sees her with anyone else.

She grins. "Same's you, the whorehouse." She strides off towards her ship.

"You don't really--Mary!" He runs to try to catch up, but she's quicker than him, and he doesn't see her until she hands him a bottle, already swigging from one of her own. And then they spend a lovely night talking about ships, and gold, and people they've killed, and her opinions on the political situation in Europe. And he wakes up in her cabin, fully dressed, cuddling her spare pistols. She's face down on her map, drooling a little, and Edward's breath catches a little in his throat as he sees it. He picks her up and carries her to the bed, tucking her in and deciding that the faintly mildewy rug beside it is the perfect place to sleep.

Chapter Text

Aveline doesn't know if it was the unusual circumstances before her daughter's birth, or just that mothers and daughters don't get along as well as fathers and daughters or mothers and sons, but she's always felt that Jeanne is closer to Shay than to her. She doesn't mind, per se, because Jeanne is her daughter and she wants her to be happy, but she isn't surprised at all when her daughter begins showing signs of interest in the Templar Order, much like Rory's decided he wants to become an Assassin. Well, they already fought all the time. And when Jeanne has a long, secret talk with Shay, who is subsequently grinning fit to burst, Aveline's sure she knows what it's about.

"Jeanne, darling, a moment of your time?" she asks, drawing her daughter to the dressing room. They sit on the couch and Aveline tells her more than she's ever told her before about not just Assassins vs. Templars, but also Assassins and Templars working together, and a little bit of how she and Shay first met. Jeanne makes scrunched up faces for the last part, but doesn't protest. And finally, Aveline opens the secret compartment in the back of her jewelry box, and opens the secret compartment inside the secret compartment, and takes a small package out. "This is for you, but it's not for me to give." And she takes the package, and she gives it to Shay, and Jeanne is puzzled, but thinks nothing more of it for over a year.

Then, one evening, she's being initiated into the Templar Order, and her father is staring at her like his heart might just burst with pride, and he misses his cue at first. But then he produces the small package from Aveline and unwraps it and hands something to the Grand Master, who takes Jeanne's hand and slides on...

...a Templar ring.

It fits well but a little loosely, just like any time Jeanne has borrowed her mother's rings to match this dress or that. And after the ceremony, once she's a Templar for real, she crouches by the fire and she pulls off the ring and stares at it. It's heavy and well-made, and the engraving on the inside catches her eye. AVELINE DE GRANDPRÉ, it says, and Jeanne realizes that there's still things she doesn't know about her mother.

"Jeanne?" her father calls, from the door, all smiles.

"Coming, Papa," she replies, sliding the ring back on. She's always felt like her mother would never understand her choice, but now she wonders how true that is. Maybe this isn't the wedge between them she feared it would be.

Chapter Text

"Let me see the baby," Edward begs once he sees Altaïr standing there with a swaddled bundle in his arms. Mutely, the Mentor shifts Darim so that Edward can see the tiny, squashed, red face. "Oh, he's so precious!" Edward coos.

"He is not even an hour old," Altaïr tells Edward in a whisper.

"So you're still in shock," Edward says knowledgeably. "He's your first, isn't he?" Altaïr nods, unable to speak at the wonder of the tiny life in his arms. "It'll get better. The shock part," Edward adds. "You'll still find yourself stricken by how lovely he is, just out of the blue, for the rest of your life."

"I understand," Altaïr breathes. "But it will never be like this again." He can't tear his gaze away from Darim's perfect little face.

"No, it won't," Edward confirms, putting a companionable arm on Altaïr's shoulder. "Enjoy it."

Chapter Text

Connor is shaken, body and mind, and covered with his father's blood and his own. (But they are of the same blood, are they not?) He cuts the broken hidden blade from his father's arm and stows it in his mostly empty smoke bomb pouch, staggering under the enormity of this day, the sheer wrongness of himself. He has killed--murdered--a fellow visitor. Nearly a friend. Possibly the visitor he was closest to, save Aveline. He has murdered his father.

Mechanically, he cleans his hidden blades (of his father's blood) still facing away from--

from--

"I don't--oh. It's this, then. I knew this day would come." Edward's voice is weary and sad, and from the sound of it, he's behind Connor, and between the two of them is--

is--

(my failure)

--is the body.

Haytham's body.

Connor's father, Edward's son.

Connor bows his head in shame.

Footsteps, crossing the distance between them. If Edward's going to scream at him, attack him, Connor can't say he doesn't deserve it.

Arms around him, squeezing, and Connor wonders if his grandfather means to crush the life out of him.

But no, Edward is rocking him from side to side, shushing him softly. Connor leans into him, hating himself for doing it. It's Edward that needs the comfort now, not him. Edward must be devastated; he loved Haytham. More than Haytham's killer possibly could have, right?

The tingle feels like claws digging through his mind, and dimly Connor remembers that it felt like this the last time his head was injured this badly, but then he realizes who's appearing in front of him.

"Connor, I'm s--" Haytham begins, until a golden light envelops him. A blinding flash, and he's gone, leaving Edward and Connor stunned.

"Have you ever seen that before?" Edward demands.

Connor shakes his head. "No. I thought it was just a visit, but then--" He sighs heavily, and Edward hugs him tighter.

"Your head's bleeding," Edward informs him. "You should get out of here."

"I should," Connor begins, vaguely pointing over his shoulder.

"No," Edward tells him firmly, "you should get out of here." Connor hears footsteps, many footsteps, and knows he's in no condition to take on so many.

Running is almost as hard as fighting was, and climbing is unbelievable. But finally Connor makes it to the Aquila, where he asks Faulkner to sail them home, endures the ship's doctor bandaging the cut along his hairline, and collapses into bed.

The last thing he remembers is Edward crouched beside the bed, telling him, "I forgive you, Connor, I forgive you. D'you hear me? I forgive you." But it means nothing to him, because he knows he's past forgiveness now.

Chapter Text

Sometimes Ezio enjoyed the amenities of the Rosa in Fiore. Sometimes it was a good place to spy. Sometimes he had an exhausting mission in that corner of Rome, and needed somewhere to rest. This was one of those times, where he'd finished his contract and needed a break.

He didn't necessarily need Edward sitting next to him, but he supposed it could be worse--a prude like Haytham, for instance. Edward seemed strangely unsettled, not that he was usually calm, but tonight he was particularly twitchy. "Ezio," he began, then stopped short and looked around. His eyes alighted on the young men in the back corner, and he--was Edward actually blushing?

"Something the matter?" Ezio asked, amused.

"Nay, can't be," Edward muttered. "Only Jim does it for me, right?" Ezio waited patiently. Either Edward needed a friend to talk to, or Ezio was about to get a large amount of blackmail material on his favorite pirate. "All right," Edward began, licking his chapped lips nervously, "let's say a fellow has some sort of... desire for another man."

Ezio tried not to grin too much. "We can say that."

"What I mean to say is, how's a man to know if he's really got this kind of desire? What if he's perfectly happy to get a leg over on a lass, but there's this one lad that's troubling him?"

Ezio smiled broadly. "Edward, my friend, if you were an Assassin in truth, this would cause you much less distress."

Edward looked at him suspiciously. "And why's this? Every night, do the lot of you get up to things that would shock regular people?"

Ezio laughed. "Hardly, but it's not like it's frowned upon. Nothing is true, everything is permitted."

"Huh," Edward grunted. "So what you mean to say is that he wouldn't stab me in the ribs if I told him how I feel. He's one of your lot," he added.

"I think you're safe unless he takes offense to you otherwise."

"What's it like, kissing a fellow?" Edward asked. "I know you must've."

"I have," Ezio admitted, though he offered no details.

Edward shifted uncomfortably. "Maybe you could show me the ropes a bit."

Ezio stood, making his way to where Claudia was watching the customers. "I could do that. Claudia! I need an empty room."

"I wasn't planning to go so far! Not with you!" Edward said, panicked. Ezio stepped on his toes and yawned hugely.

"An empty room?" Claudia asked. "With which girl in it? Laura again?"

"Claudia!" Ezio protested.

"Or did you want one of my boys this time?" Claudia placed her hands on her hips. "You can tell me if you do, you're both a brother and a Brother, you know."

Edward grinned smugly at Ezio. "Oh really?"

"Empty, Claudia, empty. I'm tired."

"So Carlotta will be sneaking in the window? I'll give you the room in the back with the red and pink draperies."

Ezio rubbed his eyes. "Carlotta is in Spain, Claudia."

"Oh, very wise to make time for Beatrice now." Claudia nodded knowledgeably. Edward was doubled over laughing.

"I want an empty room," Ezio groaned. "And it's going to stay empty. Except for me. Because I'll be sleeping in it. Alone."

"If you say so," Claudia told him skeptically. "The bed is nicer in the front green and gold room, so you can take that one."

"Grazie, Claudia," Ezio said through gritted teeth, and pulled Edward to the room in question.

"Listen, I just want a kiss," Edward began, but Ezio silenced him with a finger to his lips.

"I'm not going to be the pathetic man in the brothel kissing himself in the corner," Ezio told him firmly. "If I'm going to kiss myself, it'll actually be myself. Like that one time."

"Well," Edward said nervously, "maybe this isn’t such a good--mmph!" Ezio had yanked him closer and begun kissing him, rather forcefully.

It wasn't too different from kissing a lass, Edward decided. Except for the tickle of facial hair and the rugged arms around him. Ezio kissed very thoroughly, and with assurance that his lips were welcome, and competent. It was... kind of nice, actually, and Edward wondered if Kidd would kiss like this. Ezio yanked out the tie from Edward's ponytail, and the sharp nip of pain in his scalp only added to the kiss that was quickly growing passionate.

Somehow, they wound up on the bed, and Edward realized that there was, of course, a third difference to kissing a lass, but he himself was just as affected as Ezio. The Assassin's hand was questing in Edward's trousers, and Edward stopped it with his own. Ezio paused, looking intently down at Edward, who then nodded and moved his own hand to the other's body.

Some time later, Edward lay in the bed, head spinning. He'd certainly learned a lot this afternoon. He'd had a pretty good grasp of being with a woman, but now he thought maybe, just maybe, he could do right by Kidd if the lad felt like he did.

Ezio stretched, back cracking, a satisfied smile on his face. "So, your fellow, are you going to kiss him like you just kissed me?"

Edward felt himself flushing, which he'd not done in more than a decade. "Aye, and I'm to meet him when I get back. Top of a windmill, of all places. You Assassins are a funny lot."

Ezio chuckled, and shucked off most of his remaining clothes. "I didn't lie to Claudia about being tired," he told Edward in response to the latter's quizzical look. "You're more than welcome to join me, but I understand that I snore."

Edward wormed his way under the blankets and cuddled up to Ezio's back, throwing an arm around him. "I think I only snore when I'm drunk."

"Which is most of the time."

"Aye."

"The question is, can we sleep through each other's snores?"

"Dunno," Edward mumbled.

"Stop breathing in my ear."

"But it's right there and it's easy to rest my nose on."

Ezio solved this by elbowing Edward in the ribs every time he felt the pirate's hot breath on his ear, until he woke up and found himself alone in the bed. He hoped that Edward had worked up the courage to kiss Kidd, and he really hoped that Kidd wasn't just the name that Edward's friend Mary used. Otherwise that would get very awkward.

Chapter Text

Edward was too keyed up to sleep. Yes, Ezio had shown him new things, and yes, he was feeling mightily relaxed, but the excitement of thinking about Kidd kept him awake. Plus, Ezio wasn't lying about snoring. Edward kept elbowing him whenever he got too loud, but that only helped a modest amount.

He became aware of a warm body behind him, an arm reaching around him. One look at the strange garment on that arm and he knew he was in for a rough time of it. Normally he liked cuddling Desmond, but he also knew that Desmond practically had an apoplexy anytime two people were within a foot of each other, clothed or not. And right now, Edward and Ezio were pretty much attached to each other, and had on one article of clothing each. Edward's was his left sock.

"Mmph?" Desmond asked as his hand collided with Ezio's shoulder. Ezio mumbled something about Templars in his sleep and batted Desmond's hand away.

Edward held his breath. Apoplexy in three, two...

"What the fuck! Edward, what the fuck! Edward...no!" Desmond sat up, saw most of Ezio, and flopped back onto the bed. "Edward, why are you at the Rosa in Fiore with Ezio?"

"We come here a lot, I'll have you know!" Edward insisted.

"For this??" Desmond's voice was shrill.

"No, usually for the girls. We take turns."

"Oh god, I seriously didn't need to know that, either."

"What, don't you do the same?"

Desmond drew a shaky breath. "No, normally I don't visit brothels with my ancestors! Or anyone else!"

Edward scratched his head, careful not to disturb Ezio. "But you knew where you were, so you must have seen it before."

"Not for...brotheling, anyway! Ezio just hangs out here all the time," Desmond added defensively. "Anyway, I just thought...you know...that you were straight. What with all the hookers."

"Hookers?" Edward hadn't heard this term for whores before. "Uh. So, Ezio was just showing me some, um, things, so that I would be better able to, well, there's this one fellow..."

"Kidd?" Desmond looked like he was trying not to laugh.

"Aye, Kidd. And I wanted--"

"Oh, Edward. Seriously, Edward, what the fuck?"

"What's that mean, anyway?" Edward demanded. "What the fuck what?" He saw a movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see probably the least convenient visitor to have at this point other than Desmond.

"I don't believe it," Hat Man said in tones of clipped disapproval.

"What," Edward asked, starting to get defensive, "what could possibly be wrong with two fellows who are friends getting a little friendlier with each other?"

Desmond complained, "Do I have to see everything?"

"That is really more than I wanted to see of Ezio or F--for heaven's sake, Edward," Hat Man agreed.

Edward looked down and realized that the thin blanket had mostly been pulled off his bare legs by Ezio, whose legendary Assassin skills apparently included hogging the bedcovers. He tried to cover himself with his hands. "Don't act like you've never even kissed a fellow, either of you," he muttered.

"I haven't," said Hat Man. Desmond turned red and said nothing. "And he hasn't, either, right, Desmond?" Hat Man continued. At Desmond's lack of reply, he turned to look at him, and sighed. "Oh, for heaven's sake, who did you kiss?"

"Not...now!" Desmond tried to whisper.

"I think I want to know," said Hat Man, drawing himself up. Desmond whispered something, and Edward tried to eavesdrop, but Hat Man glowered at him. Then took a step back in surprise. "Really?!" He looked suddenly ill.

Desmond nodded and made the random little hand motions he tended to make when he was nervous. "I was half asleep. And...lonely. And..." He shrugged.

"But only a kiss, right? Not like this--"

"--right, not like Edward's unnecessary gay crisis."

"My unnecessary what?" Edward butted in.

"His unnecessary what?" Hat Man asked simultaneously.

Desmond waved his hands around vaguely again. "You know--never mind, you obviously don't know, Edward."

"That's why I asked you," Edward agreed, thoroughly confused.

Ezio chose this minute to turn over, winding the blanket around himself. Desmond squawked, and Hat Man covered his eyes. "Now look here," Edward told them, offended, "I'm not all that bad to look at, am I?"

"Look," Desmond said, "I think it would be best if everything that anyone's seen or heard tonight just... got forgotten, right? I mean, we've all seen too much of Edward, and maybe some of us made some bad decisions at one point that someone maybe found out tonight and is grossed out by, but there's no reason we can’t all just pretend like none of this ever happened, right?"

"I have just one question," Hat Man asked in a chilly voice. "Why leave one sock on?"

Edward shrugged. He had no answer for that, so when he saw the familiar windmill where he was to meet up with Kidd, and found that his clothing was all back in its proper place, he was tremendously relieved.

Now, time to find out what the younger man wanted, and then tell him the truth.

Chapter Text

Aveline put her feet up on a small stool, and wiggled her toes. Shay knelt beside her, rubbing her feet with long strokes of his large hands. "Aveline, love, I've been meaning to ask," he murmured, "did you send someone to kill a tobacco trader with a limp?"

She flexed her feet, sighing with relief. "Not that I can remember, why?"

He kissed her big toe and began rubbing her throbbing calves. "He was assassinated after he delivered his report to me yesterday."

Aveline frowned. "I certainly didn't know about that. But, come to think of it, a brothel owner died in mysterious circumstances after he chatted with me last week."

Shay sat beside her and they linked hands, and she fiddled with his shiny new wedding band and battered Templar ring. "I think both our people are staking out the house," he said grimly.

She sighed and leaned into his shoulder. "I can see why. It's a place they know they can find targets, sooner or later. How do we stop it?"

He looked at her oddly. "I'd've thought you would want your people to take out the Templars?"

She shook her head. "No, I've got the Templars exactly where I want them. I don't want someone being sent over here from somewhere else to replace a dead man."

Shay frowned. "Oh, you have the Templars exactly where you want them, have you?"

She smiled and laid a hand on his thigh. "Oui, especially this one Templar I know of..." She maneuvered herself up to straddle his legs and kissed him passionately.

"Oh, and where do you want this Templar?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Beneath me...and on top of me...and inside me..." she murmured, hand sliding between his thighs.

"All right," he half-moaned into her ear. "This Templar, aye, but the problem with the other Templars? And Assassins?"

She tapped her fingers in thought (he squirmed). "Why are they coming to you? You're not a Grand Master. You're not even assigned here."

"I'm not assigned anywhere. Haytham gave me my last orders. The fellow in charge here is a fool, though."

"I know; I made sure he was."

"You did?" This was news to Shay.

"Yes, he was the compromise Haytham offered me back in '80." She smiled and lifted her husband's chin with one finger, closing his gaping mouth. "He and I worked together to take out a pair of odious fellows who would, I think he said, threaten the stability of Nouvelle Orleans, and were despicable in their own right."

"You care what Templar is in charge around here? I'd have thought you'd prefer no Templars at all."

"Other than you? No, Templars are like--hmm, how not to offend. Templars are like ivy. Once they have touched a place, you'll never root them out; the only thing you can do is try to keep it under control." She raised her eyebrows at him with a smile. "I understand we Assassins are the same in that respect."

"And Haytham was all right with you being here, opposing a weak Templar?" It seemed unbelievable; Aveline was fierce, strong, and supremely competent.

"I am no Mentor, and I am an Assassin inextricably tied to the Templars, and therefore more inclined to work with them than kill them out of hand." She trailed a hand down his chest. "I think perhaps he also assumed you would join me here in time," she added shyly.

His breath caught in his chest, the way it always did at her tender touch. "He was a clever fellow."

"He could see my heart always belonged to you," Aveline murmured.

Shay chuckled. "More like, he saw me jump into bed with you every time you showed up."

"That's not true! Sometimes we were on your table, or in a cave, or that time in the guard tower..."

"Aye, or in the forest." He stroked her cheek tenderly.

She leaned into his touch, then cleared her throat. "But we still have this problem of our people killing each other."

He sighed. "We must take our business elsewhere. You to your warehouse and I to--I will have to find a Templar hideout."

"Won't they linger around our house to take out one of us?"

"Do you think they'd risk it, knowing the other would take swift revenge even against our own fellows?"

She sighed and leaned into him, closing her eyes and smiling. "You would kill Templars for me?"

He took her in his arms tenderly. "Aye, and would you kill Assassins to avenge my death?"

She smiled, nestling close to him, eyes still closed. "I would. I don't know what else I'd do without you, but that I would."

He kissed her braided hair. "Someday you'll be without me, I feel. I'm your elder, and if neither of us gets murdered you'll outlive me."

"Not necessarily, love," she told him, huddling against him. "Just because my mother birthed me easily doesn't mean I'll bear our children safely. I could die in childbirth; women do." She'd lost a friend, already, who bled out after her sixth child.

He stroked her back, listening. "Then this child must be our only one. We can--I don't know--I can't bear the thought that I might lose you to one of our children."

She smiled tenderly at him and stroked his cheek. "Shay, love, we'll never be able to keep our hands off each other. And it's a risk I'll take for you, for our children. Do you know, I felt our little one move within me today?"

"It's too great of a risk," he insisted.

"It's less of a risk than jumping off a roof onto some heavily armed man, to kill him with a little knife on my wrist," she pointed out.

"D'you think I like that, either?"

"You do it too!" she objected. "I could lose you in a fight--I could lose you when you sail--I could lose you to the blades of my fellow Assassins--yet I still love you and I still let you go about your business when every beat of my heart screams that I should keep you safe at home!"

"I'll be fine," he insisted. "I've been fine so far!"

"You got shot and fell off a cliff and nearly died!" she retorted. "I saw you, so don't try playing it off that it wasn't that bad! You looked exactly like a broken, twisted body, and only knowing as I did that you would survive, and that I could help--"

"That was a one-time thing," he interrupted. "I'm not planning on doing that again."

"Oh?" she snapped. "Good, because if you're foolish enough to do that again, I might just have to let you die this time." Her braids whipped around and nearly smacked him in the face as she turned away from him.

"What d'you mean, this time?"

She let out a little "hmph!" of annoyance. "Absolutely nothing."

He sighed. "Look...Aveline, dear heart, I get what you're saying. We both lead dangerous lives."

"And we always have," she added.

"I just don't want to be the cause of extra danger to you by getting you...you know." He waved vaguely at her belly.

"But Shay, it's a danger I accept. Most of the danger in my life is from killing people, bringing death. Bringing life into the world is its own kind of danger. And it's danger I accept because of the reward it brings. Your child, my child." She nestled up against him again, pulling his arm around her. "I promise, I will be all right. The pain will be bad and I may curse your name, but..."

He held her close, unable to bear the thought that he might lose her in a few months' time. "I still don't like it. I mean...I love that you're pregnant, you look amazing, I can't wait to meet our babe, but I wish it weren't so dangerous."

She patted his hand soothingly. "I know. Don't worry so much, please, dear husband?"

He managed a small smile. "I will try, beloved wife."

"That's a good husband," she told him, reaching up for a tender kiss. "Just do what I say and don't worry," she teased him.

"I always do what you say," he told her with a grin.

"And that's why I married you," she said, her eyes twinkling as she smiled.

Chapter Text

After Shay and Aveline had settled in at the Homestead and Connor met the aunt he never knew he had--Jacob Kidd, the weathered old sailor with a sharp tongue who took to Jenny like the sisters they were--it took some time for everything to calm down. Jacob wanted to live with the other sailors over by the dock, and Jenny would have none of it. Aveline was having pains on and off, although Dr. White was positive that the baby wasn't coming yet. Shay had to meet all of Connor's friends on the Homestead, and keep their names straight. Myriam kept demanding that he touch different parts of her belly to feel her baby kicking, which was a strange and uncomfortable experience, especially under Aveline's amused gaze.

Then there was the old portrait of Achilles and his family hanging up in one of the rooms, and the eerie realization that Shay was the only person there who had actually met Abigail and Connor Davenport.

With all the commotion, it took some time before Shay could unpack his and Aveline's things to find the small box, and it was a chilly, damp morning when he was able to sneak out to the tiny graveyard beside the house.

He wasn't sure how to do this, and he dithered for a few minutes, before he realized he wasn't alone.

"Come to gloat?" Connor asked coldly.

"Not at all," Shay told him, holding out the box. "Come to pay my respects."

Connor eyed the feather, slightly amused. "You bought this."

"Aye, cost me a fair amount, but I never learned the trick of finding them."

They both stared at the feather, until Connor offered, "I could show you, I suppose. I did not think I would find you here."

"He was my Mentor."

"And you turned your back on him and his teachings. You tried to kill him."

"Aye, but--he was still my Mentor." Shay wasn't sure he could explain the feeling rising in his throat. Sadness, regret, only slightly tinged with the anger and frustration he'd felt towards the man when he was alive.

"I understand."

Shay blinked. That wasn't what he expected. "You do?" Connor looked at him, and Shay realized in that instant how very much he looked like Haytham, and that his own feelings about Achilles were much like Connor's about Haytham. "Oh, of course you do." He waved the little box. "Do I, uh, bury the feather, or just lay it on the grave, or what?"

Connor bent to the grave and began to dig at the soil with his hands; Shay set down the box and helped. Before long, they'd excavated a decent little hole. Connor gestured to Shay, who took out the feather and placed it into the hole, which they both then filled in.

"Thank you," Connor murmured, laying a hand on the headstone.

"Did you bury him?" Shay asked, and Connor nodded, a deep frown etched on his face. He blinked quickly, and Shay moved to stand by his side. After a minute, hesitantly, he reached an arm around Connor's back. Connor twitched, once, at the touch, but didn't jerk back as Shay squeezed him in an awkward side hug. "Better you than me," Shay continued. "I'd've had to, no doubt, if Haytham had killed him. Much better that he passed at home an old man."

Connor stared at him. "What stayed my father's hand?"

Shay shrugged. "I don't know, honestly. I asked him to show mercy, and he did. Of a sort."

"Why did you ask?"

Shay shrugged again, unable to answer. "Could be the same reasons I got that feather. Because he was my Mentor, first, and the first one other than Liam to see me as more than a street thug." He sighed. "I'm sorry, Connor, for the time I tried to kill him. It was--it was all fresh and new to me then, and--"

"There you are!" Jenny's voice was sharp. "Standing out in the rain, digging in the dirt at a time like this."

"What time like this?" Shay asked, befuddled.

Jenny rolled her eyes. "She's in labor, of course."

"Aveline!" He bolted for the door of the manor.

Chapter Text

Being a Templar Grandmaster and forming a Colonial Rite was a tiring, stressful, thankless job, and Haytham could well appreciate that he needed to relax. And he was grateful, in a way, that his men wanted him to enjoy himself.

This wasn't how he would have chosen to do so.

Haytham wondered what he had ever done to make them think that tying up an older, naked man and leaving him on Haytham's bed at the Green Dragon Inn was wise or even acceptable.

"Sorry, sir," the man mumbled deferentially. "We were just, you know--well, maybe you don't know yet--forget I said anything."

"I wish I could," Haytham muttered, rubbing his face. "I wish I could forget everything that's happened since I set foot in the door tonight."

"Very sorry, sir," the man whispered, looking most embarrassed.

"Well, who put you up to this?" Haytham asked. "Was it Hickey? Church? Lee?" That would make a disturbing amount of sense, actually; perhaps this man was a test of sorts, Charles's attempt to learn if Haytham's preferences leaned in that direction.

"No, sir, I was just visiting."

"Visiting? You mean, like Desmond and Edward--"

"Yes--er--have you met me before, sir?" The man blushed a deeper red, if that was possible.

"No, I can't say I have."

"Well, I'm Shay. And you're Haytham; I've known you for years, now."

"Pleased to meet you--actually, not so much; I'd be more pleased if you were clothed, in all honesty."

"About that, sir, I'm very sorry, A--uh, my wife and I were..."

Haytham breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank God. I thought you were a trick my men were playing on me." He noted Shay's slightly disappointed look, and for some reason unknown even to himself, added, "Not that, ah, well, if any man were to turn up nakedly in my bed, I can think of worse."

"Well...thank you, sir. I think." Shay wiggled his fingers experimentally. "As I don't know how long I'll be here, would you mind untying me? My hand is a little numb." He held out his bound hands as far as he could and Haytham sawed at the knotted fabric with his hidden blade. Shay covered himself with a blanket as soon as his hands were free, looking around the room, anywhere but at Haytham.

"And your wife, she won't be displeased about the, ah, the...?" Haytham gestured to the shreds of cloth.

Shay laughed. "Hardly. She, ah..." He quickly gathered up the fabric and balled it up in his hand. "She understands about visiting."

"You've told an outsider, then?" Haytham queried. "It seems the quickest way to end up in a madhouse."

"She's hardly an outsider," Shay insisted defensively. "She's my wife."

Haytham sighed. "And she doesn't think you're mad?" He found this hard to believe; some days, he was sure he was well on his way to madness.

"No, she knows the visitors are real." Shay had the look of a man carefully measuring his words before they left his mouth; Haytham wondered what he was hiding.

"That's more than I know," Haytham grumbled. "How on earth could I possibly verify that?"

"Easy," and Shay grinned broadly. "Meet a visitor in person. You'll know, then."

"Unfortunately, the only one I've met in person has now been dead since I was ten years old, and I can't be sure that I'm not just creating him out of wishful thinking."

Shay laughed. "You? Create Edward out of wishful thinking? First off, you are the least wishful person I've ever known. Second, Edward does nothing but embarrass you. Who would wish for that?"

Haytham frowned. "Of course, if I were making this all up, or going mad, you would naturally know all about Edward."

Shay shook his head. "You're not, Haytham. Once you start to meet visitors in person, you'll see. I promise. What year is it for you?"

"1755."

"Within five years, I promise you, sir, you'll have your proof." Shay grinned, opened his mouth to say more, and vanished, presumably back to the arms of his wife.

It was certainly the most enlightening conversation Haytham had ever had with a naked man. He still wasn't sure he wasn't mad, but at least now he knew he'd be able to determine his sanity, and within a few years at that.

With luck, he could then tell Ziio, the most fascinating person he'd ever met, that he was definitely not touched in the head.

Not that she'd believe him.

Chapter Text

One after the other, Connor flung each portrait into the fire. Johnson, Pitcairn, Hickey, Biddle, Church, Lee. And finally, he sat looking at his father's portrait. He traced the picture's jawline, the same as his own. The tricorne hat that was so familiar.

"Setting things on fire, are you?" Edward asked approvingly behind him. "That's my grandson."

"Enemies now dead," Connor informed him tiredly. Really, he should fling the thing into the flames already. It was crisscrossed with black paint anyway.

Edward leaned over his shoulder. "Eh, is that--Connor, why is there a black mark on Haytham's portrait?"

Connor sighed and closed his eyes. He really should have realized that Edward must have learned some other time, not in the seconds after Haytham's death. "He is dead."

"And you've killed him?"

Connor bowed his head. "I have."

Edward's sharp intake of breath made Connor wince, and before he entirely understood what he was doing, he stood and wrapped his arms around his grandfather.

"Why?" Edward's voice was strained.

"You comforted me right afterwards. Now you are in need of comfort."

"No, why did you kill him?"

Connor pointed to the word he had written on the wall. "I have made a mistake. I thought I had no choice. I thought it was--" He rubbed his neck, remembering.

Edward eyed him skeptically, but his gaze softened. "He always fumed over his men choking you."

"Strange, then that he did the same to me," Connor snapped, bitterly.

"And you were afraid?" Edward asked gently.

Connor bowed his head again, hot tears caught between his eyelashes. "Yes, and I--"

Edward cut him off quickly. "Please don't tell me any more. I don't need nor want to know." He struggled to say something, then blurted out, "Was it quick?"

Connor nodded, gesturing to his hidden blade. Edward drew a shuddering breath and Connor hugged him again. They stood for a while like that, grandfather and grandson, tears on each other's shoulders. Edward sobbed with great racking howls of grief, paroxysms that shook him and left him clinging to his grandson. After an hour or more, he quieted, and Connor rubbed his back awkwardly.

Edward was suddenly back in his own house, face still puffy and nose still runny and red. And--he had forgotten--Haytham was there looking up at him with a child's innocence and trust.

"Father," Haytham reminded him, "you were saying you'd tell me something on my tenth birthday?"

Edward managed a wobbly smile. "Yes, I promise, son, I'll tell you all about a creed we must follow." He reached out shakily to Haytham, wondering if he himself would be alive in a month to tell him. But he couldn't bear to place that burden on a child not even ten.

Knowing as he did that his own murder might be at hand, why did he still quake with grief for a future more than four decades away?

Chapter Text

One minute, Shay was in the cramped bathtub, cleaning dried bits of Lawrence Washington's blood out of his armpit (and how on Earth did it get there??) and the next, he was cold and wet, on the floor of an inn.

And the man looking at him with an expression of intense disapproval was none other than the Templar Haytham Kenway. "Again?" Shay had no idea what he was referring to, but he was an Assassin and here was a Templar, and so his duty was clear, right? He lunged, despite his lack of weapons, trying to throttle Haytham. "Are you mad, man?" Haytham asked, annoyed, and deflected Shay.

"Last time I saw you, you wouldn't fight me, I don't know why. You're a Templar, I'm an Assassin. That's how it works, isn't it?" Shay hated the doubt in his voice, and it seemed that Haytham heard that doubt.

"Is it?" Haytham asked. "You didn't make an ill-advised unarmed attempt on my life last time. Although," he added thoughtfully, "you seemed quite a bit older the last time I saw you."

"You too," Shay admitted.

"But no more clothed, unless you count being tied up," Haytham added, dodging a kick.

Shay tried to pull Haytham's arm and trip him, but the Templar backed up quickly. "Tied up?" Shay demanded, frustrated. "By whom?"

"I haven't the foggiest idea," Haytham assured him, grabbing Shay's elbow and overbalancing him across the room onto the bed.

"Probably a Templar like you." Shay jumped off the bed and managed to land a good wallop that would probably make the Templar's ear swell. He grabbed the papers from Haytham's desk, flinging them into the fire. "There goes all your hard work, spying on Assassins," he gloated.

"You know, those might have been important Templar plans I would rather you not see," Haytham said smoothly, trying a punch that Shay blocked easily. "In which case, thank you for failing to take advantage of your prime opportunity to spy on me."

"You're just trying to goad me," Shay retorted, stomping on Haytham's foot.

"Will you quit attacking me? You said your wife tied you up."

Shay laughed. "I haven't got a wife. You sure it was me?"

"You are every inch the man I saw last time," Haytham informed Shay, then brought his knee sharply up into his crotch. As Shay bent over double, groaning, Haytham told him, "My apologies to your future wife," and knocked him out with a carefully controlled punch to the temple.

Shay woke, groggy and uncomfortable. He tried to stand, only to find that his hands and feet were tightly bound. At least he was wrapped in blankets. His mouth tasted like blood as he managed to ask, "Why not just kill me?"

"Hmm, good question. From what you've said, neither of us is out to fight the other in the future. I've no idea why, but my future self must have a good reason. I'd hate to disappoint myself. Or the poor fool of a woman you'll marry."

Shay scowled, grumbled, muttered curses to himself, but had to admit that Haytham had a point. "And we both must live past this meeting, if we've seen each other from the future."

Haytham nodded, sharply. "Which, I'm sure you'll understand, is why I can’t trust you unbound. You were so much more reasonable last time," he added with just a touch of peevishness.

"What d'you mean by that?" Shay asked, quickly growing alarmed as Haytham spread a blanket on the floor, then maneuvered him onto it. Try as he might, Shay couldn't escape his bonds. Haytham then knotted him up in several more blankets, working in a thoroughly businesslike fashion. Shay was soon encased in a lump of moth-eaten wool, unable to move more than a finger.

Haytham then laid down on the bed, sword close at hand, and ostentatiously closed his eyes. "Goodnight, Shay," he called.

Shay could only wait for the humiliating visit to end. One thing was for sure, he wasn't going to attack Haytham Kenway any time soon.

Chapter Text

Shay didn't want to spend even a minute apart from Aveline, so he was a little disappointed to find himself in the Homestead, but as Connor was sitting in a chair with a sour expression, not leaping up to attack him, he supposed that, as visits went, this might not be so bad. They'd made a cautious, strained sort of friendship out of shared trips to Haytham's grave and occasionally snapping each other out of self-flagellation over having killed their own friends. This time, Connor merely looked up and grunted at him.

"Why so moody, Connor?" Shay was concerned. Lately, he'd come to realize that a lack of happiness was a serious problem in many people's lives. The fact that he was newly married to Aveline, and deliriously joyful about both the marriage and their forthcoming child, may have had something to do with his new outlook.

"I am not moody," Connor insisted, upending the fanorona board and scattering the pieces all over the floor. For a minute, Shay thought he was going to fling the board into the fire.

"Did something happen with Emily?" Shay asked, suddenly worried. Aveline's changing body had made him realize the perils inherent in childbearing, and the last he had heard, Connor's pretty, blonde wife was carrying their second child.

Connor sighed heavily. "She has gone," he admitted. "She took Matthew and moved back to her father's house."

"That's terrible!" Shay couldn't believe it; Emily had been madly in love with Connor, which was a source of much amusement for Aveline, for some reason. "What would ever make her do that? Has she gone mad?"

"No, Shay, she has not gone mad, she has come to her senses."

Connor's sigh was so defeated that Shay dropped down into the other chair (ugh, the creak in his back--he was definitely becoming an old married man with the noisy body parts to prove it) and insisted, "You must tell me what happened!"

"She found out, Shay, she found out about everything."

"Found out what?"

Connor laughed bitterly. "What I am. What I do. She thought me just a--a hunter, I suppose, a special sort of soldier in the war. It was all so romantic to her, I guess, but the real me, the killer..."

"Whom did you kill?"

"No one, and that is the irony of it. I have not killed more than a rabbit or deer in nearly a year." He sighed. "Well, that is not entirely true, she found out about someone I had killed. That is part of it."

Shay frowned. "So she found out you're an Assassin. And left you because of it?"

Connor shrugged. "Not just that. You see...." He gestured vaguely towards the hallway. "Last night, people came over. Chairs were moved around and I did not move them back."

Shay stared blankly at him. "All right..."

Connor sighed. "Matthew climbed on a chair and pulled the candle. He must have seen me do it at some point. Or else he was just playing." Connor's son was a quiet, but energetic, four-year-old, and Shay could totally believe the lad would figure out the secret entrance.

"So he opened the door."

Connor buried his face in his hands and nodded, and when he finally looked up, his cheeks were streaked with tears. "Emily was feeling unwell, and she thought him perfectly safe in his own house. She did not know that there was a hidden room filled with weapons, and when she found him he had cut himself on one of my swords." His voice wavered, just a bit. "I have...I have not yet been able to clean up the blood," he admitted with quiet horror. "It sits there, on the blade and the floor, a reproach of my dreams of fatherhood."

"How badly is he hurt?" Shay asked, numbly. He'd never thought it through, but he was realizing now that he and Aveline would have to keep their child safe from the implements of their professions, and the world suddenly seemed a terrifying place to raise a child.

Connor exhaled. "He lost...a finger, but nothing more. Doctor White was able to attend to him quickly, he told me." He pointed to his left ring finger, and Shay wondered if he even realized the significance. "And then--" He slumped in the chair and whispered, "and then when I came home, she had gone downstairs and had a look around."

"What, was she worried that you were some sort of madman on account of all your weapons?"

Connor shook his head. "No, but she saw the wall." Shay stared blankly, and Connor elaborated, "she saw my father's name on the wall, and where I had crossed off his picture after killing him."

"But that doesn't necessarily say that you killed him..." Shay began, but Connor shook his head again.

"She is no fool, Shay. She guessed, and of course she guessed correctly. So when I came home, she had already packed. Of course I could not deny anything she said, and so she took the carriage back to Boston with Matthew."

"But that's not fair, Connor, you love her and you love your son, maybe you could work something out?"

Connor shook his head, miserably. "No. She made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with me ever again, and that I was not to come near Matthew nor the baby." A tear gathered on his eyelashes and fell. "It is all my fault, for what I am and what I have done."

"You mean she never had any clue beforehand? You never came home covered in blood or anything?"

Connor shrugged. "I was careful to hide it. You are lucky. All Aveline might object to is who you kill, not that you kill."

"Listen, Connor," Shay began, unsure what he was going to say even as he was saying it. "Accidents happen, all right? I know--I think, anyway, if something happened to my child, I'd blame myself. But it's not like you set out to hurt him. You have the tools you need for the life you lead, and it was just an unfortunate occurrence that Matthew blundered into it. Not his fault, and not yours, and not Emily's. He's still alive, and that's what matters. And you'll see him again some day, I'm sure of it."

"You think I want to come into my son's life as an adult, when his mind is already set against me? I cannot imagine that will end well," Connor snapped.

"It doesn't have to be like you and Haytham, it really doesn't," Shay said softly. "Look, you do the best you can, all right? Let Emily cool down and then write her a letter, ask her if you can at least see Matthew, the boy needs to know his father cares about him, someone can be watching to make sure nobody gets hurt, all that."

Connor buried his head in his hands again. "I am a danger to my own child, Shay. I am..."

Shay hesitantly laid a hand on Connor's shoulder and shook him. "Connor, you're not a danger to your own child. Emily's just...angry, and scared right now. Listen, you know how we were planning to go to the Homestead? We'll leave early, leave tomorrow, so we can be there for you. Maybe Aveline can go and talk to Emily...or, or something, all right? You just hang on until we get there."

"Of course," Connor mumbled dully. "What else would I do, anyway?"

"Good, good," Shay told him. "Keep yourself busy, all right? Help people in the village and whatnot. I swear, fix up a couple buildings and you'll feel like a new man. Aveline and I--" and he winked out.

Connor gulped, wiping his eyes. The visit had affected him more than he'd like to admit, and he was warmed by the thought that Aveline and Shay would soon be there--well, he wasn't sure when, actually, because he'd no idea when Shay was visiting from.

And then he heard a hue and clamor coming from the direction of the harbor. He pulled himself out of his chair and went out the door, almost smiling as he recognized the Morrigan.

Chapter Text

Altaïr looked dubiously at the golden sand, the clear blue water, the fish shining in gemlike brightness. It was all very lovely, yet foreboding. The fish kept nipping at his feet.

"C'mon, Altaïr," Edward encouraged him, words a little slurred. He'd had something between one and five drinks that night, and was standing in the water beside him. "Just hold my hands and kick your legs."

"And you won't drop my hands?" Altaïr asked pointedly. "Or forget what you were doing? Or take revenge for that time I jumped off the very tall church?"

"Hey, that's right, you did jump off that church, man, do you know how much that hurt?" Edward scowled at him but didn't stop holding out his hands.

"No, actually, I don't." Altaïr took the chance to clutch Edward's hands and kick himself up in the water, thrashing and splashing about like a fish on a hook.

"What are you fellows--am I interrupting something, here, have I turned into Desmond?" Shay's voice was barely audible above the noise Altaïr was making.

"I was just teachin' him how to swim," Edward said, laughing. "Altaïr. Assassin fellow. Skilled killer. Don't tell me you're afraid to get your face in the water."

"Very well, I won't," Altaïr drew himself up as best he could in nothing but his soggy trousers. It was embarrassing, but ducking his face in the water made him feel like he was suffocating.

Edward laughed, but Shay didn't. "Enough, Edward, give him a break."

"He's afraid of the water, Shay!"

"He's not like us, Edward, he didn't grow up on the ocean!"

"I didn't either, I grew up on a sheep farm!" Edward was still laughing.

"But have you seen where he lives?" Shay asked, seriously. "What's he going to swim in, a drinking cup?"

"Perhaps you would do better at teaching me to swim," Altaïr cut in, turning to Shay. "Templar though you are."

"I guess," Shay said, dubiously. "But not when you're visiting me. You don't need to be freezing to death while you're trying to keep from drowning."

"Then now would be the perfect time," Altair told him. "It's warm here and Edward's...staying here, but well out of our way."

Edward had retired to a rock on the beach, watching the two of them and occasionally laughing. Shay began teaching Altaïr the breaststroke, never commenting on how it would keep his face out of the water, for which the Assassin was grateful.

Eventually Kidd joined Edward on the rock, which meant Edward was totally focused on his fellow pirate, much to the amusement of both Shay and Altaïr, who exchanged knowing looks before Altaïr got back to work on coordinating legs and arms. By the time Edward passed out, Altaïr was able to flail his way through the water in a semi-directed fashion, although he felt like he had fallen off a tall building and missed the haystack.

"How can you swim all day like this?" he asked Shay, groaning.

"It's all I've ever known," Shay said with a shrug. "Since I was a lad, I helped my father out on the ship, and then when I became an Assassin, I found I had to swim a lot for missions. And then I got the Morrigan," and his eyes lit up the way they only ever did when he talked about his ship or Aveline, "and of course it's a lot safer if you can swim when you fall off the ship."

"You fall off?" Altaïr asked, alarmed.

"Oh, storms, you know," Shay told him vaguely. "Things happen. Just make sure to fall well clear of the ship and that they know that you've fallen."

Altaïr looked at him dubiously. "Perhaps it's a good thing I didn't take Edward up on his offer to steal me a ship."

Shay laughed. "Probably. Still, if you ever need a ship stolen, I'm usually more sober than he is."

"Why are you helping me? You're a Templar."

Shay shrugged. "I don't like to see anyone drown. And we're not just on opposite sides, here, right? You've killed plenty of Templars and I've killed lots of Assassins. But it would be strange and odd for a visitor to kill another."

Altaïr thought of Haytham and of Connor and sighed. "Yes, it is. And I have no wish to be part of that."

"So," Shay continued, "I feel like we should help each other out. We're tied together in a way that surpasses who or what we fight for."

"I made a truce with you, for another's sake," Altaïr told him, "but I don't know if you've gotten to that."

"No," said Shay, "but I'm glad you're no longer trying to kill me as a traitor. Whether it's for Aveline's sake or whatnot. Still. Truce, then, between me and you, without the intervention of anyone else?" He offered his hand.

Altaïr grasped Shay's hand and shook, firmly. "Truce. And--thank you. You may have saved my life someday by teaching me today."

"And given myself more work, eventually," Shay said with a grin, "by letting you revitalize the Brotherhood."

"It's hundreds of years between you and me," Altaïr pointed out. "And if I didn't, you'd never have become an Assassin and then a Templar."

"True, that. So then we can be friends of a sort, aye?"

"Of a sort."

Edward, asleep, rolled off his rock and fell into the water, splashing and shouting.

"Go rescue him," Shay said with a grin.

"Me?" Altaïr asked, then realized the water was only knee deep. "Very well, I can do that." He strode over and picked Edward up bodily. "Thank you for lending us your ocean." He set the pirate back on his rock and grinned, then was back in Masyaf, and Malik was looking at him skeptically, as he always did.

Chapter Text

Connor had had more than enough of his father for one day, and it wasn't even noon. Between Haytham's snide comments comparing Connor's ship-piloting skills unfavorably to Shay’s, the way he cleared his throat with an annoying little squeak, and the way he clutched the railing every two seconds as if Connor had them on a collision course for a cliff, he was entirely the most disagreeable traveling companion Connor could imagine. The only positive quality he could see in his father at the moment was that Haytham was just as fed up with him, and had stomped forward to loiter in the bow of the Aquila.

"Connor? What're you doing in warm waters?" Shay's voice came from right where Haytham had been standing. "Aren't you supposed to be freezing your stones off like me in the North Atlantic while Edward swans around in the West Indies?"

"All my body parts remain attached," Connor muttered. He'd had enough of Templars today. "Father and I are chasing a former associate of his to Martinique."

"Oh? Where's Haytham, down below?"

"He has gone forward. The more space between us right now, the better," Connor grunted. Faulkner gave him a look; he'd never gotten used to his young captain's habit of talking to himself.

Shay looked forward, then brightened. "Aveline!" Connor stifled a groan. The last thing he needed was to see Shay and Aveline kissing, or worse. Shay raced forward, then stopped as he came up against the invisible barrier that kept a visitor within a certain distance of the one they were visiting.

Aveline, for her part, had grown tired of Haytham's excessively snippy attitude. She'd pulled his hair, stolen his hat, made funny noises every time he turned his back on her, and done everything she could think of to break him out of his surly mood. Surprisingly, none of it had worked, and she was growing weary of his snappish monosyllables. She chanced to look over her shoulder, and brightened at the sight of a familiar figure in red and black. "Haytham, look! It's Shay!"

Haytham sighed. "And you want to make love to him, right here on my son's ship, in full view of both myself and Connor?"

"When you put it like that...yes. Come on, please? You're no fun to be around right now," she wheedled.

"Because I'm not responding to your childish pestering?"

"Because you won't relax and get over yourself," she retorted, in an eminently practical tone of voice. "Life is short. Our lives more than many others, I fear. We should enjoy the time and the visits we do have. After all, we've got to have visitors for a reason."

"And that reason is, what? For you to steal my hat and Shay's virtue?"

"Among other things."

He scowled. "I'll stay here. Maybe if you have to stand ten feet away from Shay, you'll actually talk."

"We talk plenty," she informed him, then turned and walked over to her lover, who stood there with a forlorn look. They were about six feet apart, close enough for conversation but completely unable to touch.

"Guess we're not permitted to get any closer," Shay told her sadly.

"Some people just have no understanding of how much we need each other." She smiled at him, and he smiled back, and they stood there gazing tenderly at each other.

"They had some sort of father-son tiff," he explained eventually. "Can't say I entirely sympathize here. Not like I have a father to have tiffs with."

She reached out to take his hand, then realized she couldn't, and sighed. "And now we must suffer for their fighting."

"The way they talk, you'd think they were the ones suffering by us having to wait for visits to be together," he complained.

"Well then, Shay, we must make them suffer for keeping us apart, more than they would by seeing us together." She grinned wickedly.

"Aveline, love, I'm not sure that's a good idea..." He sighed as she stalked back to Haytham and swiped his hat again, replacing it with her own. And then he shrugged and sidled back to Connor and asked, "Mind if I take a turn at the wheel?"

Connor stared at him as if he'd grown a third head. "I do mind."

"Just one little trick, it can't hurt. I've always wanted to sail in warm waters."

"No."

"I won't do anything you wouldn't do, like wreck the ship or pledge your undying loyalty to the Templars."

"Are you mad? Why not go back to your own ship?" Connor demanded.

Faulkner gave him a strange stare. "Connor, are you well?"

Connor sighed. "Yes, just...I..."

Shay tried to make his voice extra whiny. "But I can't go back to my own ship! Aveline's the only one that can end visits early. Come on, just a little turn around this island."

"I must focus on the sea." Connor set his mouth in a grim line and stared at the wheel.

Meanwhile, Aveline was wearing Haytham's hat, which kept sliding forward onto her face. Haytham pretended not to notice. She unbuckled one of his boots. He buckled it back up without a word. She pulled up his cape and flung it over his head so it covered his face, and he groaned. "What will it take to convince you to cease this immaturity?"

"Since you mentioned immaturity," she responded promptly, "stop fighting with Connor so I can be with Shay,"

"If I move any closer I'll have to see the pair of you half-clothed," he complained.

"If you stand by Connor's side then Shay and I can be down below in a cabin and you'll neither see nor hear us."

"I'm not sure that's worth standing by Connor's side right now."

"From my perspective, it certainly is."

"You could always just...leave," Haytham suggested.

"But Shay's not at home," Aveline pointed out. "He's here, and I love him."

Haytham turned to look at her, his face unreadable. "Love? Truly, love?"

She nodded firmly. "Oui, love. Surely you had realized?"

He shook his head. "No...I had always thought you fond of him, and in desperate need of his physical charms, but I was not aware it was love. You hide your emotions well, Aveline, without even giving any sign that you are doing so."

"It is love, Haytham, and you are no stranger to love yourself, so you must understand why I go to such lengths to spend time with him."

He sighed. "All right. Be sure and remind Connor, someday when I am gone, that I was always the nicer one, allowing the two of you your time together here."

Aveline curtseyed prettily, all smiles, as Haytham strode stiffly along the Aquila. Connor rolled his eyes at his father as Aveline and Shay ran to each other, kissed passionately, and ducked into Connor's cabin. "Why did you give in?" Connor demanded.

"Because there are more important things in this world than Templars and Assassins fighting." Somehow Haytham still managed to sound smug and superior. Connor simply glowered, as Faulkner excused himself to get something to eat.

Haytham and Connor were both silent for several minutes, then Connor burst out with, "How on earth can you put up with them...together?"

Haytham sighed. "Years of practice. When I traveled with Shay, he had just fallen in love with her, and every few mornings I'd wake up to the pair of them. Sometimes they would try to be quiet, but not always. They acted as if they invented copulation and needed to test it for the entire human race."

Connor flushed. "It must have annoyed you greatly."

"Yes, but it was rather sweet in its way. Of course, irritating in the extreme, and tiresome in repetition, and unpleasant to hear."

"Do you think they have a future together? Assassin and Templar?" Connor asked quietly.

"I think they are living that future, Connor," Haytham spoke softly. "What is a future but one day after another? They meet, they retire to the nearest bed or whatever takes their fancy, their visit ends and they go about their business, and it is another day together. The next day, if they are lucky, they repeat it. The secret is not to stop." His gaze was far off into the distance, and his voice so quiet Connor had to strain to hear it. The moment of uncomfortable sympathy dragged on. Finally, Haytham cleared his throat. "Of course, they do all this without any regard to others who might not wish to see them so exposed."

"One time I heard a noise in Achilles's room and they were in his very bed," Connor complained, making a face.

"I do hope you told him that," Haytham chuckled, "he would have had a heart attack at the thought of Shay bedding an Assassin invisibly, right in front of him."

"No." Connor looked at his father oddly. "But I could not concentrate on my fanorona game."

"Have I ever told you about the time we had to stop the mission we were on because he hadn't seen her in a month and she appeared in the underbrush?"

"No, but I imagine it was like the time I sought lodgings in Boston only to have to sleep on the floor because they wished to use the bed."

Haytham chuckled. "And yet, what would we do without them?"

"Perhaps they offset our own enmity."

"I think they must."

Chapter Text

Altaïr had just gotten his throwing knives back and was itching to practice on something, when a strange figure appeared at the end of the hall. Another "visitor". He approached the man cautiously; he couldn't tell if the headgear was some kind of helmet or simply a stupid looking hat.

The man looked around, then looked directly at Altaïr, recognition beginning to dawn on his face. "Oh! I'd heard you were among us. So this must be Masyaf, then?" He smirked. "And I the first Templar ever to see it at its height."

"Templar?" Altaïr asked, reaching for his knives. The visitor ducked around a corner, and Altaïr sprinted to catch up with him. His first knife went wide, but his second hit the man in the arm. The man pulled the knife out and threw it on the floor, running down some stairs with Altaïr in hot pursuit.

"Going somewhere, novice?" Malik asked, conveniently mid-step so that his extended leg tripped Altaïr, who went skidding down three steps and into a wall. "You just got your throwing knives back and you've already hurt yourself? Al Mualim clearly made a mistake trusting you with them."

"I was--" Altaïr began, looking for his latest visitor, only to realize he'd vanished. He looked down at his own arm to see his robes were stained with blood, and stared, puzzled.

"There is a sharp end to these things, Altaïr. Perhaps you just aren't ready for such things," Malik scoffed.

"I thought I saw a Templar," Altaïr explained.

"And you thought you'd bleed a little to get ready for greater injuries? Or perhaps you saw me and wished to mock my injury?"

"No! That isn't it at all," Altaïr tried to defend himself, but Malik was having none of it.

"You arrogant fool! See if I open the Bureau to you next time you've set off all the alarms." With that, Malik flounced off, heading for the stables to return to Jerusalem, and Altaïr sighed. He clearly needed to practice, even if he hadn't actually hit himself in the arm. He should have gotten that Templar.

Chapter Text

Shay finds himself in the water, he's not sure how; one minute he was on the deck of the little ship beside his father, the next he's in the freezing ocean, and floating next to him is...

is...

is...

No, it can't be his father. It's got to be some other man, black-haired like the elder Cormac, rugged from a lifetime of working on ships. It can't be the man Shay hopes to grow up to be like.

Because, for one thing, Shay's father shouldn't have blood streaming from his head, and his father would be swimming back towards the ship with a tired grin. "Better watch your step on a ship, son," Shay's father would say. "Hang fast in a storm, lad" he might add, and it's good advice that Shay didn't take and neither did the man who absolutely isn't his father, because here they are in the North Atlantic freezing their stones off and surely his father wouldn't have been so foolish.

Shay is starting to have a sinking feeling about the man who can't possibly be his father. Because any sailor would be swimming now, even Shay who's not quite a full-grown man yet knows how to swim, and that's an awful lot of red in the water around him, a puddle the color of wine spooling off into the depths. Shay watches, fascinated, as the blood reaches him and swirls around his own arms and legs.

He doesn't even feel cold anymore.

He doesn't feel anything anymore.

The ice seems to crowd in at the corners of his vision.

"Swim, damn you!" It's a harsh voice, and Shay stares at the floating body (can he say it's a body yet?) face-down in the water beside him as if expecting that's where the voice comes from, but it's not Shay's father's voice and it doesn't come from the... the body...

"What are you waiting for?" The voice has an overtone of panic to it, and Shay finally places it: the man in white hooded robes, behind him and to the left.

Where did he come from? Shay tries to ask, but his mouth fills with icy seawater.

Then he's looking at himself, literally, looking at himself doing the most ungainly breaststroke ever.

"Where's the ship?" Shay asks himself, only somehow it's the accent of that harsh-voiced man, and perhaps the oddity of that voice in his own mouth is what jogs Shay to answer.

"There." He points to the little ship that's slowed and stopped, the good sailors of the little sloop lowering a rowboat amid barely audible cries of "Cormac's overboard! His son, too!" The wind smacks the sea into Shay's face, and he can't even hear that anymore.

"Come on!" Whoever is in his body is swimming, practically wallowing in the water, but he's staying afloat and making slow progress, cursing as he changes direction again and again because of the waves and choppy waters. Shay's dragged along through the water, until finally they reach the rowboat. And then he's back in his own self, being hauled up into the boat, and someone's tying a rope around the body in the water. Shay is going to have to tell his father that he mistook that man for him, he was so worried, and his father is going to laugh it off, and all will be well, and the cold, dead body will be buried at sea and nothing in Shay's life is going to change.

"Thank you," he politely tells the man in white, who is looking at him with a sort of grim sympathy. "Thank you for saving me." His teeth chatter so hard he can barely speak.

One of the sailors gives him a blanket, exchanging worried looks with the other two, acting as if they can't see the man in white. It's just one more mystery of the strangest day in his young life.

It's not until many years later, when Shay is gray-haired, and he's sitting in the Homestead with Connor and Edward recounting tales of seafaring while his children run around chasing the turkeys, that Shay remembers that day, and the man who swam for him, and he's startled into a laugh.

"What is it?" Connor asks him, brow furrowed.

"Can you believe," Shay begins, "that once I fell overboard and my life was saved by Altaïr??"

Edward laughs uproariously and Connor tells him, "No, I cannot."

"It's the truth, I swear!"

Chapter Text

There's an old man at the bar, and he's not ordering anything.

Not old, exactly, more like middle aged. But older than the Bad Weather's usual clientele. And again, not ordering anything, which annoys Desmond. After about an hour of this, Desmond decides to ignore the man and take his break in the alley behind the bar. When he comes back in, the old man is waiting by the bathrooms.

What follows is the strangest experience he'll have for at least another year.

The man walks into him, right into him, and then Desmond watches himself go to the karaoke machine.

Literally.

He literally stands there and watches himself.

He can see himself, standing by the bar, and he can see himself, about to make a huge mistake.

"Stop!" he yells, but he ignores himself, apparently.

"This one goes out to a Messere Miles, from the Brotherhood," the other Desmond says in an Italian accent, winking charmingly at a young woman nearby wearing very little.

"What the FUCK?!" Desmond yells. Nobody even turns around to see who's yelling.

And then Desmond, the idiot Desmond at the karaoke machine, starts up "Carry On Wayward Son".

Desmond would like to say that he's a good singer. That's a lie. Still, he's a regular Pavarotti next to the Desmond making a fool of himself. He's picked a difficult song that he obviously didn't know, and he sounds like a cat dying violently and without any rhythm.

People begin booing and throwing their napkins and slider buns at him, but idiot-Desmond gamely, and tunelessly, soldiers on through the song. When it's over, he bows to the angry bar patrons and comes over to the real Desmond, body-checking him hard enough to make him stumble.

But when Desmond looks around for himself to yell at, he sees only the old guy, smiling sadly. "Grazie, Desmond," he says, and vanishes.

Desmond waits to wake up, but never does.

He hadn't been drinking at work that night, but he never does again.

Chapter Text

Altaïr perhaps doesn't have the best sense of timing in the world, which is why he begins important conversations while Maria is trying to dress a fractious Darim.

"Maria, dear heart," he begins.

"Yes? What is it, Assassin scum?" she asks, trying to get a flailing arm into a sleeve that she's beginning to think is too tight. Darim is chattering to himself, gesticulating wildly and occasionally thumping her rounded belly.

Altaïr grins at her typical endearment and tells her, "I must tell you this. I--I've waited for so long for the right moment and finally decided that the perfect moment will never come, so the next minute I saw you, I decided to tell you right away."

"That's lovely," she deadpans. "Now's a very bad time to tell me you're a sodomite. I'll gut you and Malik, too. Once Darim stops moving for two seconds."

"Sorry, Mama," Darim chirps, and clings to her sleeve, which is supremely unhelpful. He continues chattering and waving his other arm, talking to the air or the wall or a fly buzzing around.

"What? No!" Altaïr flushes. "Nothing like that. No! You are the only one for me. No, this is something very different."

Maria eyes him warily, then softens into a smile. This is how he likes her best, her hard edges laid aside for just a moment, only for him, so that he can see the tenderness they conceal. "The only one for you, hmm? Was that the secret you're so anxious to tell me?"

He smiles and kisses her with a feather-light brush of lips against cheek, and she grins at him. "No," he tells her. "This is...have you noticed me, like Darim, talking to myself?"

"Of course, I thought he inherited that madness from you." She shrugs, matter-of-fact as always.

"Well, I can't be sure it's not madness," he begins, "which I suppose is why it's so easy for Desmond to believe we're not real."

"Wait, who's Desmond?" she interrupts, finally finishing clothing Darim and sending him on his way.

"One of the eight of us," he informs her uninformatively. "Eight people linked together through time. Only we can see each other when we visit."

"Visit where?"

"Each other."

She sighs. "I can't tell if you're mad, Altaïr, or just really bad at explaining this. Are you saying that you're talking to invisible people?"

"Yes. But, the same seven invisible people."

"Does that make you more or less mad?"

"I don't know, dear heart."

Maria shakes her head. "At least you know you're mad. And I already knew I'd married a madman; I just didn't know the quality of your madness."

"If I know I'm mad, then that's better than if I didn't, isn't it?"

She eyes him dubiously, then smiles. "Prove it."

"Ah...what?"

"Prove that they exist. Then I'll believe in them."

It would be convenient if, say, Desmond were here. Or Connor. Aveline, maybe. Even Edward or the Templars--that's it. "Listen. There are two Templars among the group. If one of them appears soon, I will allow him to possess my body and discuss secret Templar things with you, that I could not possibly know."

She considers this, then nods. "Very well. I await your Templar friends." She grins. "I can only hope they appear while you are talking to Malik. I would love to see that."

"Do you know what I would love to see?" he asks fondly. "Your face when you realize there is something to this."

"And do you know how I would like to see your face, Assassin?" She leans close and whispers in his ear.

He gives her a funny sort of strangled smile. "Darim, go play with Malik for a while!" he calls, then takes Maria's hand and follows her back to the bedchamber.

Chapter Text

Connor finds himself in the middle of a hot field, a strong smell rising from the damp earth. He is clearly visiting, but at first he can't see who. Then he spies a familiar headscarf on one of the women pulling off the clouds of cotton. And her hands are too light, and not as gnarled as the other women's. "Aveline," he greets her, falling into line next to her. "What is happening here?"

"Wicked overseer," she mutters out of the corner of her mouth; another woman is in the next row. Aveline hangs back and the woman pulls ahead, sweat running down her brow.

"And your plan is?" he asks. Surely this is too dangerous even for Aveline. The overseer is standing there with a whip, and Aveline has no weapons, not even hidden blades.

She pulls aside the neckline of her shirt just enough for him to see the feathers of a dart. But she has no blowpipe, no parasol. "Will you be able?" he asks, worried. "And after?" So many things could go wrong.

"I've practiced," she tells him tensely. "He must fall without being touched, or all will be punished. I will move the body." And dispose of the dart, no doubt. "I'm waiting for the owner to be out here to see--ah."

She crouches between the plants, zigzagging silently across several rows, then flicks the dart, which strikes the overseer in the leg. For a moment, Connor thinks she must have missed, but the overseer jerks suddenly and falls to the ground, convulsing. The other white man runs to him, and all the slaves stop to watch as the overseer dies. The owner beckons three people over--Aveline among them--to take the body up to the house. Aveline moves to lift the man's feet, and somehow--Connor can't quite see--palms the dart.

He follows her and the two other women as they carry the body to the house. Halfway back to the field, Aveline murmurs to one of the old women, "I'll return within the week. I was never here, remember?" With that, she slips away.

Connor stares at Aveline as he follows her, not like he has any choice. He's never seen her work quite like this. There is no doubt in his mind that she could make the entire plantation disappear if she tries.

"Desmond says in a hundred years there will be no more slavery," he comments.

"And neither of us will live a hundred years to see that," Aveline tells him firmly. "So I must do what I can in this time."

"He also says that it will get worse before it gets better."

"I know, and I fear for my children. Being fairer than me can only protect them so much, and they have darker eyes and hair."

Connor starts. Aveline still looks so young; he didn't realize he was visiting to a time when she already has children. But she does seem to age the slowest of all of them; he sometimes forgets that she has nine years on him. "Where are they?"

She smiles ruefully at him. "With their father, who sometimes has to pretend he knows nothing of the disorder his wife causes."

Connor chuckles once. "I suppose ignorance can be bliss in marriage." He tries not to dwell these days, but sometimes bitterness creeps in.

Aveline looks at him sorrowfully, then abruptly pulls him into a hug. He stiffens reflexively, then relaxes with a sigh. "Will I be alone forever?"

"Maybe," she answers truthfully, "except for us."

"Is that any better than being alone?"

"Yes, it is," she tells him confidently. "You have friends, family, only a breath away."

"Don't talk to me of family," he mutters, angrily.

"We are your Brothers and Sister, Connor," she reminds him. "Bring your burdens to us."

"Shay is not," he mutters spitefully.

"Shay is married to your Sister in the Creed," she reminds him with a smile. "And you get along well enough with him."

"Hmph," he mutters, but nods nonetheless. "Very well. I will try to...share my burdens."

"You will succeed," she tells him, smiling knowingly.

He can't help but return her smile just a little.

Chapter Text

Haytham settled in to a chair in the hallway. Judging from the way Aveline had practically pounced on Shay, he was going to be here for a while. He opened his book and tried to concentrate, but it was hard... difficult, rather.

Suddenly he wondered what the situation looked like to an observer. When he and Altaïr had fought for control of his body at Shay's initiation, he had seemed to struggle with himself, to attempt to stab himself; clearly, a visitor's actions could at times be expressed as actions of their host, and not just when they were taking over. Did this mean that, when Aveline visited him...?

"Gist! What does it look like I'm doing?" Haytham asked as Gist came up the stairs of the little inn.

"A most curious question, Master Kenway," Gist replied in his...unique...voice, and Haytham winced and suddenly regretted asking him. He was trustworthy, loyal to a fault, and intelligent enough to answer the question to Haytham's satisfaction, but unfortunately the answer would be delivered in that pompous, overly hearty voice. "You appear to be sitting outside a door reading a book. Is the room not to your liking?"

Haytham winced. "The room is full of Shay and Aveline," he admitted. "They haven't seen each other in a while."

Gist smiled knowingly and laid a finger alongside his nose. "Ah. Well, why not sit in my room and read? I promise I've got no secret lovers to entertain." He gestured down the hall.

It would be far too distant from Shay for Aveline's liking, and she was inconveniently visiting Haytham. "Er, well, actually, Shay asked me to stand watch because, ah, her father suspects something is going on and might seek to interrupt or catch them."

Gist whistled. "Our Captain Cormac likes a dangerous life, doesn't he?"

"You have no idea," Haytham assured him, deadpan. When Gist looked at him oddly, he quickly lied, "Her family is aligned with, ah, certain longstanding enemies of ours."

Gist nodded knowingly. "I see. And Aveline, is she trustworthy?"

Haytham smiled drily. "She has had ample opportunity to strike."

"But has only attacked him with loving caresses?"

"If you'd like to put it that way, yes."

"Her arms hide no blades but rather a tender embrace?"

Haytham rubbed his eyes and the bridge of his nose. That voice was giving him a headache. "Gist...stop making me think about this so much."

"Anything you say, Master Kenway."

"Thank you."

"She only ambushes him with kisses?"

"Gist, please."

"Does she pull him into haystacks for--"

"Gist!"

Chapter Text

Ezio is examining his new second blade when a man appears, hidden blades extended from his cuffs. "You wear the blades of an Assassin," Ezio tells him by way of greeting.

The stranger starts, then carefully answers, "I do." Obviously a very secretive Assassin, Ezio thinks.

"Come, we are practically Brothers now, let us not stand on ceremony," he tells the man cheerfully. He's an older man, in his late twenties, which is practically ancient to Ezio's way of thinking. "My name is Ezio."

Another long pause, and an unreadable expression on the other man's face, before he replies, "I suppose we are. Haytham," he introduces himself.

"Is that a popular name among Assassins?" Ezio asks.

"I doubt it," Haytham says smoothly. "Why?"

"I met a boy named Haytham a while ago," Ezio informs him.

Again, the unreadable expression. "I know of no other Haytham," is the response, eventually.

"He was very helpful," Ezio adds. "We were going to get revenge together. He'd just lost his father, you see, like me. And he told me all about how this visiting works."

Haytham is even slower to answer this time. "Perhaps I have heard of this boy. No matter. How fares the Brotherhood in your time, Ezio?"

"I haven't yet joined, so I don't know much," Ezio confesses. "My father never told me about it. I wonder if that's common?"

"Among Assassin fathers it seems to be," Haytham informs him. "Mine did not tell me either."

"So it runs in the family for you as well?" Ezio asks, curious.

"You might say that," Haytham allows. "I never realized you joined the Assassins so...late in life."

"I haven't joined yet! And I'm not old, not like you," Ezio protests.

"Even so," Haytham concedes. "I was...initiated at seventeen. And I know of others that were as well. I was just surprised. It is of no matter."

"Well, once I join," Ezio tells him with a grin, "I look forward to being your Brother."

"Indeed," Haytham tells him, and Ezio wonders why his smile looks so forced.

Chapter Text

Of course the next Templar to appear to Altaïr had to be Haytham, much as he would have rather had Shay for this.

He'd tried to kill Shay on general principles; the man was a Templar, a traitor to the Assassins, and a killer of Altaïr's Brothers and Sisters of the distant future. He was also a likeable fellow and genuinely nice, with a moral compass Altaïr couldn't fault. Plus, Aveline loved him, and he couldn't really blame her. Shay was a decent man, and Altaïr considered him a friend.

Haytham, on the other hand...well, Desmond had called him a dick, once, (and then had had to explain to Altaïr the literal, idiomatic, and figurative meanings of the word) and it was an apt description, figuratively at least. But here Haytham was, warily looking across the darkened room at Altaïr, just two days after the Assassin had come clean to his wife about the biggest secret in his life. And Haytham was, indeed, a Templar.

"Haytham, just who I needed to see," Altaïr grudgingly admitted.

"Much as I enjoy your sarcasm--"

"It was not sarcasm." Altaïr rolled his eyes. "I find I have need of a Templar."

"Didn't you marry one?"

"Exactly."

"This does nothing for clarity," Haytham told him. "Perhaps I'll turn the tables and attack you for once, out of sheer confusion."

Altaïr dismissed this. "You would not leave my son fatherless."

Haytham scowled. "Of course you'd use this weakness of mine against me."

Altaïr smirked. "Don't you want to know what I need you for?"

Haytham spread his arms. "I am listening."

"I need you to talk to my wife of Templar matters."

"No."

"What?!"

"How can I be sure this isn't simply a trick to gain intelligence on the Templars?"

Altaïr dismissed this, too. "Intelligence of no use to me, half a millennium before your time."

"Certain things have not changed."

"And those I could learn more easily from my wife with no subterfuge required." Altaïr was beginning to be annoyed. Why was Haytham so obstreperous?

"What is it you wish me to do, anyway?"

"Only to identify yourself to her as a Templar, in some way that I would not know."

"But you will know, won't you, because I'll tell you."

Altaïr threw up his hands. "Then have use of my body! Only do not go around killing Assassins with it."

Haytham smirked. "Introduce me properly, won't you? I can't simply go up to your wife and say, 'Hello, I'm a Templar'."

"You are treating this too flippantly."

"I hear far too much complaining for someone who needs me to talk to his wife."

Altaïr ground his teeth together. "Very well. Maria!"

Haytham smiled to himself, and followed. Maria was resting with her feet up, but she smiled drowsily at her husband as he approached. "How nice of you to join me, Assassin scum. Perhaps if you rub my feet, I'll let you live." Her tone was light and fond.

Altaïr smiled. "I thought you might want to meet a friend of mine."

"Oh, an invisible one? Does he give footrubs?"

"An invisible Templar, and I don't think he does."

"Ah, well, you can't have everything. How do you plan on proving the existence of the invisible Templar?"

Haytham grinned. "I like her. She's adequately rude to you."

Altaïr rolled his eyes at Haytham, but addressed Maria. "I will allow him use of my body momentarily, and will remain in that corner so as not to learn the Templar secrets he will whisper in your ear."

Maria laughed. "The secrets you could have extracted from a Templar through torture?"

Haytham nodded approvingly. "Bright, too."

Altaïr ground his teeth. "I give you my word that I would never pretend to be a Templar. This man is Grand Master in his own time."

Maria considered. "All right, it can be as you say. But you owe me a foot rub after you have use of your body again."

"I owe you? For what?"

She scoffed and patted her belly. "Need I remind you?"

Altaïr bent to press a kiss to her lips, then stood up. "Maria, may I introduce Grand Master Haytham Kenway?" He closed his eyes and allowed Haytham to take over, then retreated to the corner.

Haytham couldn't keep from smiling as he opened his eyes. "Here I am, in the body of the most famous Assassin of all. And he expects me merely to help him with his marital troubles."

Maria quirked a smile. "I wouldn't call them troubles, exactly. I'll still love him even if I think he's mad. I already think he's mad, the way he talks to himself."

"Well, clearly he's mad to bring not one but two Templars into the heart of Masyaf."

"We could attack the place from within and take over," Maria suggested.

In the corner, Altaïr's hand went to his short blade. "You wouldn't."

Haytham smirked in Altaïr's direction and told Maria, "Your husband is getting agitated."

She grinned. "I knew he would. So, how do I know you are a Templar?"

Haytham shrugged and spread his hands. "The Father of Understanding guides me."

Maria eyed him carefully. "An easy enough phrase to repeat, although I could not see my husband doing so."

Haytham bent over and whispered in her ear; Altaïr started towards him, but restrained himself with great difficulty. This was, after all, what he had asked Haytham to do.

Maria looked up at Haytham, in Altaïr's body, with an unreadable expression. "Very well," she said softly, then called, "Husband, it is as you say, this man has every indication of being a Templar." She inclined her head gracefully. "And quite the gentleman. It was a pleasure to meet you, Master Kenway. Do try not to be assassinated by Altaïr."

Haytham took her hand and kissed it in what Altaïr thought was an excessive show of courtesy. "I have managed to live through several attempts thus far."

She smiled. "So we have something else in common, then? But I'm afraid I must keep him all to myself, so we cannot share that."

Haytham suddenly looked distinctly uncomfortable. "I would never...I...it was a pleasure meeting you, Maria." He managed to recover, and she laughed heartily.

"And that...prissiness...you have in common with my husband. It's not the only thing, either, I can tell."

"And what else might we have in common?"

She grinned. "You're both strong leaders despite being utterly mad and talking to yourselves. And now, I'm afraid I must insist on that foot rub. Altaïr!"

Haytham was out of Altaïr's body in an instant, a strange look on his face as he shrugged at the Assassin. "I hope it's worked." He paused, then added, "Good luck. She seems an amazing woman." Altaïr could have sworn he saw a sad, wistful look in Haytham's eyes in the instant before the other man vanished.

Chapter Text

Connor and Haytham have stopped at an inn for the night, but neither can sleep. It isn't very long before the tingle at the back of his neck alerts Connor to the presence, at the foot of the bed, of a visitor. His clothes are faintly red in the moonlight, which means it's Shay. Groaning, Connor rolls over to see if his father has seen him, only to see Haytham clamp his hand to the back of his own neck, then open his eyes. Father and son look to where Aveline has joined Shay, and Connor sighs audibly, rolling off the bed and onto Haytham's trundle with a thump.

"Connor!" Haytham complains. "That was hardly necessary."

Connor sighs and rolls his eyes to where their visitors are vigorously kissing. "Father," he mutters, "you see them, do you not?"

"That's no reason for you to give them your bed and take mine," Haytham insists. "We could just keep them apart. One of us could leave the inn."

"And go where?"

"Anywhere."

"You leave, then."

"I? I am an old man, Connor. Would you really turn your aged father into the cold street at midnight?"

Connor groans and rolls over, pulling a pillow (the one Haytham was planning on sleeping on) over his head. "Then we share. Or else you share with them."

Aveline and Shay have moved to take Connor's bed, now, still kissing. Connor rolls his eyes at his father, and both of them turn away from each other, perched on opposite sides of the bed.

There's quite a lot of creaking and thumping, a bit of whispering, and some laughter from the bed.

Haytham pulls the blanket up over his ears and Connor clutches the pillow tighter over his head.

When they're sure Haytham and Connor are asleep, Shay and Aveline collapse in silent laughter. Still fully clothed, they take each other in a chaste embrace, and Shay rubs Aveline's back soothingly before they settle down to sleep.

Chapter Text

Haytham Kenway was not given to celebrating his birthday. He marked the occasion, of course, as the anniversary of one of the worst days of his life. That day was four and a half decades in the past, now, but the pain was still fresh, not even dulled by his father's occasionally annoying visits.

So when he found himself in Connor's village, it seemed just another terrible birthday to him. At least he'd get to see his son; he could only visit him now, since Connor had cut off all ties that day at Valley Forge. But where was Connor? He looked around and around, finally realizing the truth when he was dragged along after Ziio as she waddled out of the longhouse.

Connor was not yet born, and so Haytham was tethered to Ziio.

He couldn't understand a word she said, that whole visit. She carried on animated conversations with what seemed an endless string of the people of her village. She told stories and jokes to some young children. She compared her swollen belly to two other young women's similar conditions--one of them, the sad one, was surely having twins, and Ziio spent extra time with her, consoling her through her tears.

"You can't hear me, can you, Ziio?" Haytham asked, at last. There was no response, of course. "I'm near the end of my life," he told her. "Closer to my end, I feel, than you are to yours."

She sat down blithely to eat something that smelled delicious--venison of some sort, Haytham thought. He sighed and sat beside her. "You know, I still miss you. We spent but three weeks together, and yet every morning I wake knowing that I should be at your side." He frowned. "Perhaps had I been, you'd still be alive. We might grow old together, and speak of the day I saved you from the fire, or how silly it would be for our son to hate me." He stretched out his legs as she ate seconds and then thirds.

"He won't even talk to me now. It...bothers me more than I'd ever have thought being shunned by an Assassin would." He kicked at the ground and muttered, "This particular Assassin is all that I have left of you.

"Of course, I know in future he'll be regretful, he'll come to know me, because I've visited him, I've seen him as an older man full of remorse and loneliness and...and peace, I'd say. And in that peace there's room for me.

"What would we be, if we weren't visitors? My death would be the end of my presence in his life. We'd never truly be at peace with one another."

Ziio rose, laughing at something a young hunter said, and waddled to one of the longhouses. Haytham followed her, as if he had any choice. He was bound to her, always, and not just because he was visiting the child within her.

She stretched out awkwardly on her bed and fell asleep within minutes, as Haytham sat at her side. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, then moved closer and hesitated, hand half-stretched towards her. After a moment, he laid the hand on the curve of the child they had made, the child that would one day murder him.

The flurry of tiny kicks surprised him, and Ziio shifted in her sleep, hand over her belly. "Good afternoon to you, too," Haytham whispered. "You won't meet me for some time, I'm afraid. But--" he stopped, unsure of what to say. "But you're my son and I...well, more than you could possibly hate me, I...I love you." He bites his lip, then sighs. "There it is, Connor, my tragedy and stupidity in one. But how could it be otherwise? You are my son. And even in the womb you know me. We are indelibly linked forever, or at least until Desmond's time." He sighed, and sat back. "How could I bear to stop you from what you feel you must do? This can only end one way."

He watched Ziio sleep for what felt like hours, silent, his thoughts churning in his mind, only to be interrupted by her sharp cry as she sat up. "Is he coming?" he asked, but the worry and the fear in the faces of all who crowded around Ziio, and in their quick quiet words, told him otherwise. "What, is it too early? Ziio, it'll be fine. Our son will be well. Don't worry!" His voice rose at the end, and he buried his face in his hands momentarily. "He will be fine, won't he?"

Gradually, people drifted away, leaving Ziio with a few women who had brewed a rather pleasant smelling tea, and an old woman who held her hand. "He'll be fine," Haytham said, without conviction. What if she lost the baby, right now? Was that even possible? Haytham would live, never felled by his son's hand, for he would have no son.

No Connor.

No Desmond, either.

Something in Haytham simply rejected the idea. "Live, dammit, Connor! Live, son, I know you can't hear me, but live!" He wanted it with all his being, he needed his son to live. What could he do?

And it occurred to him. He'd done it before, he'd do it again if he had to, and maybe he did--he flung himself in.

(dark)

(warm)

(safe)

(pain!)

(gasp)

Haytham fell out. It was so foreign to be Connor at this moment, it was almost impossible. He tried, though, again and again, through the suffocating weight...

Maybe that was it. Suffocating.

He tried again, moved his hand through the viscous fluid to his neck, felt something. Something pulsing tightly. Frantic, Haytham (and his son was in there too, barely a spark) clawed at his own (not his own) neck. Everything was thick and slimy, nothing to grab on to, but he got one tiny thumb under the thing. Kicked. No, that was worse, tighter. Kicked the other way. Better, but still the constriction.

He pushed his hand above his head, far too slowly, and felt it worsen, and then ease.

Exhausted, he was out of Connor's tiny body again, sprawled across Ziio's belly (so right, so wrong) in a most undignified way.

Ziio's face had been ashen, drawn, but she relaxed and some of the color flooded back in. Taut words from the women around her gradually relaxed into easier conversation, and the old woman tucked furs and blankets around Ziio, relief evident on her face.

Haytham still had no idea if he'd actually done anything to help, or if this crisis would have resolved on its own. Did it matter? He'd knowingly doomed himself if he'd saved his son. But was there really any other option for him? Could he, four and a half decades after he'd watched his own father die, stand by while his son lay at death's door?

Chapter Text

Edward is tired of being woken up by disapproving noises. Especially when (he peers around Desmond’s arm) they come from his grandson.

Here's a dilemma: does Connor know Edward is his grandfather? If he addresses the boy as "grandson", as he'd sorely like to do, will he be accused of "spoiling" everyone? (When honestly, spoiling his grandson sounds like the proper sort of thing a grandfather should do. So what's Desmond’s problem with it anyway?) He could make mention of the event where they learned of their kinship, but obviously Desmond hasn't gotten there yet. Best just to call Connor by the name that isn't truly his, because only Connor himself and sometimes Desmond can say Connor's real name.

All this proceeds through Edward's mind in an instant, the silver lining of going to bed sober the night before. "Connor! It's not like I'm doing anything wrong," he whines.

"I have been warned about you," Connor tells him. "By H... a Templar of our acquaintance." Oh, Jaysus, Connor’s trying to keep his father's secret.

"What did Haytham say about me?" Edward tries to cut through some of the secrets by mentioning his son's name.

Connor flushes and refuses to reply at first. Finally, he says, in his peculiarly stilted and overly formal way, "He warned me against your inappropriate behavior."

"Well, I'm hardly doing anything inappropriate to Desmond, am I?" Edward asks, a touch offended.

"He might wish to breathe," Connor offers, and Edward moves his arm to allow that. Desmond, in turn, curls up closer to Edward, who shrugs. What can he do?

Connor scowls and crosses his arms, which all seems rather excessive to Edward. Can't he disapprove in just one way at a time? "Why do you sleep like that? Does it not hurt your arm to have Desmond's head on it?"

"Sure, but cuddling while you sleep is worth it," Edward assures him. "You'll understand one day when you're married."

Connor's face twists. "I have been married. No longer."

Edward sits up, frowning. "She left you? Or you left her?"

Desmond stirs, curling around the empty space on the blanket, then sits up, rubbing his eyes. "What's going on?"

Edward tells him, "Connor's wife left him. Or vice versa. I haven't found out yet."

Desmond yawns. "Connor has a wife?"

Connor rolls his eyes. "Had. She left me."

Edward holds out his arms to his grandson. "Now that is a pain I can sympathize with. C'mere and give your old grandpa a hug."

"You are...less than eleven years older than me. Hardly old."

"Wait, when did you get married?" Desmond asks, still yawning.

"You were there," Connor informs him. "Or...will be there."

Desmond scratches his head and finally says, "Awkward. Now I'll know it doesn't last."

"You pretended to be happy for me," Connor tells him, looking hurt. Desmond realizes that it's possible Connor's emotions are a mess right now.

"At least Shay and Aveline stay together," Edward assures them.

"Wait, Shay and Aveline?" Desmond asks. "But isn't he a Templar? Why would she--"

"Desmond, stop asking. Edward, stop telling," Connor orders.

"Did you ask him to call you grandpa?" Desmond asks, ignoring Connor.

"Well, I've cocked everything up," Edward says cheerily. "Probably you should forget everything I've said, Desmond. Connor, what you need is to find someone else to love."

Connor retorts, "What I need--"

Altaïr leans over from the bed, and hisses, "Go. To. Sleep. Maria will kill me if I don't get up first thing in the morning with Darim and Sef. And I don't mean that metaphorically."

Chapter Text

"Ah, the lovely Maria! And my idol, Altaïr."

Altaïr generally confines attempting to kill his visitors to Templars (and Edward, the impostor Assassin) but he's seriously considering breaking that rule. He aims a glare over Maria's shoulder at Ezio, and goes back to sucking on Maria's neck. It makes her make such urgent little sounds of need, he's discovered.

"Perhaps I'm interrupting something?" Ezio asks.

Altaïr rolls his eyes, he hopes expressively.

"I would hate to keep you from your business," Ezio says sweetly.

Altaïr narrows his eyes.

"I'll just stick around for a while, then," Ezio tells him.

Altaïr glowers and tries to remember where he was. Oh yes, Maria's ear, so delicate, just begging for his tongue and--

"Or else you could invite me in?" Ezio suggests brightly.

"Altaïr?" Maria asks. "Are you a hundred miles away, or here?"

"Forgive me," Altaïr begs her, "but I need a moment." He looks in the direction of the door and she regretfully lets go of him.

"All right," she allows, "but hurry back."

Altaïr practically runs to the privy, taking Ezio in a headlock as he does so. When they're there, Altaïr asks in a hoarse whisper, "What do you think you're up to?"

"You two are highly attractive people!" Ezio squeaks past Altaïr's arm. "Who wouldn't want to be in the middle of that?"

"Almost anyone!" Altaïr snaps. "That's my wife, Ezio, you can't just go hopping into bed with a man and his wife!"

"Oh, you're married! Congratulations. Surely a little fun with me wouldn't impinge upon your marriage--"

"Yes, yes it would! Why do you want to, anyway?"

"Well, you know how I used to kiss your hands?" Ezio begins. "I was remembering that and realizing that I really should have gone farther."

"What?! No, no you shouldn't have!" Altaïr can't believe his ears. "You're attracted to me?"

"Of course," Ezio assures him.

"Is there anyone you aren't attracted to? ...any visitor, at least?"

Ezio thinks for a minute. "No, not really. Do you think Haytham would ever--"

"No! No more than I would."

Ezio sighs. "I'm assuming Connor is a lost cause. Which is a shame, because have you seen his arms?"

"Not...like that," Altaïr eyes him skeptically. "Is there anyone in the world you aren't attracted to?"

"Of course!" Ezio insists. "I'm very selective. It's just that we happen to be very delicious-looking people. So are you sure you don't want--even a little--"

"Yes, I'm sure," Altaïr insists. "May I go back to Maria now?"

"Don't let me stop you!" Ezio tells him, grinning.

"Thank you."

"I'll just watch."

"Ezio, no."

Chapter Text

When Shay opened the door, blades at the ready (you could never be too careful, could you, if it was your wife and children at stake) he was taken aback by the wizened face beneath the all-too-familiar hat. "Gist?"

"The very same," Gist told him with a smile, voice creaking with age but still impossibly hearty. "I'd heard you were living in New Orleans and I happened to be in the area so I thought I'd visit."

Shay winced at the sudden, horrifying thought of Gist as a visitor. "Ah, and so you're here. Well, come on in."

"You've done well for yourself," Gist commented, hobbling in with help of a cane. "I never thought you'd live in a mansion like this."

"Oh, it's my wife's," Shay said, without thinking.

"Ah! Is this the famous, or should I say infamous, Aveline?"

Shay nodded, just as Rory ran into his legs, chased by Philippe. "Papa," Rory whined, "Philippe won't let me play with his ships!"

"They're my ships," Philippe insisted. "You took them without asking."

Rory clutched Shay's coat, looking up at his father with wide, innocent eyes. Then he noticed Gist, and shrank behind Shay's legs.

Philippe puffed himself up importantly. "Good day, sir," he told Gist pompously, "and welcome to my home."

"Charmed," Gist replied, just as pompously. "You're quite the little gentleman, indeed."

"Boys," Shay said, pulling Rory out from behind himself, "I'd like you to meet my friend, Mister Gist. Gist, this is Philippe Blanc and Rory Cormac." Rory waved, looked over his shoulder, then turned back to Gist and stuck out his hand with more confidence.

Gist shook both boys' hands gravely, then asked, "And is your mother at home, boys?"

Rory winced, muttering, "Too loud..." under his breath.

"Yes, Monsieur Gist, she is, but she's busy with our little sister and brother," Philippe informed him.

"Oh! There are more of you!" Gist exclaimed, delighted, and elbowed his former captain. "Shay, you old dog! Are there more on the way?"

Shay shook his head, restraining a laugh. "Four is more than enough. They keep us on our toes."

Philippe saw his chance to snatch back his ship from Rory's hand, and yelled over his brother's sobs, "I need this ship for my coffee!"

"Let's go see what Maman is up to with Jeanne and Tomas, shall we?" Shay said loudly, taking Rory's hand and gesturing Gist to follow them.

Aveline pretended that she'd never seen Gist before, and graciously welcomed him to their home, inviting him to dinner. After an elegant meal (well, as elegant as any meal could be that Tomas was intent on sticking up his nose) from her talented cook, Aveline went to put the children to bed and Gist and Shay sat in the parlor. Gist looked troubled, much to Shay's surprise. "Out with it, man, what's got you out of sorts?"

"Well..." Gist began, uncharacteristically quietly. "She's very young, your wife. I mean, younger by far than you."

"Aye, and what of it?"

"You were a young man yourself when you first loved her. This is the same Aveline, right? You haven't had a series of lovers, all with the same name?"

Shay laughed. "No, this is the same Aveline. My one and only true love, for decades now."

"Right. Well, she doesn't look enough decades old. Was she...perhaps...a young girl?" Gist asked carefully, face screwed up in an expression of distaste.

Shay stared at him, then shook his head. "No! Look, Gist, it's...it's complicated. It..."

Gist wasn't to be deterred, though. "Complicated how?"

"Well, for one, she's actually fifty. I know she doesn't look it..."

"So you were carousing with a fifteen-year-old? I know some say that's old enough for marriage, but I always thought--"

"No! She was--all right." Shay took a deep breath. Time to come clean. If he couldn't tell his first mate, who could he tell? "You know how I always used to talk to myself?"

Gist nodded. "I don't follow you, though."

"I wasn't talking to myself," Shay explained carefully. "There were...people there. Invisible people."

"Some would say that's madness, Captain Cormac," Gist told him.

"I...I know," Shay admitted. "I thought it was madness or imagination or some such, until I actually met one in reality."

"You did?" Gist blinked with surprise. "When?"

Shay laughed, remembering. "When I became a Templar. You remember, when Haytham...ah...embraced me? He was confirming it for himself, too."

"You and the Grand Master?" Gist paused, shaking his head, and Shay waited for him to process it, then continued.

"Haytham wasn't the only one. There's eight of us. Some from different times, too. Hundreds of years away or...or just a few. And one of those from just a few years away was Aveline."

"You fell in love with a figment of your imagination?"

"I met her once, and I knew she was real. In France, in 1776. She was sent to stop me--she's an Assassin, you know."

"Wait--you can't mean you're married to Aveline de Grandpré? Of all people! Shay, don't you know what they say about her? She wiped out every Templar of Master rank and above here in Louisiana! Including her own stepmother!" Gist furrowed his brow with concern. "She's dangerous, man!"

"I know."

"No, I don't think you do know! I thought the name was a coincidence, that a fur trapper's daughter would be safe even if her family was allies with the Assassins. But Aveline de Grandpré! And I ate at her table--quick, do you think she'd have poisoned--"

"Gist! She's not going to poison an old man in front of her children! Calm down!"

Gist shook his head, still looking dubious. Then he smiled knowingly. "Ah, Shay, wise of you. Restraining the Assassin in your midst with bonds of love."

Shay flushed. "More like the other way 'round."

"Oh? Do tell?"

"I mean...all the others are Assassins. Only Haytham and I are Templars in the group."

"Are? Shay, you know Haytham's been dead these past sixteen years, right?"

"Aye, but I still see him from before. Just the other day, I saw him as a little child and we played toy soldiers for an hour."

Gist looked like he was trying very hard to restrain a laugh, but then frowned. "So this--thing, this invisible people thing--"

"Visiting, aye." Shay supplied the word.

"This...visiting, that's how you've been with Aveline so long?"

"I give you my word, Gist, when we began to love each other, she was over thirty years old. As was I."

Gist blinked, surprised. "It took that long for her and you to--"

Shay waved his hand vaguely. "I was quite dense for quite a while. I could have known her loving touch some time sooner if I wasn't so foolish." He grinned. "I make my own luck, but sometimes it takes me a while."

Aveline had entered the room without Shay noticing, and she leaned down into his shoulder from behind the sofa. "You didn't make this luck, I was handing it to you and you wouldn't take it."

"Aye, love, the more fool me." He reached up to kiss her with an easy, familiar tenderness borne of decades of love. "I didn't hear you come in. Children in bed already? Even without their papa reading to them?"

She smiled and returned his kiss. "Oui, they await only their goodnight kisses."

Shay gestured to Gist. "Duty calls, I'm afraid. A much more pleasant duty than many I've had in my life." He pulled himself out of the sofa and headed off to the nursery.

Chapter Text

"I know who you are," Gérald told Shay, his voice a thin thread. He looked horrible, nearly colorless on the bed, propped up with pillows.

"Did she tell you?" Shay asked, and Gérald shook his head.

"No, but I know. You're the tr...traitor from the North. Shay Cormac."

Shay sighed and sat down in a chair. "That I am, and I won't deny it."

Gérald coughed, and Shay started towards him, but he held up a hand, and after a moment was able to talk again. "No. The last ...time a Templar attended a sick man in this house, I inherited a coffee ...company." Shay held up his hands in surrender and sat back down, waiting, and after a moment Gérald was able to speak again. "How did she meet you?"

Shay chuckled. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Gérald frowned. "I believe she was sent to ...kill you, once. To protect Charles Dorian."

Shay nodded. "To stop me, at least."

"Yet she failed."

"I had already killed him by the time she caught up with me."

"Were you lovers then?"

Shay sputtered. "No! I--I loved her, then, but no, we were not lovers."

Gérald scowled. "But you knew her, then, before we ...married." His hands picked at the blanket without his conscious control. "You see, it is difficult because of who you are. Had she come to me and told me of another Assassin she wanted, to give her the child I ...can't, I would have agreed without a thought. But she was very insistent it be you."

Shay thought it wise not to say anything, and Gérald turned to look him full in the face. "It makes n-no sense to me, and yet my Aveline is always sensible, so I think she must truly love you."

"I think she does," Shay agreed. "I know I love her more than anything or anyone."

"How can I deny her that love, just because you stand against everything she and I ...stand for?" Gérald shook his head, scowling. "What if you are told you must kill her?"

"I won't. I can't."

"What if she is told she must kill you?"

"I won't fight back," Shay told him honestly. "I wouldn't be able to."

"Does she love you?"

"I believe so."

"Do you satisfy her? When you are ...lovers?"

"Aye. I mean, I think--"

Gérald sighed. "You are everything I could hope for in a lover for her, save that you're a ...Templar. When I am gone, will you marry her?"

"If she'll have me," Shay said, doubtfully. "I'd like nothing more."

Gérald asked, "If you don't give her a son at first, will you hold the company in trust for her? My Aveline is passionate about the family business."

Shay nodded, a lump in his throat. "I could never take that away from her."

"Whether or not she is pregnant before my death, you should probably marry her in time," Gérald told him dispassionately. "Assuming she'll consent to the match, which I am sure she will."

"How can you be so sure?"

Gérald smiled bitterly, a thin veneer of expression over deep pain. "She would hardly have told me she wished to ...bed a Templar unless he meant a great deal to her." He closed his eyes. "Go. I have affairs to set in order. And I must ...trust you more than I ...would otherwise. Because she does."

Shay rose and quietly saw himself out. Gérald seemed a good man, the sort that Shay would want for Aveline, and it was terrible to see a man so wracked with illness. And that illness clearly weighed on her; Shay's good fortune to be able to take Aveline in his arms, the luck he'd not made this time, was at the cost of Gérald's agony and Aveline's sorrow. This was a horrible death he'd not wish on anybody, not even an Assassin, and his heart went out to the man, even as he practically leapt with glee within. Was it right for him to be so joyful at the idea of having Aveline for his own? Was it right to look forward to loving her in person, not on a visit?

Chapter Text

"Haytham! A moment."

It was one of the two voices he least wanted to hear. He turned around and walked in the other direction.

"You can't run from us forever, Haytham."

"I can try," he responded peevishly. And it was true: he'd spent an entire evening not talking to Shay, who just sat in a chair, looking guilty and miserable. But this was Aveline, much pushier than her lover.

Lover. That's the problem, isn't it?

"And waste a perfectly good visit? Don't be silly. We need to talk."

"We need no such thing."

"Haytham, you can't pretend that nothing's happened."

"I certainly can."

"But it's foolish. Why are you so opposed?" She grabbed at his elbow; he yanked it back and kept walking.

"If you're looking for a Templar to bed, you're visiting the wrong one; you want the one in red. Red--bed--see, it's so easy even an Assassin can remember it."

"Don't be coarse, Haytham."

"Oh, that's rich! This from the woman throwing herself and her lover at me!"

"If you're worried about interfering with our love--"

"Nothing could do so."

"Exactly." She smirked as if she'd made a rhetorical point. "So what is your objection?"

"I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"Try me," she offered.

He scoffed, but the moment stretched and wore thin, and Aveline was still looking expectantly at him. "You wouldn't understand," he told her at last, "because you've loved but never lost." He hated himself for admitting it. "And you are lucky indeed."

She frowned sympathetically, which he always hated. "I remind you of Ziio?"

"I... yes, maybe. I would see naught but her face. I cannot even think of... damn you, Aveline, I didn't wish to discuss this!"

She smiled and tilted her head. "I think you needed to, though."

He cast about to change the subject. "How is Shay?"

She shrugged. "Well, except that he fears he has offended you in some way."

"What? No! No, he hasn't. I simply did not wish to... to discuss this matter."

She smiled sweetly. "I see, of course. I'll tell him as much."

Haytham felt a great rush of relief. Maybe they could put this behind them. He greatly valued Shay, both as an able and dedicated Templar, and as a friend and visitor, perhaps the one he was closest to.

But it was nothing more than friendship. Couldn't be.

It was all Edward's fault. Haytham had been... dwelling on things, when suddenly, there he was in a hot and muggy tavern, sitting beside a blond man who was busy putting away as much rum as he could. "Edward."

"How about a hug for your old dad, Haytham?" Edward slurred.

Haytham was taken aback. This was most certainly the West Indies, but his father was calling him by name. Drunkenly. "When is this?"

"1730... uh... 1732." Edward scratched his ear. "Here on 'ssassin business. Meetin' Ah Tabai's student. Last one. Nice chap. You'd like him."

"I'm sure," Haytham said brusquely. "Can we leave this place? It's rather close in here, and, ah, someone is befouling that corner."

"Oh, all right," Edward mumbled, unsteadily stumbling to the door. Haytham followed, into the still-sweltering night, which also stank of alcohol and stale vomit. At least the humid tropical breezes freshened the air to some extent. Haytham missed the bracing air of winter in New England, missed the bustle of the towns, missed...

...Ziio.

There, despite the darkness he found that the smoke from some torch or some such nearby was getting in his eyes.

"Son, why the long face?" Edward chuckled as if it were the wittiest joke in the world.

"Bonjour, Haytham, Edward," said a voice behind them, and Haytham turned morosely to look.

And there she was. Aveline. His dear friend's lover. Visitor, Assassin, friend, and the smirk on her face sent waves of heartache through him, such that he had to turn away.

"What's with you, son? I know what'll cheer you up. Some rum."

"No, thank you, Father," Haytham protested, but Edward shook his head.

"Whatever's got your face in that mournful cast, a little drink will help you forget it."

"I'm not sure that's wise," Aveline began, but Haytham was already reeling in Edward’s body.

Haytham could not understand how his father could actually like being so inebriated. Everything was listing to the right, whether he himself moved or stood still. The lights all left jagged afterimages on the inside of his eyelids.

And there was... there was a woman who wanted him. Maybe he wanted her. Or maybe he just wanted anyone in his loneliness. Or maybe he wanted a specific person (no, that couldn't be it, not...)

Edward was laughing as Haytham stumbled. He needed to hang on to something.

And she was nearest.

What was he doing holding Aveline in his arms??

Oh yes, she had offered. And he thought she was about to reach for him, so it seemed like a good idea to tilt his head down and press his lips to hers.

Her lips were the wrong shape, her body wrong in his arms, her clothes wrong under his hands, even her tongue moved wrong in his mouth.

But then again, he was just as wrong, how could she ever want him like this? All wrong. Wrong clothes, wrong build, wrong hair. Not what she or he wanted, either one.

He pulled away, he turned away. He couldn't let an Assassin see tears coursing down his face, not even his father and certainly not Aveline.

"Haytham?" Aveline asked uncertainly. She sounded shaken. Edward was perfectly silent.

"It's not you," he told her, the words tumbling out. "You asked which and it's not you."

He couldn't see her, but he could hear the serene acceptance in her voice. "I thought as much."

"It's not her, what?" Edward burst in. "What are you going on about, son? What was all that?"

"Nothing," Haytham whispered, "nothing at all."

"I should leave," Aveline murmured. "Until we meet again."

"Is she gone?" Haytham’s voice wavered, not from drink, and he was possessed of the sudden desire to go back in the tavern and choke down more rum. Maybe he could drink enough to forget this disaster of a night.

"Aye. Mind telling me what was going on there?"

"I was wrong." All wrong.

"I'll say you were! And after the way you lit into me for doing the exact same!"

"It's different," Haytham tried to explain. "Shay...." He rubbed his face; his father's face, actually. "Shay said I could," he finished lamely.

"He did? This is the same Shay? Visitor Shay? Templar Shay? He said you could kiss Aveline?" Edward asked incredulously.

"He did," Haytham confirmed, thoroughly wretched. Exhausted beyond belief, too. "I'm done with tonight, Father. You can have your body back."

"I'm never letting you get stewed again, son, no good can come of it."

"You're probably right."

Aveline raised her tear-swollen eyes to meet Haytham’s, and adjusted her black lace gloves absently, as if only the fidgeting could cause one moment to turn into the next, could keep time moving along in its course. Her voice was clear, if soft. "You remember, once, that you told me I had loved but never lost? Well... now, I have lost." She closed her eyes a moment, then opened them and fixed him with a firm stare. "And I could live a cold life, caught in the pain of this grief. But you are my friend and wouldn't want me to." She drew a shuddering breath. "The door is still open."

When Haytham opened his mouth, the words that escaped were, "Is Shay all right?"

She looked at him, calculating. "Is that still your answer?"

"The answer to what?"

"The question from years ago. Which one of us? It's still him, isn't it?"

Haytham drew himself up to bluster, then stopped, deflated. "Even if so, what then?"

She eyed him carefully. "You know, I lied to you once."

"I would expect no less from an Assassin talking to a Templar."

"I would share him. But only with you."

"I'm tremendously flattered, but I wouldn't know where to begin, even if I were to--and I'm not saying I am--and I'll not follow my father's example!"

She laughed, the lines of worry melting off her face briefly, which surprised Haytham by causing a certain amount of relief in him. "No, I didn't think you would." Her red-rimmed eyes twinkled. "I can tell you what he likes--"

"Aveline, no," he told her firmly. "I've no need to...act on anything." Because, really, nearly admitting to it had lifted a great weight off his shoulders. It was no longer a heavy burden deep within his soul.

"He's really very good in bed," Aveline offered after a minute.

"Aveline!"

"Well, I'm sure it would be good--"

"No! Awkward, impossibly awkward!"

"He's a very passionate man."

"Aveline! He...he couldn't even invite me himself! He--well, I'd have no idea how to proceed and I doubt he has either!"

"I could find someone to ask. Someone other than a visitor. You shouldn't let that stop you!"

"Aveline, stop. Thank you, but stop." He took her hands in his and squeezed them. "I mean it. Thank you. But I do not intend on proceeding with this self-knowledge that talking with you has uncovered."

She smiled and returned the squeeze, then flung her arms around him. "A proper hug, Haytham!"

Surprised, he found himself returning her hug. "I am sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," she said softly, then teased, "You'd be more sorry if it were Shay, though."

"What a terrible thing to say."

"Only terrible because it's true." Her voice was shaky but light.

"Perhaps. But--ah--only because Shay's a Templar."

She laughed, a genuine thing that lit up her eyes. "Haytham, you liar!"

Chapter Text

"Er... what do you do if... " Shay trailed off, tongue-tied. Ezio watched him patiently as he squirmed. "If you think someone has... feelings for you that they won't admit?"

Ezio stared at him, then burst into laughter. "Is this person constantly touching you, perhaps? Maybe she leans forward so you can look down the neckline of her shirt--"

"I know Aveline wants me," Shay interrupted crossly. "That's not a problem at all. When she wants me, and I want her, we make love. Easy as that. No, this is...someone else."

"Another visitor?" Ezio asked, curiosity piqued. "Shay, I didn't think you liked other men."

"I didn't say I returned this person's affections, if he even has them, if this is even another visitor!" Shay insisted, face flaming red. "I just want to know how to tell!"

Ezio considered. "Aveline is something of an expert, having had to deal with you. Why not ask her?"

Shay rolled his eyes. "She thinks this person wants both of us."

"Interesting." Ezio's mind worked furiously. "Is it...Connor?"

"What?!" Shay sputtered. "Heavens, no!"

"I am here," Connor spoke up from behind Ezio.

"Oh, and so you are," Ezio beamed. "Shay has an interesting dilemma."

"No. No I don't. Nothing that would interest Connor," Shay was quick to interject.

Connor folded his arms and stared at Shay implacably. His look seemed to say, "I kill Templars at the slightest provocation" but he only asked, "What am I not? Ezio asked if 'it' was I. You denied it."

Shay gaped for a moment. "Nothing that concerns you." He wasn't sure Connor would agree if he knew.

"I think the plots of Templars do concern me, in fact," Connor retorted. The worst part was that Shay kept seeing Haytham's features every time he looked at Connor: the chin, the hairline, the shape of his face. It kept distracting him from Connor's threatening posture and filled him with a vague sense of unease. How could one admit to a fellow that one suspected that fellow's father of feelings about oneself?

"Look, never mind, Ezio, it's of no importance. Oh, are those apples? May I have one?" Shay asked quickly, grabbing an apple from Ezio's table and biting into it. He instantly regretted tasting the small, mealy thing. "Ezio, you have got to get some better apples around here."

Ezio laughed. "Those are the best apples available in Roma. But you did not come here to discuss them."

"Who can say why I did? Come here, I mean. Visiting is a mystery to us all, is it not?" Shay asked.

Connor grumbled, "It is certainly not something I would choose at times like these." He took his tomahawk from his belt and twirled it meaningfully.

Shay rolled his eyes, frustrated, and resolved to ignore Connor. "Ezio, how do you tell if someone has that sort of feeling for you?"

To his surprise, Connor answered, "Talk to the person about it and they will tell you." Ezio and Shay stared at him, and he shrugged. "One of my Assassins has asked if she may have the first chance at convincing me to marry her when my work is done and I have killed Lee." He flushed and added, "And...I think...Ellen the seamstress may...harbor a gentle feeling for me..."

Shay gaped at Connor, but Ezio grabbed him in a delighted hug. "Congratulations, my friend! The women are lining up for you, as I always knew they would!" He squeezed Connor, who looked totally alarmed.

Shay just stared. Here was Connor, of all people, shy and awkward Connor, with two women making their desire for him known. And Shay had Aveline, true, but this thing with Haytham was so infuriatingly frustrating. And now he couldn't even get a straight answer out of Ezio because of Connor's presence. "Never mind," he mumbled, "It probably amounts to nothing anyway." How could he even think his handsome boss was noticing him next to Aveline's beauty?

"Are you sure?" Ezio asked. "Please tell me more about this fellow whose affections you're unsure of."

Shay mercifully began to see Ezio's hideout fading from view, began to hear everything as if at the end of a tunnel. "Oh, thank God," he whispered to himself as he distantly heard Connor ask, "What fellow is this?"

Chapter Text

In the deserted longhouse that Connor remembers best as being filled with life and laughter, the chill is almost as bitter as his heart. He finds the alcove he shared with his grandmother after his mother's death, and finds his tattered old blanket, which he pulls around his shoulders. And, shaking, he just sits there. How long, he doesn't know.

Desmond appears, looking around warily and relaxing when he sees Connor, who wonders who exactly Desmond was expecting to see. It doesn't matter.

"What is this place?" Desmond asks, shivering in his pathetically thin twenty-first-century clothes as he sits beside Connor.

"My home. ...My old home, anyway." Connor's voice is as bleak and desolate as what used to be Kanatasehton. "I have nothing left now but the Homestead."

"I know how you feel, man," Desmond told him. "I don't even have a home. Just wherever my father and the other Assassins are staying."

"Yes, your father..." Connor begins with a frown, then falls silent.

They watch the snow drift in through the eastern door.

"What becomes of my village in your time?" Connor asks, suddenly needing to know.

"It...disappears, I guess. There's a town nearby. But the village is gone. There's trees and stuff. They grew back, at least."

"And the Homestead?"

"It's gone too. Just the land remains and the graves."

"Is mine among them?"

"I think so. Uh. Connor. I think I'm going to die. I just have this feeling...and the way Haytham talked..." Desmond droops. Connor silently takes his blanket off of his shoulders and drapes it over Desmond's.

More snow drifts in, almost reaching their feet.

"But you have a lot of life ahead of you," Desmond says with forced cheer. "I mean, you haven't even met a girl to be with, and you're my ancestor, so you have to have sex before you die, so you can make sure you live a long time if you just don't have any sex."

"I do not think it works that way," Connor says stiffly. "I am sure you will have seen me doing so, in any case."

Desmond turns to look at him. "Actually, I haven't. Everyone else I've seen. But not you." He kicks at the snow. "You're the only hallucination I haven't seen naked." He considers. "Although technically Haytham had some clothes on--"

Connor clears his throat loudly, and Desmond falls silent.

Snow begins to build up around Desmond's feet as they wait in silence.

"I am sorry to be such a poor conversationalist," Connor tells him quietly.

"Don't worry about it." Desmond fiddles with the amulet around his neck, the key that's supposed to let him save the world. It glows in his hand, and Connor stares warily at it. Desmond grips it tightly, and vanishes abruptly, without any chance at farewell.

The blanket vanishes with him.

Connor stands, stamping out Desmond's footprint in the drifted snow.

There is nothing for him here.

Chapter Text

Edward apparently has decided that merely yelling at Altaïr isn't good enough (Altaïr isn't sure whether to be offended by this) and forcibly detaches him from Kidd's lips. Altaïr reels, from overbalancing, from drink, from the fluttery feeling inside of his stomach entirely unlike nausea after Kidd's kiss.

"You can't just go kissing everyone just because you're drunk!" Edward is lecturing him.

"Why not? You do." This seems perfectly reasonable to Altaïr. "Kissing feels good. I'd like to do some more." He advances on Edward.

"Not that I don't agree with you in part," Edward tells Altaïr, holding him at arm's length, "but you're not my type."

Kidd, meanwhile, is watching Altaïr's end of the argument with interest. "Is kissing more an option? Never thought I'd have the chance to kiss Ezio and Altaïr."

"Not now, Kidd!" Edward told her, which she naturally ignores.

If Ezio had control over his visits, he could not have picked a more perfect moment to appear than this. "Well, hello, Edwards," he begins. "I see Mary is here, too."

"I am Altaïr. I am a Master Assassin! ...or will be, again. You do not tell me who I may not kiss!" Altaïr tells Edward, then seizes Ezio and kisses him thoroughly. Ezio gazes at Altaïr with something akin to hero worship.

Kidd dissolves in laughter as Altaïr stumbles and nearly falls on Ezio. "Tell me you didn't just kiss Edward!" she laughs.

"No, Ezio," Altaïr tells her as the world spins around him. The floor is nice and solid, so he sits on it.

"Ah," says Kidd knowledgeably. "Ezio's a good kisser." Unseen by her, Ezio preens.

"Everyone's going to think I'm mad. Kidd's going to think I'm mad!" Edward bemoans.

"You are mad," Altaïr tells him. "You don't kiss Kidd enough. I would all the time if I were you. Kidd's so strong, and...and fetching in trousers."

Kidd blushes and drains her bottle of rum. "Well, with a compliment like that, you've earned yourself another kiss," she says, and pulls Altaïr up from the floor.

"No!" Edward squawks. Ezio can't stop laughing.

"What have I shown up for this time?" Shay asks warily. "Who's in Edward's body now? I know Edward doesn't get to kiss her for...for anything."

"He should," Altaïr offers. "Kidd's a good kisser. Whoops!" He loses his balance yet again and practically collapses in Shay's arms. Oh. For some reason, Shay hugs better than he'd thought Templars were capable of, so he returns the hug tightly and it's got nothing to do with trying to stay upright. "Your hair's pretty. For a Templar."

"Thanks, I think, whoever Edward let in, the more fool him," Shay mutters, holding Altaïr upright.

"It's Altaïr," Ezio says, with that little catch in his voice every time he says Altaïr's name.

"And he keeps locking lips with Kidd," Edward complains.

"Now there's one of your Templars here?" Kidd asks. "Have no fear, Edward, I'm not about to kiss them. Although that English fellow has a way with words..."

"No," Edward breathes, horrified. "Not Hat Man."

"Look, Edward, this is all your own fault," Shay tells him. "Didn’t you learn anything from when I let drunken Altaïr use my body?"

"You let drunken Altaïr use your body?" Edward asks, interested. "When was this?"

"You were there! Or, well, you will be there, I suppose. Let me break it down for you. Don't."

Altaïr has flung himself across the table, tears streaming down his face. "Malik hates me. We'll never truly be brothers again."

"Oh, for crying out loud," a barmaid says, exasperated, and Mary brightens even more than Ezio when the red-headed Irish girl approaches the table. "Edward, I'll ask you but once to kindly take yourself out to the leaf pile if you're planning to pass out."

"Blessed oblivion," Altaïr announces, and collapses.

Ezio winks out, still laughing.

"Great," Edward complains. "Now I can’t do anything until he goes away or wakes up." Kidd, meanwhile, lugs Edward's limp body out to the nearest pile of palm fronds, and sits beside him for an hour, smoking her pipe and eyeing the barmaid through the open door.

Shay shrugs, and tries to make conversation. "How's the piracy going?" But Edward is in a foul mood, and Shay is grateful to return quickly to his own time, even if it does involve Rory and Jeanne slamming every door in the house. Edward finally falls asleep from sheer boredom, still unsure if Mary is keeping watch over him or looking at Anne. This night has not gone as he planned when he was getting stewed with Mary.

Chapter Text

"Oh. Oh my. Shay, you remember that night?" Aveline stifles a laugh.

"Which night, love?" Shay asks. He's trying to clean an old stain off of Philippe's cradle.

"That's the question, isn't it? I mean, I suppose it could be one of the other times, but..."

"I'm lost," Shay admits with a smile.

"Nine months ago," Aveline tells him, grinning, "we had that night with--" she looks around to be sure nobody else is within earshot, then whispers anyway, "Haytham."

"Oh," Shay replies intelligently, reddening. "But, visiting, he can't have--all those years we only visited, and you never fell pregnant--"

"Oh, this is your child, dear husband," Aveline assures him, patting her belly. "Have no doubt of that. Just...well, and you remember what happened a few days later...."

Shay could hardly forget it. They'd gone to visit Connor at the Homestead, and Shay had woken in the night. When he'd returned to the bed, he'd found himself already there, making sweet love to Aveline, who decided that having two of her husband was almost enough for her needs. "Of course I remember! What's that got to do with anything?"

Aveline presses herself into his lap, smiling. "It seems a coincidence, doesn't it? In the same month, twice I bed two Templars at once. And nine months later, here I am just a breath away from birthing our child." She grins wickedly. "Do you suppose he or she was conceived one of those nights?"

"It could have been any one of a dozen nights," Shay points out. "Or the days Philippe actually took a nap."

Aveline smiles and nods. "Even so. I hope he or she becomes an Assassin."

"Why?" Shay blinks at the apparent non sequitur.

Aveline links her fingers through his and smiles. "Then we will know that this Assassin needed two Templars to come to be." She grins. "But we must never tell him or her." She thinks, then adds, "Unless she or he really hates Templars."

Shay laughs. "And you think that'll help, do you?"

Aveline giggles. "No, not particularly." Then she winces. "Oh...I think we may be meeting our second child sooner rather than later."

Shay blinks, stunned. "You mean..." Aveline nods. Shay scrambles to his feet. "I'll get the doctor. And Connor. I'll...I'll be right back." He trips over Connor's aunt Jacob, babbling, "The doctor! Get the baby. No. The baby's coming! Get the doctor!"

Jacob picks him up off the floor in an unusually generous gesture, and pats his shoulder. "Go be with her. I'll tell Connor."

Shay gratefully stumbles back to the bed, only to find his wife laughing. "Aveline, are you making a fool of me?"

"No," she tells him, grinning. "I really do think the baby's coming. But you were making a fool of yourself." She pats his hand. "You're sweet, Shay. Don't ever stop being sweet." And then the room is full: Connor, Dr. White, Diana, and Jenny all crowd in, and there's no more time to talk of this as a shadow of pain passes across Aveline's face.

Chapter Text

Haytham hates the desert. It's sandy, it's gritty, it's dry, he's lost, his best friend has been captured or killed or even worse, he's reeling from his sister's accusations of Birch's treachery, and he's got a broken heart. Plus they're out of food and he doesn't know where the nearest town is. Because he's lost. And even if he got there, he'd have a rough time of it since he can barely converse in Arabic. What he needs now is--

"Altaïr," he mutters, seeing the man in the white hood on the other side of a little hillock of sand.

"Where?"

Haytham is actually disappointed to see Desmond. Well. There's a chance Desmond can help, so all is not totally lost. "Just Haytham." Jenny looks over at him distrustfully but says nothing, and Haytham feels a pang of guilt. If he'd concentrated on tracking her down, he could perhaps have found her earlier, and she wouldn't be this silent, glaring presence, but more like the Jenny he remembers.

And he might have known of Birch's betrayal earlier, and might have had more of a chance with--

No. He's not going to think of that. Instead he turns his horse towards Desmond and tells Jenny, "I'm going up that hill to look around." She nods, still glowering at him. At least that's enough like the old Jenny.

Desmond is frowning at Haytham. "What are you doing in the desert, dude? This is Syria or something."

"Yes," Haytham agrees. "It is."

"So what are you doing here?"

"Rescuing my sister." His mouth is dry and sticky, and it's hard to talk.

"Oh! I didn't know you had a sister."

"Yes. She got captured when my father was killed."

"Edward got killed?!" Desmond looks stricken.

"Surely it's not a surprise that an Assassin got murdered," Haytham tells him testily.

"Yeah, but Edward," Desmond shrugs, apparently at a loss. "Hey, what was that?" he asks suddenly, pointing off to the side.

"What was what?" Haytham asks wearily.

"Something moving."

"Something edible?" He'd gladly kill something for food, right now.

"No, too small. Hey, maybe it's a hamster!"

"A what?"

"A little rodent. Like a guinea pig but smaller."

Haytham sighs. "A miniature guinea pig is of no use to me now unless I need something capable of shrieking endlessly and making vast amounts of--"

"Wait, there it is again!" Desmond points, and Haytham sees a flicker of movement. Desmond runs over and kneels on the ground, looking up at Haytham. "You're hungry, right?"

"Yes," Haytham admits. "We have water, but ran out of food yesterday."

"Well," Desmond grins. "I worked at a pet store for--oh, a month or so. These guys have loads of food in their burrows. See?" He points to the small hole that Haytham hadn't seen, and begins digging with his hands.

Haytham slips off his horse and runs over, dropping to his knees and scooping up the sand and dirt. On the way down to the hamster's food stores, they find the hamster itself, who hisses and lies on its back, kicking and scratching at them--well, at Haytham anyway, who eyes the squalling little beast warily. "Not much like a guinea pig except the loudness," is all he says.

"Hey, I found the pantry!" Desmond beams. The pantry is perhaps two pounds of assorted seeds and dried leaves. Haytham takes off his hat and scoops seeds into it until Desmond stops him. "Leave some for the hamster, dude." Said hamster has run into other parts of its burrow, and Haytham can't really complain. It's enough for him and Jenny for two, maybe three days.

"Thank you, Desmond," Haytham says, with a slight smile. "Your rodent knowledge is very helpful."

"Oh, don't thank me, thank the girl at the pet store who told me about this. Bye-bye, mister hamster," he adds, waving at the burrow un-self-consciously. Then he vanishes, no doubt back to the Animus for more torture.

Haytham stands and carefully carries his hat back to Jenny, leading the horse. "Jenny, I've got dinner!" he calls, mouth watering. The mixed seeds and grains porridge they make is the best thing Haytham's ever tasted, even better than the flatbread and dried meat they buy the next day at the small village they come across.

Chapter Text

Desmond is haunted, still, by the shards of golden light he's wielded. In the past two days, he's killed like he's never killed before. He's fractured minds and snuffed out lives with the power of the Apple; he's killed the man who held him prisoner and began the torture that has been his life for the past three months. And he's rescued his father. Right now, he can't tell which of these things is worst.

He stares from his high perch in the temple, down at William, who had jumped right back into his role of bossing everyone around. Desmond clenches his fists at his sides. He doesn't know why he expected anything would be different--no, he does know. It's because he's only human, and he thought his father would be grateful. Usually when you save someone, they're grateful, aren't they?

Connor appears just then, smelling strongly of alcohol and burned hair. He looks rumpled, scorched, frustrated, and wet, and Desmond guesses he's hallucinating his ancestor from just after the brewery escape. "He is never grateful," Connor complains.

"Just like my father," Desmond commiserates.

"We would have burned to death in there had it not been for my quick action!" Connor gripes.

"Tell me about it," Desmond agrees. "He didn't rescue me from that place but I rescued him!"

Connor looks up at Desmond, puzzled. "Whom did you rescue?"

Desmond shrugs. "My father."

Connor nods, looking disgruntled. "Hopefully he is less ungrateful than my father."

Desmond shakes his head. "No, he's much worse."

Connor eyes him skeptically. "I am not sure that could be possible."

"Yeah, it is," Desmond insists, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat. Because Connor must secretly love his father; what else could explain the yearning Desmond has, for Haytham to notice him, approve of him, love him? And Desmond has to admit, to himself if nobody else, that he's far too scared of William Miles to want his own father's approval anymore.

Bleeding as Connor is making him realize how much luckier Connor is in his father than Desmond is. And Desmond is pretty sure Connor and Haytham are actually going to fight each other at some point. Still, better than Desmond and William.

"What is your father like?" Connor inquires. "When you are not saving his life, that is."

"Well, disappointed in me, mostly."

"I know what that is like."

"No, you don't," Desmond retorts. "All my life, he's been disappointed in me. I swear I probably didn't crawl early enough for him when I was a baby. That's how bad it is."

Connor's face remains impassive. "But he is an Assassin, at least."

"Yeah, the Mentor! So any time I talk back to him, it's like I'm talking back to the entire Brotherhood. To Altaïr himself."

Connor barely quirks a smile. "Are you telling me that you do not talk back to Altaïr?"

Desmond flushes. "Not all that much! Besides, he's just a hallucination. You all are. Here I am talking to my hallucination, looking for comfort about my father being an ungrateful jerkwad. But it doesn't matter," he finishes, nearly deflating in his distress.

"It matters," Connor says, with a rare touch of Desmond's arm. "A true Mentor should not tear down his Assassins."

Desmond laughs and it almost doesn't sound like his heart is broken. "You'll be a great Mentor, Connor. Or...you have been. Will have been. The point is, you're not like my father. And your father isn't as bad as mine. So be grateful."

And Connor is back in his own time, listening to his father grumble about ashes in his hat. He's not sure if Desmond is right about Haytham being a better father, but when Connor searches his father's face for the kind of disappointment that cripples Desmond, he finds none, only haughtiness and...pride?

Surely it can't be pride. Haytham is complaining about his wet clothes and a missing button; how could he be proud of the son that just saved his life? But how can he be complaining about anything, when he was about to die in that burning building?

Unbelievable.

Chapter Text

Balancing on a ledge and running and jumping is all hard enough without an audience. And yet, Altaïr has one.

"What are you doing, Mentor?" the young man Altaïr has come to know as Ezio asks.

"I am not your mentor, child," Altaïr tells him brusquely, running along the ledge.

"You will be," Ezio says simply, eyes alight with devotion.

Altaïr pushes him out of the way as he runs past, and Ezio dangles some twenty feet above ground for a moment before grabbing a window to right himself. "I'm sorry to get in your way," Ezio says reverently as Altaïr makes the final jump. "What are you doing anyway?"

"Cleaning up," Altaïr grunts, tearing the flag in half. "These Templars think they can own a city by covering it with their flags."

Chapter Text

The winds came, and the rain, and then more wind and more rain. The children were restless, and Shay and Aveline tried their best to keep them occupied, but Rory tripped Jeanne and Tomas stole most of Philippe's toy ships right out of his room. "If you don't behave," Aveline told them all very firmly, "I'm going to make you play outside! Listen to that wind howl!" Tomas looked for a minute as if he'd welcome this, then went to return the ships.

They crowded around a window to watch the streets flooding. "You know, love," Shay mused, "there's probably people out there could use our help."

Aveline squinted, and pointed. "Is that someone on a roof? I know these roofs very well."

"No," Shay insisted, "let me."

"You shouldn't get to have all the fun," Aveline complained.

"I'm just thinking of those innocent people."

"I know these buildings better than you," Aveline retorted.

"I've lived here for over a decade," Shay parried.

Ezio appeared, smiling. "Well, hello there, Aveline, Shay. What have I interrupted? I see your clothing is still being worn."

"I was just about to go help out some innocents," Aveline told him.

"--when I offered to do so instead, so that Aveline could stay in the safety of our home," Shay interjected.

Just then, Tomas ran up. "Maman!" he squealed, "Jeanne pinched me!"

"Ah," Ezio said knowledgeably.

"There's a hurricane," Aveline explained.

"And there's also some sort of weather going on outside," Shay added.

"I know the area better," Aveline maintained.

"And I--well, I..." Shay mumbled.

Ezio laughed. "Why don't you both go help?"

"God, no," Shay said, shaking his head.

"The house would burn down. Despite standing in a foot of water," Aveline added.

"I think you'd be surprised," Ezio said, smiling. "Give the children a job and you may solve both your problems at once."

Both of them looked dubiously at him, then a toy ship hit Shay on the back of the head. "Ow! It can't hurt, I suppose."

Shay organized the children into a blanket crew and a food crew. Aveline found a canoe in a storage room, and discovered that it leaked only a little bit. She and Shay went around the neighborhood; Shay jumped from roof to roof to show her the way to stranded people, and then she paddled up and brought them back to the house. Soon the house was full of sodden people wrapped in blankets that Philippe and Tomas had given them, eating stew which Jeanne and Rory had ladled out for them.

Aveline stood at the top of the stairs, with Shay, smiling down at the chaos they had invited into their house. Tomas had organized a game of hide-and-seek among the mansion's rooms, and neighborhood children were no doubt getting grubby little fingerprints on everything. Philippe was bossing around all the children, who were ignoring him, and Rory and Jeanne were thick as thieves in a corner, no doubt talking about the pretend games they played together. "It's a beautiful sight," Aveline told Shay.

"Aye, far more peaceful than with just our lot," Shay chuckled. "Funny how that works sometimes." One of Aveline's so-called friends looked up at him and gave him a very fake smile, then returned to gossiping with a neighbor. "You'd think I'd not just helped save her life," Shay muttered, and Aveline laughed.

"She's always been like that, a smile on the face and a knife in the back."

"Why did we rescue her, then?" Shay asked.

Aveline smiled. "Because you're a good man, dear husband," she said, and kissed him. And despite their decades together, despite their years of marriage, her lips were still as wondrous and amazing as the first time they had kissed.

"You... you... well, I try," he finished lamely.

"And succeed admirably." She kissed him again. And really, what more could he do than take her in his arms and kiss her properly?

"Papa," Philippe interrupted them, "Sylvette isn't listening to me! It’s my house, she has to listen to me!"

Aveline laughed. "Philippe, she's only three."

"I'd better go take care of it," Shay told her, giving her one last kiss for good measure.

Chapter Text

"Your supplier is overcharging you," Connor asserts, leaning over Aveline's shoulder to point at her ledger book. "We sell top quality furs for much less from the Homestead."

Aveline makes a note of it, then resumes writing. "But do you sell ice?"

Connor shakes his head. "We do not have a lake suitable for cutting ice, nor an icehouse."

"Hmm." Aveline flips quickly through a couple of pages. "I take the furs off their hands to get the incredible price on the ice. But perhaps...do you ship to England?" Connor shakes his head, and Aveline smiles. "Then perhaps we can do business. I need things to ship on the return trip," and she traces a trade route on the map. "Steel, fruit, and now furs. You see?"

Connor is staring at her with something like awe. "I do. These are all your ships?"

Aveline nods, with a dismissive flick of her hand. "They have to transport something when there's no coffee to haul. I'm a victim of my own success." Connor is still staring, and Aveline smiles back at him. "I'll send the Aurore to the Homestead with a cargo of fruit to trade for furs. Watch for it." She makes notations in her book as Connor vanishes, and when a barque lumbers into the harbor by the homestead, stuffed to the gills with papayas and pineapples and shattucks and other fruits Connor has rarely seen, he is amazed anew at just how much Aveline controls through her small commercial empire. His shipments of fancy hats, playing cards, eyedrops, and bearskin rugs pale in comparison.

Chapter Text

Connor is working his way through a tunnel underneath New York when he sees a lantern bobbing in the far distance. He readies his tomahawk, then simply stands in shock when he recognizes the blue coat and tricorn hat of his father.

"Evening," Haytham greets him cordially, lighting one of the wall sconces. Connor simply gapes, and Haytham sighs. "Did you really think you were the only one who used the tunnels?"

"I had thought them free of Templar influence, yes," Connor grits out.

Haytham sighs. "It's not Templar influence, Connor. They're just tunnels." As Connor stalks past, he calls out, "There's a couple of smugglers down that way." Connor says nothing and Haytham shrugs. "Don't say I never gave you good fatherly advice."

Connor refuses to admit to himself that his father was right, even after the smugglers attack and he's forced to kill them.

Chapter Text

Desmond is a little tired of loitering around the Jackdaw while Edward steers it across the beautiful Caribbean Sea, truth be told. He can't even get to the front of the ship (the bow? He's not sure) to do the Titanic "I'm the king of the world" thing, not that Edward would understand it anyway. And he's tired of the looks Edward's quartermaster gives him for talking to Desmond.

Admittedly, it is nice to enjoy the warmth of the sun, not the crazy cold weather that upstate New York has been getting this year. Desmond is kind of glad he was in a coma for the bastard lovechild hurricane-nor'easter thing that basically assassinated the Northeast, but it's been horrifically cold in the drafty cave, because those First Civilization twerps apparently didn't understand that they should have filled the cave with ancient space-heater technology for Desmond's benefit.

"Half sail!" Edward calls, spinning the wheel, followed by "No sail!" a moment later. The Jackdaw drifts to a stop near a small island.

"Why are you here?" Desmond asks, confused, while Edward orders the anchor lowered.

"Captain, do you see treasure?" Adéwalé asks eagerly.

"I want to climb that tree," Edward tells them both. Adéwalé stares at him; Desmond rolls his eyes.

"It's just a tree," Adéwalé says, gently. "There's a hundred just like it in Havana."

"Why aren't you an Assassin yet?" Desmond asks. "You've got the number one requirement, you can't stop climbing things."

Edward ignores both of them and dives into the water, swimming for the little island. Desmond is pulled along, unfortunately--the water is warm and swimming in warm water always makes him think of piss--and gets to watch Edward run up the half-bare tree trunk and then dive into the water, apparently heedless of the fact that he could very well crack his head open on the shallow ocean floor.

"All right," Edward says, climbing back onto his ship. "Got that out of the way. Time for Havana." He eyes Desmond, still some feet away. "Hurry up, there, if you don't want to be dragged the whole way."

Desmond tries to swim faster as Adéwalé sighs. "Your invisible friend is mad too?"

"I'm not crazy!" Desmond insists, futilely. "This jerk dragged me along!"

"A jerk, am I?" Edward calls. "Full sail!" And Desmond spends the remainder of his visit trying to pull himself up onto the Jackdaw as it travels at top speed.

Chapter Text

"Where are we, Edward?" Shay asks.

"Havana," Edward answers shortly. He's here to kill Torres, and isn't about to be sidetracked.

"Havana?" Shay asks wistfully. "I've always wanted to go."

"I thought you'd been," Ezio says, sounding almost offended.

"No, but I've heard wonderful things about the ladies there." Shay fiddles with his wedding ring, a distant look in his eyes.

Edward stops in his tracks. The "ladies" of Havana are a subject he's fairly well acquainted with. "Really? I thought the ladies of Nassau were better."

"Nothing can compare to the courtesans of Roma," Ezio protests, but Shay shushes him.

"The ladies of Havana have firm, round bosoms," Shay claims. "Look, there's one there."

"D'you think she knows Torres?" Edward asks, distracted.

Ezio suggests, "You could make her acquaintance and ask her."

"Aren't you married, Shay? Aren't Aveline's firm, round attributes enough for you?" Edward asks.

"Aye," Shay agrees, "but you don't understand, Edward. Ever since I was an Assassin, I've wanted to come here and see for myself."

"Perhaps," Ezio offers, "you could hire them for camouflage, Edward, and Shay could admire what he cannot touch, both because he is merely visiting you, and because of Aveline."

"Hmm?" Shay asks, watching a woman in a particularly revealing dress.

"You're lucky I've so much gold," Edward grumbles, grabbing his money pouch and heading for a gaggle of giggling dancers.

Chapter Text

Some days, it's heart-wrenching when Aveline is visited by Haytham. She'd thought it would be very difficult to know that, in his future, he'd finally join her and Shay in bed, and not tell him. And it is, but not in the way she expected.

Haytham is smug, or surly, or stressed, or depressed, as whatever events in his life affect him. Aveline wants to offer comfort, but knows it will never be accepted. So she'd like to tease him, as is her way when it comes to Haytham.

Part of her teasing has always included flirting, because Haytham is a friend but not an ally, and flirting with the enemy is as natural to her as breathing. And just as her breath catches in her throat when she remembers the fact and the manner of Haytham's death (how wrong, that her one dear friend should kill her other, that a visitor should murder another) so do her charming taunts die unsaid on her tongue. For how can she tease him when the memory of his lips on hers is so fresh, when she has whispered his name at the height of passion, when she knows that she will never again feel his body against hers? How can she outwit and evade him when she wishes only to hold him, and knows it cannot be?

Oh, she puts on a good show, as she's always been expected to; she flirts and goads him, steals his hat, attempts to spy on plans long past, conceals from him the Assassin machinations that cannot concern him after his death. She shows him her children and lets him think it was Shay who gave Rory his middle name.

But every time she twits him, her heart aches; every time he makes some reference to his--to him--still impending death, she flinches inside; every time she sees his gray ponytail or the fluttering blue corner of his cape, she yearns to keep him with her, give him that much more life before his son's blade cuts it short.

Chapter Text

The most difficult part of changing quickly is her hair. It's not so bad when she's going into her slave persona, but Aveline has to put considerable effort into the carefully arranged curls of her ladylike hairstyle, has to settle the hat just so.

And just her luck that it's not a helpful visitor today. Ezio or Edward would be more than happy to help her dress, and Shay is always good fun, the way he blushes when she hands him the laces of her gown and wishes he wouldn't tighten them--but that is a thought for another time and another place.

"I fail to see why you spend so much time concerned with your hair," Altaïr tells her, arms crossed, as she quickly unravels her braids.

"Of course you do," she tells him smoothly as she steps out of her trousers and pulls her dress over her head, reaching for the half-done laces she need only pull and tie.

"Would it not be quicker to simply keep it short?" Altaïr asks, running a hand through his own bristly hair.

"Oui, and if I could wear trousers every day, that would be easier still." She tucks the mass of her hair into shape, and begins attacking it with hairpins.

"I do not see why you cannot," he insists.

"Because I am a woman of high standing." She places the hat on top of her hair, careful not to crush her curls, and tucks a small pistol into her pocket, then checks her bodice to be sure her darts are secure.

"Among the Brotherhood, none has a high station in society," Altaïr glowers.

Aveline smiles primly. "Here, and now, I do. Or would you prefer that I renounce my immense tactical advantage?" Her disguise complete, she takes her parasol and steps out of her dressing chamber, faking shock as she nearly treads in a pool of blood.

"Mademoiselle, do you know anything about this?" a burly man asks her.

"Tactical advantage?" Altaïr asks, but Aveline ignores him.

"No, Monsieur, I don't. Oh my!" She feigns a near-swoon and a small crowd of gentlemen materializes at her side. She selects one and hangs off his arm. "I must return home at once!" Her voice is high and girlish as she fans herself.

"Where do you live, Mademoiselle?" the gentleman asks with an ill-concealed leer.

"That way, Monsieur," she coos, pointing down a random street.

"Please, you must call me Jean," the gentleman insists, and Aveline smiles like he's said something really witty.

"Of course, Jean! Do you know, I was just talking with a friend of mine about the benefits of being a lady?"

Altaïr stiffens. "That was not actually what I--"

"And what would those be?" asks Jean with a smirk.

"Why, handsome gentlemen like you walking me home, of course." Aveline bats her eyelashes. Altaïr has never before appreciated the usefulness of eyelashes.

"Oui, Mademoiselle, I took one look at you and knew I must get you away from that grisly murder," Jean tells her, fatuously.

"And quite right you were to do so," she simpers. She leads him in a random direction, away from the de Grandpré mansion, and eventually kills him in an alley before darting into a nearby dressing chamber.

Altaïr is thoroughly confused as Aveline ties her hair up in a striped headscarf. "What was that about?" he asks.

"He was a slave trader," she says evenly, fastening her short, plain skirt about her waist as Altaïr averts his eyes. "I've had my eye on him for two weeks. He served his purpose, though. He got me away from the other body." She steps out of her dressing chamber and selects a loaded crate from a stack against a nearby wall, carrying it with eyes downcast.

"You are both brilliant and cold," Altaïr tells her, his admiration evident in his tone.

Aveline frowns. "I'd hoped--I'd hoped not to lose my humanity, my warmth and kindness," she tells him, troubled. "I do not want my life to be lonely and empty. Perhaps I should reconsider the Brotherhood--"

"No, please, stay on your path," Altaïr very nearly begs her. "The Brotherhood needs you."

"And I need it," Aveline tells him, but her brow is furrowed and her voice troubled. "But if I lose out on the rest of life, that's too high a price."

"You won't," Altaïr assures her, though he really doesn't know. "You're the most human of all of us." He clasps her forearm, a rare touch.

Aveline smiles the lopsided little smile that very few get to see. "You're kind, Altaïr. Much as you try not to be. And thank you."

"Kind?" he asks, alarmed.

"To lie, trying to spare my feelings." She reaches the warehouse that she uses as a base.

"I didn't," he protests.

"As I said, you're very kind." She smiles brightly at him, but now that he looks, he sees the worry in her eyes.

"I meant what I said. I may not know the future, but of yours I have no doubt: you will be a great Assassin, a great woman, and yet still a good person."

Aveline smiles again, and this time it reaches her eyes. "Then I thank you, Altaïr, and will try to live up to your words."

Chapter Text

Matthew is tired of shoes. He's tired of talking about insoles, and cobbling, and outsoles, and whether it makes any sense to have different shoes for the right and left feet. Boots, sandals, slippers, he hates them all. He's sick of heels and toes and stinky foot smell and warts and yellow flaky toenails. If he sees another buckle, he's going to scream. So he makes an excuse and leaves his uncle behind, heading for his father's Homestead.

And when he walks in, Connor is repairing his moccasins.

Matthew just can't get away from shoes.

But then Connor smiles at him, a slow and hidden smile that Matthew knows his father reserves for him, and he can't be mad. Not even when Connor asks him for help putting one of the buckles back on his ship-captaining shoes. It's an easy fix, and Matthew is surprised to find himself beaming with pride when his father tries them on and pronounces them as good as new.

And then Connor teaches him how to make and repair moccasins, and for the first time, Matthew is actually proud of shoes he's made.

When he goes back to his uncle's, proudly wearing his new moccasins, his uncle is horrified. "Put on some civilized shoes," the man says urgently. "If customers see you wearing those savage things, they won't want to buy from you, or me either!"

Matthew does as he asks, but can't help feeling like he's betraying his father, and himself.

Chapter Text

"I'm...I'm fine, Desmond," Aveline tells him, part of the way through his explanation, nearly falling into an empty chair.

She knew Desmond was Subject 17, and had always been curious about the other sixteen, but hearing about her descendant who had died in the Animus felt like a punch right under the breastbone. He had died in her memories.

What had she been doing, in the memory that killed him? Assassinating someone? Making love to Shay? Taking a leap of faith? Changing her clothing? Aveline didn't know, and Desmond didn't know, and Aveline is almost relieved that that meant she'd never know what it was about her life that had killed her great-great-great-whatever-grandson.

The guilt, the what-ifs, would linger forever. If she had stayed at home a certain day, if she had played fanorona with Shay a certain night, this man--of her blood and Shay's--might still be alive. Or maybe it was something big, like one of her two weddings, maybe it was when she had killed her stepmother.

Or maybe it was something she had no control over, like her father's death, or Gérald's. In that case, it was a dollop of extra cruelty on top of the agony the universe had already put her through. It was approaching the universe's level of cruelty to Desmond. And nobody would ever understand how responsible she felt--

"Aveline!" Shay calls, taking her hand in both of his. "Aveline, darling, come back to me." She looks into his face and sees the tear tracks, and realizes that, while he might not share her guilt and remorse, Shay grieved for their descendant even as she did, and that shared grief is somehow lighter than the crushing misery she had felt.

She swallows, and squeezes Shay's hand, tears glittering at the corners of her vision. "I'm here, Shay, I'm here."

Shay brings her hand up to kiss it, an easy, loving gesture that melts her heart and makes the pain just bearable. They gaze into each other's eyes until Desmond clears his throat. "Uh. Keep your clothes on, okay? There's something I want to do."

Chapter Text

"Your friends led me on a merry chase," Edward gripes to Altaïr.

Altaïr gestures to the jungle around them. "They may be my Brothers but I cannot say I know any of them personally."

"Still," Edward complains, "And Kidd's the worst of you lot. Here I was expecting him to be interested in gold and rum and women like a proper pirate. Instead I find he's in a secret religion of murdering people."

"Hardly a religion," Altaïr says with a fleeting smile. And I had thought you enjoyed Master Kidd's company."

Edward looks back and forth warily. "Don't tell anybody."

Altaïr smirks. "Your secret is safe with me."

Edward huffs. "It better be. Otherwise, next time I visit you, I'm going to take you over and kiss that Templar you've had your eye on. You just see if I don't."

Altaïr has a hard time not choking from laughter. "That is the worst threat you can muster?"

Edward sighs heavily. "No, this is: I'll buy a diving bell and go swimming next time you pop in. So not a word about Kidd to anyone."

"And--um--using your body to kiss Kidd is right out, then?"

"No," Edward practically wails. "Then he'd know!"

"Would that be so bad?" Altaïr asks, trying not to laugh.

"Don't ruin everything, you horrible fellow!" Edward practically begs. "I'll tell him someday, when the time is right. I'll ask Ezio what to say."

Chapter Text

Aveline will not go in certain shops, even when they don't belong to business rivals, and Desmond, tagging along one day, asks her why.

"Because," she tells him grimly, "they look at me and see something to be purchased, not a purchaser."

"Oh," Desmond mouths silently, looking more glum than usual. "I--I didn't realize."

"Do they not have slavery where you come from?" she asks briskly, hardly daring to hope.

"Well, no, I mean, black people are still treated badly, even worse than people with lighter brown skin like you or me..."

"Not at all? No slavery at all?"

"I mean, you hear things, and there's human trafficking, but slavery's illegal. There was a war about it and everything."

Aveline smiles tightly. "Of course there was a war. Why am I not surprised that people would fight to continue subjugating others?"

"Yeah," Desmond says, sounding defeated, "And the losers won't even admit these days that that was what they were fighting for."

"Who would want to?" Aveline asks, her tone only barely wavering.

Desmond considers her. "This is personal for you, isn't it?"

"I was a slave the moment I was born," Aveline tells him evenly, "freed only because my father was a good enough man not to own his own child."

"That's..." Desmond frowns thoughtfully. "That's fucked up."

"And I must constantly prove that I am not property," she continues. "But no matter how much money I have, all who look at me assume I am someone's possession until they learn otherwise. Because I am this color, and a woman besides." She twists her face into a smile of sorts. "It is why I will never change my name in marriage, even if I must marry as my people do, without benefit of church."

Desmond grins at her. "In my time, women don't have to take their husbands' names. And they can wear pants all the time. You'd like it."

Aveline smooths her skirt and smiles. "I already do."

Chapter Text

Ratonhnhaké:ton stood in the shambles of what had once been a thriving village, the village where he had lived his whole life until he left it to seek Achilles, the village that used to be his whole world.

Kanatahséton, where his mother's bones lay.

He didn't know why he kept coming back, but he couldn't stay away.

Connor was used to seeing white men in his old village, usually hunters or fur trappers seeking shelter. But as he rode through the opening in the walls, someone entirely different appeared on the mound to his left.

His father.

He slipped from his horse, engaging his hidden blades without thought, before he remembered that Haytham was already dead (Sakataterihwáhten) and was therefore visiting. Still, Connor approached cautiously.

"Is this your village, son?" Haytham asked curiously.

"It was," Connor told him stiffly. "My people have gone west and the land was sold."

Haytham's face fell. "And...and your mother, is she buried here? Or...I don't know what your people do..."

"Yes, father," and Connor could almost relish the shock and dismay on Haytham's face as he pointed to the mound his father was standing on.

Haytham fell to his knees, trying to smooth out his footprints, distressed. "Ziio..." he breathed. "I mean no disrespect..." His eyes shone in the sunlight as he patted the dirt.

"Father?" Connor asked carefully, dismounting from his sturdy horse and stepping to the edge of the mound.

"She's...well, son, your mother was like no other woman in the world. Brilliant, forceful, amazing..."

"If she was so wonderful, why did you leave?"

"I? Son, she told me to! Or did she say it was I who--"

"She died long before, I suppose, I was old enough to know what happened between the two of you."

Haytham eyed Connor carefully. "Am I dead in this time?" The question hung unasked between them, have you killed me?

Connor nodded, once, to both.

"Have you read my journal?" Haytham continued. When Connor nodded, Haytham sighed. "Then you know how deeply I felt for her. May I...may I say a few words over her grave?"

Connor frowned. "I don't know if she'd appreciate it..."

"You'll have killed me. Don't you owe me at least this, to bid farewell to the woman I loved?"

Connor didn't reply, but he also didn't stop Haytham as he picked some flowers growing nearby.

"Words are insufficient to memorialize Ziio," Haytham said softly, laying the flowers on the mound. "She was the best and the brightest of all humanity, and next to her we are all but fools and wretches. Her fire could not be extinguished, and you and I, son, are both lit by a borrowed piece of that same flame. She was...passionate," and Connor winced, but Haytham continued, "about everything in life. She was lukewarm about nothing, absolutely nothing. She was the center of my world for far too short a time, and still I feel I circle the absence of her in my life." He sighed. "I would say 'rest in peace' but I know if there are battles to be fought and wrongs to be righted beyond the grave, resting is the last thing she would ever do. But farewell, Ziio, wherever you may be. I have never ceased loving you, and never will, not even in my own grave."

He stood, turned, and caught Connor's shocked gaze with a sardonic expression. "Now would be a good time to suddenly discover the secret to ending a visit early like Ave--" and he disappeared.

Ratonhnhaké:ton found himself blinking excessively as he reached out to straighten the flowers. He sat by the grave until the sky darkened and his impatient horse brought him back to himself.

Chapter Text

Aveline tends to find herself sitting when she visits; she's not sure if it means anything or is purely accidental. Sometimes it's useful, especially when she visits Shay. Sometimes it's amusing, like now, when Haytham flings himself backwards, toppling over in his chair, as if the brief and accidental touch of her thigh has scorched his fingertips.

"Am I interrupting something?" she asks in her most sultry voice, making him flush as he draws himself up and rights his chair.

"No; I was merely working on paperwork," he manages in an almost even tone.

"Oh?" she asks curiously, looking down at the papers she's sitting on. "Secret Templar business, perhaps?" She picks up a ledger, looks over the figures, and chuckles. "Someone is stealing from you. These figures don't add up."

Haytham attempts to brush imaginary specks of dirt from his jacket. "I was getting to that."

She smirks. "Whoever it is, I should send them a gift in thanks."

He rolls his eyes. "You spend so much time around Templars, and yet you just can't resist, can you?"

Aveline smiles tightly. "Shay may be my lover--and you could be too, you know, the offer is still open--but I'm still an Assassin." It's fun to watch the expression on his face go from alarmed to carefully blank as she reaches between her legs to grab another ledger book. "Speaking of that offer--"

"Please don't."

"How do you expect to spend the night with the both of us if you don't travel with him? You should return to his side." She grins wickedly as Haytham turns red once more. But there's something uncertain in his eyes that spoils her enjoyment, and she remembers how he found himself unable to answer the question of who had captured his heart. Is it Shay, then? Aveline can certainly understand falling in love with Shay; he is both physically marvelous and a very good man. He's quite lovable and she can completely sympathize with being captivated by him.

"I would rather you return to his side, where you can express your love without ruining my sleep," Haytham snipes. Aveline studies his face thoughtfully. Should she feel jealous if--as she suspects--he's in love with her lover? She searches, but can't find any jealousy in herself. She can't imagine either her or Shay's lives without the love that binds them, and so there is no room for insecurity and Haytham poses no threat.

Her musings are cut short by a voice drifting through the wall. "Who's a cute little boy? Who's Daddy's little puppy?"

Aveline raises her eyebrows at Haytham, who does his best to look impassive. "Is this a frequent occurrence?" she asks sweetly.

"Regrettably, yes," Haytham sighs.

"Did Spado drink all his broth? Yes he did! Oh, what a good boy!" the voice coos.

Aveline is overcome with giggles as she recognizes the voice. "Is that...is it really...Charles Lee?"

Haytham nods silently, head in his hands.

"And you didn't make any mess on the floor! What a good little boy!"

Aveline can hardly speak for laughter. "This is your right-hand man?"

Haytham crosses his arms defensively. "There is nothing wrong with being an animal lover."

"Who wants a belly rub? Is it Spado? Yes it is! Yes it is!" Lee's voice is almost absurdly happy.

"Nothing wrong with loving animals, to be sure," Aveline allows, "But--ah--does he have any children? He talks as if the dog were his child."

"You know, I don't know if he does," Haytham says thoughtfully. "He mentioned once having a wife but I've heard nothing about her, nor have I met her. I wonder what the story is there."

Aveline smiles. "To hear Connor talk, Lee is a monster devoid of human emotion."

Haytham sighs and steeples his fingers in front of his face. "Connor has a tendency to oversimplify things when it comes to Lee."

"Well, you can hardly blame him, can you?" Aveline asks, stretching out her legs to rest her feet on the arms of Haytham's chair. It's such great fun to see him flinch as if her feet are made of hot coals. She wriggles a bit and "accidentally" drops one of her fancy shoes on the floor.

"Aveline," Haytham says gently, "I'm not sure if you're trying to disrupt the Templar Order or legitimately making a play for me, but you're close to crossing a line that doesn't suit you. I thought we were, at the least, friends by now."

She colors, and hopes he doesn't see. Perhaps he's right; she removes her feet from his chair and curls them under her coquettishly. He looks markedly less uncomfortable.

"I love my little Spado boy! Yes I do! I love him so much!" Lee's voice floats through the wall. Aveline catches Haytham's eye and they both begin to laugh.

Chapter Text

Shay is sure that he still has a hangover from the enormous amount of alcohol he drank last night, and all for Edward's sake. He's cursing himself and Edward for it now, since his head is pounding in time with every scrape and thud of his shovel and Connor's. But the path into the little village needs to be cleared of snow, and all the houses need to be connected, and Connor feels responsible for doing such things, so somehow Shay got drafted into it too.

He feels the tingle of visiting and looks up to see Haytham standing behind Connor, and it's a good thing that his scarf is covering his face, because it's been close to a decade now and he still feels a blush rising in his cheeks every time he sees his Grandmaster and thinks of that night.

Haytham, of course, is ignorant of all this, since that visit was in the last few hours of his life and this one is most likely well before; and Shay would give his right arm to keep Connor from ever finding out. So here he is, tormented by memories of pleasure with a man who doesn't share those memories, and shoveling snow with that man's son.

"Shay?" Connor calls out. "Are you here, or visiting?" He smiles a little uncertainly.

"I'm here, Connor, sorry," and he bends to shovel. He's not going to tell Connor about Haytham standing behind him. "Erm...do you think Tomas is old enough to shovel snow?" It would solve two problems at once, wearing out the little devil and getting the snow shoveled.

"No," Connor tells him regretfully. "He would probably just climb the trees if we tried to make him."

"We could make Matthew."

"No, I don't want him to think that I have him over just to put him to work."

"Philippe?"

"Do you want to go fetch him?"

"No," Shay says with a sigh. "He's too young. I don't want him to grow up so fast."

"So we are at an impasse," Connor tells him with a smile. "And we must shovel it out."

"I'm not as young as I used to be," Shay groans, carving out the path that Connor then clears. "My back is going to feel this."

"We could switch places," Connor offers.

"No, I'm all right here," Shay quickly tells him. Anything to avoid standing so close to where Haytham is looking at him quizzically. It's bad enough that he sometimes has (extremely pleasant) dreams of that night.

Connor sighs. "Why are you avoiding my father?"

"Yes, Shay, what is wrong? Have I offended you?" Haytham asks, looking concerned.

"Oh, far from it, sir." Shay can feel himself blushing again and mentally curses at himself. "I'm just remembering a conversation we had when we traveled together."

"Oh," Haytham says. "Oh. Is it that thing that will never, ever happen?"

"What thing is this?" Connor inquires, dumping a load of snow off his shovel.

"Nothing," Shay is quick to say.

"Templar business," Haytham adds just as speedily. "Boring Templar business."

"Paperwork," Shay explains.

"You wouldn't be interested," Haytham insists.

"Any plots I can foil?" Connor asks hopefully.

"Son," Haytham chides him, "how could any of my plots be of any interest to you, so long after my death?"

"Besides, uh," Shay adds, "you heard him, Connor, it's something that's never going to happen. So what's to worry about?"

"You're red as an apple," Connor points out.

"Should've let Aveline give me the thicker scarf," Shay mumbles. He's remembering the event itself, the touch of Haytham's hand, of his lips, of--no, he's not going to stand here in the snow and remember that sort of thing. Not in front of Connor. Connor, who is Haytham’s son and Shay's hard-won friend. Connor, who would definitely not understand.

Connor, who is smirking at Shay. "If you won't tell me, maybe she can find out and disrupt your scheme."

Haytham stifles a laugh. "I highly doubt she would want to."

Shay nods. "You're right, sir." Damn the way he flushes when he remembers every time he called Haytham "sir" during that night.

Connor frowns suspiciously at them. "What plot would Aveline not ruin...?"

Shay blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. "Her birthday present. I needed Haytham’s help with it, but, ah, it didn't work out."

"What kind of a birthday present--" Connor begins, but Shay interrupts him.

"I couldn’t get the right smallclothes!" he babbles. It's now Connor's turn to blush and bend to shoveling snow industriously.

"Say no more," Connor mutters, scraping the shovel rather more loudly against the frozen ground than is strictly needed. Shay breathes a sigh of relief as he returns to his own shovel.

Chapter Text

Shay can see the bed in the darkened room; he can see the movement under the blanket, and he knows full well what was going on. Especially since he recognizes Aveline's throaty moans. The only thing that stops him from slipping in under the covers to join them is that he can't hear himself. In fact, he can hear a voice murmuring extremely naughty things in French, and that voice is definitely not his.

This puts him in a tough spot. He sort of wants to make sure it was Gérald, because he can't be angry at the poor man for making love to his wife. But if Aveline is with someone who wasn't him or Gérald, he doesn't want to find out and make her uncomfortable with his jealousy. In fact, he really doesn't want Aveline to find out he's been here at all, because this is the most awful and awkward circumstance ever.

Perhaps the best thing to do in this situation is to pretend to be Desmond. Maybe Aveline hasn't noticed she has a visitor; maybe he'll vanish before she's done and she'll be none the wiser.

She's getting louder, now, and so is her partner, and Shay clamps his hands over his ears, squeezing his eyes shut so tightly that tears leak out. He can still feel the thumping, though, but before long it stops. He stays crouched where he is until he feels a gentle hand moving his hand from his ear.

"Shay." Aveline's voice is full of compassion. "I...didn't want you to see this. I..." She fiddles with her wedding band, not the one Shay gave her but the other one, the one from Gérald.

"You love him. I know," Shay tells her. "I'm not jealous of Gérald." He holds his breath until she sighs with relief.

"So you know about Gérald and me."

He nods. "You're going to tell me, eventually."

"You understand how it is." Her eyes are full of tears, and she's staring at his wedding band, and Shay realizes that she must think he's found someone else.

"You love him," he repeats. "I'm happy for you." He doesn't sound particularly happy, he knows, but she smiles, just a bit.

"Are you happy, too, Shay?" she asks. "With who you've found?"

"You'll see me beyond joyful in my marriage," he assures her.

"And do you have children? Gérald and I are trying..." she trails off, and Shay's heart breaks a little for her, knowing it's a futile effort and that Gérald doesn't have much more time to live.

"You're going to be a wonderful mother," he tells her, because this is his wife, the center of his world, even if right now she’s another man's wife. He knows her better than even himself, he knows what she needs to hear.

"I may never be a mother," she tells him with a sad little sigh. "It's been a year we've been trying. Maybe there's something wrong... maybe I'm too old."

"I don't think you are," he tells her, taking her hands in his. He's torn; he wants to reassure her but he doesn't want to spoil things for her.

But he doesn't need to; she bites her lip and looks over her shoulder at the bed, where Gérald is asleep in a pile of blankets. "Do you think something is wrong with him?" She looks at Shay's face, and as much as he tries to look blank, she must see it in his eyes, or perhaps she already has her suspicions. "I must have Dr. Theriault examine him, and me as well. Thank you," she whispers, kissing first one of Shay's hands, then the other.

He pulls her into a hug--she smells of sweat and sex and it stirs his hunger for her, but he smiles gently and chastely kisses her lips only. "You're welcome," he murmurs, and vanishes.

Three months later, when Gérald has sickened until he's confined to the bed most of the day, Aveline sits at her desk, fiddling with a pen. If she writes to Shay, will she be interfering with him finding his happiness? Does she even have the right to ask what she plans to ask? Indecision and exhaustion paralyze her for more than an hour, but finally she puts pen to paper. Whatever will happen will happen, but she knows that now, more than ever, she needs Shay. And if he shows up with a wedding band on his finger...

... well, then she might lose everything, it's true. But something about the way Shay spoke gives her hope. Just a spark, but it's a spark more than she'd have without him.

Chapter Text

"Come and sit by me," Haytham says, when he feels that familiar prickling at the nape of his neck. "If you please." Only after Altaïr joins him at the window does he even look up to see who his visitor is. "Ah. Could be better, could be worse."

"Who would be worse? And who better?"

"Connor, worst. I suppose you are not such a bad choice, actually. Father and Shay would sympathize but you might understand."

"And what about a Templar Grand Master's life would I understand?" Altaïr asks, curious.

"I am losing my friends, my subordinates, one by one. And with each one, I think, 'It wasn't Shay. It wasn't Charles. Who will it be next?' Will it be me? Will it be one of my fewer and fewer friends?"

"Rather careless, to lose all your friends to your son's hand. And how would my experiences compare to this?"

"You know the burden of leadership. Have you never sent an Assassin to kill, only to find them killed?"

"Do you send your Templars to kill your son?"

"I have. But... I changed my mind. I doubt it will change their fate, though. Connor is very determined."

"I understand his determination." Altaïr smiles, very slightly. "It is more than easy to kill from a list."

"How did that work out for you?" Haytham asks.

"Badly, naturally. You must consider why the listmaker wants all these people killed."

"Any chance you'll convince my son not to finish his list?"

Altaïr shakes his head. "My every target sowed doubt into my mind, yet I still completed the task. I doubt anyone but you could sway him otherwise."

"I knew I would die, but my friends? What if Shay is on his list? He won't spare me, so why would he spare any other Templars?"

"Is that why you sent Shay far away?" Altaïr asks.

"Him and Charles both, yes."

"You are kind."

"I am no fool, Altaïr. I am hardly a kind man. If I were, my son would not kill me."

"You assume too much responsibility for this event. Perhaps your kindness is irrelevant, or even unknown or unappreciated," Altaïr tells him softly. Haytham scoffs. "No, I mean it," Altair continues. "Perhaps Connor, or his Mentor, do not see you at your best. When you sit outside a door so that Shay and Aveline can love one another, when you care for Desmond, when you keep your father from making a bigger fool of himself, that is kindness."

"Yet I do nothing but fight with my son. Even in telling him who burnt his village, I have done wrong." Haytham waves his hands futilely in the air, frustrated.

Altaïr smiles, a small twitch of the lips. "Ah, but that is not so much Templar and Assassin, as father and son."

"Either way, I will die. He has told me himself--when he has shaved his head and painted his face--then he will have killed me. I hope only that he will leave my last two friends alive."

"Will he?"

Haytham sighs. "Perhaps killing me will shock him into realizing that exacting revenge makes him no happier. But I doubt it; he loathes Charles and I can't find it in myself to blame him. Perhaps I will have saved Shay, at least, by sending him away."

Altaïr nods. "I have seen Shay an old man in Aveline's loving arms."

"Well, there's something to hope for," Haytham sighs, relieved.

Chapter Text

"You can't just go kissing all my visitors, Kidd!" Edward protests. They're sitting together, on their fourth round of drinks, in a corner of the tavern. Well, "corner" is a bit generous for an establishment without walls. But in any case, it's a fine night for captains Kenway and Kidd, full of drink and merriment.

"Whyever not, Edward?" Kidd demands.

"Because...because...if you keep on, I won't let you meet them anymore." Edward nods to himself. This is a good idea.

"Pshhhhh," Kidd waves that off and bursts into laughter. "Face it. You enjoy watching me kiss your face. Even with someone else in it."

"No!" he protests, squirming uncomfortably. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Shay appear at a nearby table, looking longingly at the drinks left behind by the man sleeping on the floor underneath.

"Shay, my friend!" Edward calls. "Over here!"

"Shay, is it?" Kidd asks. "Never kissed a Templar before. Rhona likes 'em, though. Hmm."

"No kissing Shay," Edward insists, shaking a wobbly finger at her.

"Won't kiss him," she tells him, sounding offended. "Jus' wanna...talk."

"All right, why not?" Edward asks, but then Aveline shows up, and Shay suddenly looks a lot brighter. "Aww...Aveline's here. Shay won't do nothing but make sheep's eyes at her all night. And I know sheep." He nods to emphasize the vastness of his ovine knowledge.

"What, isn't that permitted?" Shay asks Edward.

"He's just jealous of the understanding we have," Aveline says with a smile, and kisses Shay tenderly, then smirks. "Look, Shay, it's Edward's friend Kidd."

"Edward was telling me not to kiss her," Shay informs Aveline.

"As sensible a restriction as anything Edward ever says," Aveline tells him with a smile.

"Enough flirting," Edward grumbles, and suddenly he's sitting with Aveline, and Shay is fumbling with his words across from Kidd.

"Uh, ah, Kidd, it's Shay," he manages, before Kidd lunges across the table and kisses him soundly enough to knock the wind from his borrowed lungs.

"What!!" Edward yells, pulling out his hair. "Shay!! You know the rules!"

"I didn't kiss her, Edward, she kissed me!" Shay objects, and Kidd prods his inner thigh with the tip of her hidden blade.

"I give you a great kiss like that, and you call me 'her' and 'she'?" she demands.

"Sorry!" Shay looks around as if for an escape.

Aveline kicks Edward under the table. "I'm going to go save him," she announces.

"Don't kiss Kidd," Edward whines.

Aveline ignores him and drops into his body, sending Shay back to the table with Edward.

"Another one of you fellows, is it?" Kidd asks, noting Edward's posture change.

"Another, yes. Fellow, no." She smirks. "This is something I should have done last time." She grabs Kidd's lapels and pulls her close, kissing her thoroughly.

Edward and Shay stare.

"That's so wrong..." Edward breathes.

"And yet..." Shay trails off.

"Aye, I know what you mean," Edward says hopelessly.

Aveline and Kidd kiss for what seems like forever, and when they finally break apart to breathe, Kidd has to wipe saliva off her face with the back of her hand, grinning widely. "Aveline, isn't it?" she asks with a smile. "Quite a kisser."

Aveline smirks, the corner of her lips tugging up as if she's not using Edward's unscarred mouth to smile. "Shay and I have taught each other much."

"It shows," Kidd tells her. "Kenway had an apoplexy yet?"

Aveline looks over to where Edward has put his head in his hands and is softly sobbing. Shay, looking uncomfortable, is patting him on the back. "He's crying," she reports.

Kidd looks torn for a moment, then frowns. "Put him back, then." When Edward's face looks hopeless and defeated, she tells him firmly, "It's my choice who I kiss! Your visitors are their own people and they can decide if they want to kiss me or not!" She considers. "Except for Shay. Sorry about that, Shay. The point is, Kenway, you don't own me and you don't own my kisses!" She tipsily stands and stalks over to where Adéwalé is sitting, pulls the drink from his hand, and kisses him vigorously.

Adéwalé wraps his arms around her, holding her lanky frame with his brawny hands, and returns the kiss passionately.

Edward gapes.

Aveline laughs and settles herself in Shay's lap. "Kidd's a good kisser," she comments, "but nothing like as handsome as you, my love." And she shows her appreciation of Shay's form for the rest of the visit, while Edward drinks himself into insensibility and Kidd stalks off.

Chapter Text

"The day grows long, Connor," Aveline tells him, wiping her forehead. Somehow, despite the snow all around, she's sweating. She looks up at the leaden sky, now darkening with (more!) impending snow.

"Yes, and a storm is brewing," Connor warns, slowing his horse to fall back beside hers.

"We'll have to resume in the morning. Can you find us a campsite, or should we press on to reach an inn?" she asks.

Connor considers the weather and the trees around them. "We have not made as much progress as I intended. Lexington is still too far."

"Let me know what I can do to help," Aveline offers, dismounting and walking her horse into the woods, following his lead. He selects a campsite and she helps him put up the deerhide tent, then begins clearing snow away from their planned campfire while he gathers wood with his tomahawk. Before long, they have a merry little fire going, and Connor makes a passable stew out of dried hare and vegetables and melted snow.

Aveline yawns, stretching the aches out of her muscles. "I'm going to turn in," she announces.

Connor freezes. He's just realized that the tent is small for two: large enough for his own use, but it'll be quite crowded with Aveline, though she's not particularly tall, even for a woman. All this would have been uncomfortable in any case, he thinks, but yesterday he had visited her and Shay in a...compromising position. Compromising, and loud. And two weeks ago, he saw her with their small children that they'll have sometime--ten years from now? Fifteen? He doesn't know, but he saw the gold ring on her finger and the contented smile on her face, and he knows that she will someday find happiness with Shay.

Shay is a friend, of sorts, despite his Templar allegiance; he is a visitor, in any case, and Connor will not do anything to hurt him. (He still doesn't know if he has it in him to kill a visitor, as he tries not to remember he's been asked to do.)

But by sharing the tent, Connor and Aveline will be tightly pressed together. There has to be some way to avoid this, both to avoid giving unintentional offense and to salve his conscience. "Ah, I will keep watch first, all right?"

Aveline laughs. "Nobody will be out in this!" She shivers dramatically. "I thought it would be warmer with two, actually."

Connor gulps. "You are probably right." This is due to get very uncomfortable. He crawls into the tent and lies down, muscles clenched with the effort of trying not to touch her.

"Connor," she chides him, "relax. I have no lover or husband to think he owns me. You are safe from jealousy. And surely you have been with a woman before, so there is nothing new in that respect, right?"

"Actually, I...I have not," he admits.

Aveline laughs. "Well, that explains so much!" She makes herself comfortable in the blankets and kisses his forehead fondly. "Rest assured, your virtue is safe with me." She giggles again. "At least you are not as big a prude as your father! He appeared once while I was bathing, and you should have seen the color his face turned! I asked him to soap my back and I swear he nearly fainted."

Connor clears his throat uncomfortably, and feels an unusual pang of sympathy for Haytham.

"In any case," Aveline continues, closing her eyes, "it grows late. Sleep well, Connor. I swear sleeping is all I shall do." She drifts off almost immediately, and Connor not long after.

He wakes in the night with the panicky feeling of being restrained. Opening his eyes, he sees a dark shape on his legs, backlit by the deerhide-filtered glow of the campfire embers, and readies his hidden blade until he realizes it's Shay, staring forlornly at Aveline.

"So, you two are...?" Shay asks in a quiet whisper, and Connor doesn't think anything could make the man look more broken-hearted than he does now.

"What? No!" Connor tells him quickly. So this is Shay from before, he thinks. Heartsick, longing Shay. "We were on a mission. It is snowing and we had only one tent." For all her virtues and capabilities, Aveline is not good at packing supplies for a New England winter.

Shay looks immensely relieved. "Connor," he asks at length, "d'you think she'd ever love a...a fellow like me?"

Connor looks at Aveline, her brow creased in dreams. He thinks of the happiness on her face when she looks at Shay in future visits, he thinks of their children, and he tries not to think of the time he saw them in a canoe out in the bayou, and how Aveline nearly capsized the boat, so vigorously was she sitting in Shay's lap. "I think she might, someday," he says gravely.

Shay looks hopeful, then scoffs at himself. "It'll never be," he mumbles. "I'm a Templar, after all."

Connor tells him softly, "Do not give up hope."

Chapter Text

Mornings are spent in lessons, afternoons in swordplay. Haytham beams with pride when Birch praises his quick lunge or firm parry. It's not like when his father used to teach him of course, but sometimes Haytham almost thinks he sees his father out of the corner of his eye.

It's foolishness, of course, a lonely child desperately imagining his dead parent there to comfort him, approve of him, love him. But even after Haytham blinks the blur from his eyes, the phantom of Edward Kenway remains.

Haytham excuses himself and heads for the privy, but Edward grabs his arm on the way. "Haytham, son..."

"You're dead," Haytham accuses him.

Edward sighs. "I can't say I'm surprised. Was that Birch you were training with?"

"Yes, he's educating me now. I'm to be a knight like him." It sounds silly even as he says it, especially when his voice cracks, but he's only talking to himself, isn't he? So it's not like it matters.

Edward's frown is deep and unusually solemn. Haytham can't remember ever seeing this expression on his father's face, come to think of it. "Haytham," he says gently, "I'm so sorry it ended up like this. I would never have wanted this for you."

"It's as well as can be," Haytham says bracingly. "Birch saved my life, that night, so it's a good thing he was there."

"I see," his father replies. "Haytham, do you remember what I told you about a creed I wanted you to follow?"

Haytham nods. "You said you'd tell me when I was ten. And...I'm thirteen now." He is, too, and his body has begun changing in bewildering ways. All the growing--his legs and his arms and his feet, his voice, and hair and other things...

Edward nods. "And how I wish I could have told you. But I guess I won't have. You see, for me, your tenth birthday is tomorrow, and you've already gone to bed. And I think--I think I'm visiting you from the last night I'll be alive." It's Edward whose voice cracks, now.

Visiting. That was a game Haytham used to play, imagining himself in other places and other times, making imaginary friends that he could never have in real life. It seems so long ago, that innocent time. But he can't find the words to say this to his father, so he just nods. And after a moment, Edward continues. "Haytham, do you remember what I told you on your eighth birthday? About innocent people?"

"That...that they should be spared?" Haytham asks tentatively. It was so long ago, the pickpocket, his father's reaction, Birch's sword being drawn.

Edward nods. "That's the most important thing I've ever told you." Edward clasps Haytham's hand in both of his. "No matter what else you do with your life, if you become a knight or whatever; as long as you keep to that, I'll be proud of you, son."

Haytham smiles wanly, unsure how he should respond to the ghost of his father, but Edward disappears before he can decide, leaving Haytham vaguely disquieted and missing his childish fancies more than ever.

Chapter Text

The captain's cabin, though cramped and crowded, is by far the roomiest on the Morrigan. But that's not what Shay finds himself wanting tonight. Aveline hasn't visited, nor has anyone else, and he finds it dreadfully empty and lonely.

Part of the problem, he's sure, is that he's been on land so many nights, sharing rooms in tiny inns. The quiet of his cabin, broken only by the slap and thump of the sea and the distant murmur of the night watch, stands in stark contrast to the crackling of a banked fire and Haytham's soft breathing. And though the sea is in his blood, he finds he misses the land at night.

It's foolish, it is, but Shay creeps out of bed and presses his ear to the warped wood of the passenger cabin door. And there, he can hear it above the sounds of the sea: the gentle snores of his Grand Master. Shay settles himself against the door, and doesn't even notice himself slipping into slumber to the soft rhythm of Haytham's breathing.

Haytham wakes to the creaking of the other bed in the tiny inn room. Part of him wants to sit up immediately and tell Aveline and Shay to cease their lovemaking, but something stops him. How can he be so cruel to them, knowing that this is all they have in this time, their visits? He's visited them as a married couple, and they look much, much older than they do now. Especially Shay.

So he stealthily pulls the blankets up further over his head and respectfully tries not to listen. After all, he shouldn't ruin what little Shay has, no matter the feelings it stirs deep within himself, the heat of jealousy and the sharp ice of loneliness. Sometimes he wonders what it would be like, to be the focus of Aveline's loving gaze, or to have a partner as vigorously accepting as Shay...no, it doesn't bear thinking about. All Haytham deserves is the memory of Ziio, of her passion and her hatred when she threw him out.

But it doesn't stop him wanting what Shay and Aveline have, it doesn't stop him wondering, it doesn't stop him feigning sleep just to let them continue.

Haytham knows instantly where he is, by the thumping of the bed and the soft rustle of Aveline's expensive mattress. And, of course, hearing Aveline and Shay moaning and sighing under the blankets confirms it.

Haytham turns away, towards the door, to give them privacy, to salve his sanity. Because if he didn't, he'd go mad with wanting. Wanting Aveline, wanting Shay, wanting love, wanting sex, he isn't entirely sure, but he knows that in that bed is everything he could ever want, so he turns away.

And then, the door opens, small footfalls leading to a tiny figure impatiently bursting in.

"Maman, Papa," the child--Haytham thinks it's Rory--whines. "Jeanne wanted to sleep in my bed and then she put her cold feet all over me!"

Haytham was wrong. There's something else he could want: family, a child to come to him in the middle of the night with simple, childish problems. He would love to be Shay right now, rolling out from under Aveline and wriggling into a long nightshirt to go and deal with such a homey situation. Haytham thinks of Connor, who would never ask his help in the middle of the night. And he's not sure why, but his thoughts stray to Desmond, to the nightmares he's seen the young man face, to the times he, Haytham, has sat beside him, whispering words of comfort to the young man sleeping so fitfully.

But all of this is just visitors, he reminds himself. Temporary, fleeting. Nothing that he feels is--or can be--permanent. Sure, Shay and Aveline have found each other through visiting, but the only true interaction he will ever have with his visitors waits at the end of Connor's blade.

Chapter Text

Some nights, when he's all alone, when his Assassins are out on missions and his best friends are half a continent away and his visitors are safe in their own times, when his wife and children are lost to him and his mentor is long gone, when he can barely remember his mother's laugh or his own true name, the Assassin known as Connor sits before the fire and dwells on all he has lost and how little he has left to lose. His mother, his father, his people, his village.... Now he sits in the robes of some bygone European Assassin, retailored to fit him. He lives under the name of a dead man's dead son, in a house completely unlike the longhouses he grew up in.

Sometimes the weight of this life stifles him.

He's been working on a wampum belt, something to commemorate the huge bear he'd been hunting for a month or more, but he can't make himself string another bead. Sighing, he puts the bits of shell away and prepares for bed.

Before he blows out the candle, he looks around his bedroom in Eagle Vision. It's habit, something he got used to while traveling, and never stopped doing. His bedroom looks the same as it always does in shades of gray and--wait. Why has he never investigated that gold patch before?

Whatever it is, it's inside the wall, and Connor feels along the baseboard until he can tell where it was damaged and repaired. He pulls back the board, not caring that he'll have to fix the wall again. Searching for this, whatever it is, has entirely banished his bad mood, and he finds himself wondering what the irregular golden blob actually is. When he reaches in, he finds nothing but spiders and crumpled paper, which he withdraws and smooths, frowning.

It's a letter written in a careful hand, then wadded up carelessly. His breath catches as he reads the first line.

To my Assassin brother Radunhagédun,

It's not Achilles' spidery script, he's sure of that, and Achilles never tried to say his name, much less write it. And it is his name, his true name, or a close approximation to what he's tried to write down. No other Assassin has a name remotely like his, not even close. Shocked, he scans the next few lines.

I hope this letter finds you well. I myself am probably gone by the time you will read this. I am an old man now, and you hardly more than a babe.

He blinks in surprise. How is the letter writer addressing him as an Assassin if the letter was written in--he checks the date--1758?

You probably have many questions, none of which shall I answer. Suffice it to say, I know something of your future, about which I will write no more.

Instead, I'd like to tell you about your past, about your mother.

He reads on, tears gathering as he learns more about his mother. Large things, like her involvement with the Assassins, and small, like what she sang to him at bedtime. He reads about her pointed sense of humor, her directness, her forceful manner. He reads about her love for him, about how tenderly she attended to his needs on that long-ago visit to the Homestead that he doesn't remember. Several times he has to wipe his eyes just to be able to see the page.

The letter ends,

I hope this proves a comfort to you. Safety and peace, Brother.

--Adéwalé

He sets down the paper, curls up in a ball, and sobs, great lonely tears that leave him drained but calm. His mother is gone, but she lives on in the words of Adéwalé's letter. No matter how or why it was addressed to him, it's exactly what he needs.

Chapter Text

Rory arrives at his Uncle Connor's homestead shaky and out of breath. His robes are torn in several places and soaked with blood, and he has several shallow cuts to his chest and face.

Connor stares at him. "Did you run into Templars?"

"No," Rory mumbles. "One of those damn wildcats you have around here."

The ghost of a smile drifts across Connor's face. "I see."

Rory scratches the back of his head, then winces. "I got off my horse to get a drink of water and it jumped on my face out of nowhere." He looks down at himself and sighs. "And it ruined my robes."

Connor says quietly, "You would be surprised what Ellen can do with Assassin robes. Come, let me find you something else to wear in the meantime."

That turns out to be harder than either of them expects; Rory finds most of the spare Assassin robes too tight through the shoulders. Finally, in desperation, Connor hands him the last outfit from the bottom of the basement clothes press--a much mended dark coat that would have been fashionable decades before, with white shirt and hood. It looks like the entire left shoulder of the shirt and coat were replaced at some point, and there's a large number of neatly darned rips. But it fits perfectly, and Rory smiles as he stretches out his arms in it. "Where did this one come from?" he asks Connor. "It looks like it has a story to tell. Did you know the owner?"

"No," Connor says after a moment. "But Achilles told me something about him. The same year that I was born, he jumped out a window." He points to a large mend on the chest. "And then he was shot in the back." He gestures to the shoulder. "His body was taken by Templars, but Achilles was able to recover the robes. He had them mended to remind himself of the Assassin who wore them."

Rory smooths down the coat front and his face goes hard. "This was during the Great Purge of the Colonial Assassins, wasn't it? When your father and mine murdered so many of them?"

"Just before then, yes," Connor hedges.

"My father would probably hate me wearing this," Rory says proudly. "Reminding him of some Assassin he probably killed." He straightens out the lapels of the coat with a satisfied smile, and walks up the hidden staircase to the rest of the house.

Connor turns around and sighs. "Everything is always about you, with him. He hates you worse than I ever hated my father."

Shay is smiling the oddest smile Connor has ever seen on his face. "Thank you for telling the truth in that way."

"Is it true, then?" Connor asks quietly. "What Achilles told me?"

"That Assassin did die in the year you were born," Shay tells him. "But he was reborn a Templar."

Connor nods, unsurprised. "I thought as much. I will not tell your son. The coat fits him well."

Shay nods, a catch in his voice. "It does. And it would be a shame if he refused to wear it."

Chapter Text

Haytham is at loose ends now that the Colonial Assassins are almost gone, only their crippled Mentor remaining, bitter and harmless. Sure, the Templars have important work to do, and as Grand Master he sets a great many plans in motion. Still, it doesn't have the immediate rewards of hunting Assassins with Shay at his side. (Not that he would take advantage of the rather...personal offer Shay and Aveline have made him, never, but there is joy of a kind, and pride in a job well done, in killing Assassins together.)

To put it bluntly, Haytham is bored. He hasn't even visited anyone in three weeks, or had a visitor in longer. So when he finds himself elsewhere in mid-stride, his first reaction is excitement. True, he might end up dodging an enraged Altaïr's throwing knives, but it beats boredom.

He looks around--he's not sure he recognizes the tiny room he finds himself in, windowless and dark and full of clothing--and then down, to see Aveline sitting on the floor. And despite the wardrobe options all around, she's naked from the waist down, and her torso is covered only by some sort of supportive undergarment. Haytham quickly averts his eyes, and only then does he hear her.

Hitched breaths, soft sniffles, and quiet whimpering are not the noises Haytham usually associates with Aveline. He's more used to snide comments, seductive suggestions, or moans of ecstasy at Shay's evidently very pleasurable company. What could cause this?

Still carefully looking over her shoulder, Haytham crouches next to her. "What is the matter, Aveline?" he asks gently, awkwardly patting her bare shoulder. Part of him--the part that takes pride in hunting Assassins--objects that he's aiding the enemy, but at the same time, she's a visitor. And she's the beloved of a good and loyal Templar. If Shay were here, he would not hesitate to offer comfort to Aveline in her distress. Haytham must do so instead.

"It's my own foolishness," Aveline says thickly, looking up at him. "I thought I could do anything I wanted, and lost what I wished most to keep." Her lip quivers, and she bites it.

Haytham stares at her (at her face!) unsure of how to respond. "Er...and that is?"

Aveline looks him up and down thoughtfully. "You are young, still, and don't know yet. In my time," she takes a deep breath, "Shay and I are married. I know, it's a shock." She laughs, once. Haytham nods. He is not surprised, of course. "We have a son," she continues, her voice breaking. "And we...we want more."

Haytham nods again. It's perfectly reasonable. He's sure Aveline and Shay are good and loving parents, and most such want more than one child. Haytham personally is terrified that he would die even more quickly if he had another; one murderous offspring is enough for him. "I am sure you, er, try very frequently for another child."

Aveline smiles, her lip trembling. "Yes. But...I am no longer so young and it has taken some time for me to conceive again."

Haytham clears his throat and averts his eyes again. He doesn't want to think of how much Shay and Aveline have been clutching at each other (sweaty, thrusting, moaning) if they've been trying for a child. "But you've succeeded?" he asks, hoping to bypass the mental images.

She practically wails with distress. "I was increasing. But there was this...." She trails off into silent sobs. He stares helplessly at her, then awkwardly reaches his arm across her shoulders. "I killed a man," she says brokenly. "And I ran away across the rooftops. My ankle twisted, and I fell. I--" She swipes angrily at her eyes. "I came here to change, and...." She waves a bloodied piece of fabric at him, and he realizes it's some sort of silky drawers, then looks away.

"I don't understand," he admits.

"I'm losing the child," she whispers, "and I have to go home and tell Shay that it is my fault. That, because I am an Assassin, he must wait another year, maybe more, for a child to bear his name, for Philippe to have a brother or sister--"

"Wait a minute," Haytham interrupts. "Your son isn't a Cormac? Aren't you married?"

Aveline sighs. "The fiction is that Philippe is the son of my first husband, the Assassin Gérald Blanc, whom my father left his coffee company to, as he could not leave it to me." She scowls briefly, wadding up her stained undergarments. "And Gérald was still barely alive when Shay and I made Philippe..." She flushes dark and stares at her bare feet. "It was his idea, you know, Gérald's, that I should take a lover and bear a child under his name to inherit, and I could continue to manage the business on my child's behalf."

"And you happened to know just the man for this plan?" Haytham asks, trying to keep his voice neutral.

Aveline gives him a grimace obviously meant as a smile. "I don't think he expected his wife to eagerly bed a Templar," she admits. "But the plan worked, and after Gérald's death, Shay and I married. And we have been so happy together, but I thought I could be both an Assassin and a mother. But...I can't." She casts her eyes down, then smiles weakly up at Haytham. "You are probably happy to hear of an Assassin's failure."

Haytham notes the dark smears on the floorboards. "I'm not happy to hear that you've lost the child you longed for. But you should go to a doctor or a midwife or something, Aveline. You can be an Assassin and a mother too, you're one of the two strongest women I've ever known, but right now you must get medical help." He grips her shoulder tightly. "And you must go home to Shay. You need him more than ever right now, and he will need you."

Aveline clasps Haytham's hand tightly as a look of deepest remorse settles on her face. "You're right, of course. Shay will have to know I've gone and done something very foolish, and our child has paid the price."

Haytham shakes his head. "Not foolish. Unfortunate, but never foolish."

"I will know better next time," Aveline says, lifting her head to look directly at Haytham. "Thank you."

"I've done little enough," he protests.

"You've listened to me, and that's what I needed." Pain twists her face. "Perhaps you could help me dress? I must see the doctor, as you say."

Haytham blanches. "I...ah..." he stammers.

Aveline laughs. "I am not trying to seduce you. Not at this moment, certainly." She pulls herself up with his assistance (he closes his eyes) and puts on what sounds like several layers of undergarments, then enlists his help lacing herself loosely into her fancy dress. Wincing, she exits her dressing chamber, subtly leaning on Haytham as she limps. He has just enough time to see her to the doctor's door before his visit ends and he's back home.

And suddenly, it doesn't seem such a bad thing to be bored.

Chapter Text

Connor's head droops, the feeble flicker of the Homestead's lone candle making the blur tolerable; ever since he killed--ever since he returned from Fort George, even the dimmest light is a spear of agony; the merest movement sets his world awhirl. He's not felt this dreadful since he woke with a concussion to find his village aflame, his mother trapped beneath burning debris.

September is advanced enough now to bring a malicious bite to bones broken and healed, and of course Connor has many of those, from head to toe, but nobody here now suffers the chill in a shattered shin bone knit together only with bitterness and resentment. This will be the first winter in more than two decades that will spare Achilles the unbearable agony he'd suffered for so long. Connor supposes he'll never know what Templar managed that lucky, and luckily non-fatal, shot so long ago. Surely Achilles had managed to kill the inept marksman in retaliation.

He closes his eyes against the sickening lurch of the room around him and opens them only when he hears a woman's strident voice intoning half-familiar words. Confused, Connor opens his eyes and eventually manages to focus after a fashion. There's a middle-aged woman in a coat and trousers, and Aveline in her Assassin robes, standing docile in front of the woman.

"My daughter, you are one of us now..."

Connor shakes his head dully, trying to piece it together, this white woman, and the shadowed church, the men watching, the flash of light that drills through his brain, the yelling and the fight--

And then it's all so obvious to him, and he sees with tortured clarity that Aveline is about to do something she'll desperately wish to undo. If he runs, he can stop her, perhaps, save her from--

He drops to the floor as one of the Templars tackles him. How can--he's visiting--he struggles to focus on the man's face.

It's Shay, of course, his eyes puffy, cheeks shining in the light. Anger flares in Connor as he struggles, and he manages to blacken Shay's eye, split his lip, and get a good elbow into his ribs as they flail and grapple, unseen by the crowd of Templars Aveline is methodically disposing of.

"Must...stop...her..." Connor mumbles, struggling to reach his best friend before she makes a mistake.

"Her...decision!" Shay argues, slamming Connor into a pillar. Connor staggers, his eyes rolling back briefly into his head as he tries to regain his equilibrium. Shay's uninjured eye widens as he sees Connor's shorn hair. "Shite," he breathes, loosening his grip. "You've just--he's--" He takes a step back, shaking his head, looking momentarily lost. "Shite," he repeats.

Connor hooks a foot behind Shay's knee, sending him tumbling, and tries again to reach Aveline, but Shay fouls up his feet, and they're wrestling again on the bloodied cathedral floor, landing cruel punches on each other. Connor's twenty-five pounds heavier and twenty-five years younger, but Shay knows exactly where to immobilize him. "Traitor," Connor breathes, enraged, as Shay pins him down with his own hood.

Shay laughs, once, his face twisted in the half light. "Aye, that I'll own. Who am I not betraying, right here, right now?" He wipes blood from his nose onto the shoulder of his coat. "Betraying the Templars, aren't I, allowing Aveline to massacre them unchecked. Aveline herself, as I know this haunts her the rest of her life. And you, my friend," and his gaze is almost sympathetic, "not allowing you to feel you've atoned for your mistake." Shay shrugs helplessly. "So be it."

Connor shakes his head, tries to steady himself as the world skews at an unlikely angle. "If you are betraying everyone by it, why do you hold me back?"

Shay shakes his head sadly. "It's Aveline's decision to make, her choice to live with. She doesn't need a Brother or a husband to tell her what not to do."

Connor bristles. "That sounds like an Assassin point of view."

Shay just shrugs. "Could be. Could be she's rubbing off on me." He laughs a little. "Of course, everyone knows that. Not her, though, not now."

Connor glares up at him in horrified discomfort as he catches Shay's double entendre, and the thunk and squelch of Aveline's machete come closer. Then his eyes widen. "She is killing all the Templars."

"I know. She's told me she did as much."

"You do not understand what I am saying." Connor's urgency begins to clip his words and he pushes Shay off him, standing up and reaching out a hand to help Shay up. "She is killing every Templar she sees."

Shay takes the offered hand, frowning. "Aye, so?"

Connor rolls his eyes in exasperation, which for some reason causes Shay to look momentarily stricken, and Connor takes the opportunity to shove him into an alcove that barely fits the both of them. "You are a Templar. Do you think she will be distracted enough by your face and your--" Connor tries to remember what Aveline likes to tell him about Shay, "--your chest and shoulders and the way your trousers fit, to spare your life?"

"Oh!" Shay shrinks into the alcove, and they wait for some time. Eventually, Shay whispers, "Why are you doing this? Saving me? You're not the biggest fan of Templars yourself. Even if they're visitors." His voice shakes just a little, and he mostly manages to quell the spiteful sharpness in his tone.

"I--" Connor can't begin to untangle the remorse and grief in his own chest. "She loves you. And--if she wounds you, she will injure herself as soon as your visit ends. I save you for her sake. Not yours. Not--" He shakes his head, trying to clear it of regret and confusion.

Shay's eyes glint gold momentarily in the darkness. "I see." He opens his mouth several times as if to say something, then simply falls silent.

And they wait.

Chapter Text

It's been snowing hard all day and shows no sign of stopping. Worse, a fallen branch has broken the shutters on the window in Connor's bedroom, and a chimney is blocked and Connor hasn't been able to unblock it in the terrible weather. He'd spent the entire day going back and forth to his neighbors' to check on them anyway. So as night falls, a dreary night after a dim day, Connor takes stock of the Homestead's current state and informs his aunts and his son, as well as Shay and Aveline and their brood, that they're going to have to bunk up together in the three bedrooms that can be used. Surprisingly, there's a minimum of fuss about this, and everyone settles down for the night fairly early.

Ezio happens to visit just as Connor is going from room to room checking on everyone. Rory and Philippe are visible only as two connected lumps under the shared blankets; in the bed across from them, Matthew seems to be pinning Tomas in place more than cuddling him, but they're sleeping peacefully enough. Jenny and Jacob and Jeanne have all squeezed into one bed; Jenny reads aloud by candlelight while Jacob hugs herself for warmth and Jeanne nestles between them.

Connor smiles a rare smile at seeing everyone settled in, and turns his steps to Shay and Aveline's room. Thankfully they're just snuggling in the bed, and Connor climbs into the trundle and curls up, trying to fit on the small mattress.

"Really, Connor," Ezio says with a sigh. "What a waste."

"How so?" Connor asks stiffly.

Ezio points to the bed. "There's more than enough room for one more."

"What?" Shay asks warily.

Ezio lifts the edge of Connor's blanket. "You have left yourself only one blanket! How do you expect to keep warm?"

Connor pulls it back over his legs. "I will certainly be cold if you do that."

Ezio gestures expansively. "And yet, there is a warm bed with plenty of blankets right next to you. Why not share body heat?"

Shay shifts uncomfortably, and Aveline pipes up, "It's not like we've never done that, Connor. Shay and I can keep our hands off of one another for a night."

"It's too strange," Shay mutters, echoing Connor's feelings.

"I will be all right down here," he insists.

Ezio sighs and shakes his head. "Connor, you are very dear to me, but sometimes I do not understand you at all." He pulls the blanket off of Connor's legs and throws it on top of Shay. "There, now you have to join them."

Aveline laughs and tucks the blanket around herself. "Come on, Connor, there's no need to freeze. We're your friends, your visitors. You can trust us." After much cajoling, Connor eventually climbs into the bed, perched awkwardly at the very edge.

Ezio sighs and shakes his head. "You finally took my advice! Now, of course, you could make good use of the bed by--"

"No," Two Assassins and one Templar interrupt him in unison.

"At least you finally saw sense," Ezio allows. "Can you imagine how long it would have taken to persuade Haytham to join them?"

"Decades," Shay mutters into his pillow.

Aveline laughs and laughs, but will not say why.

Chapter Text

Shay tries to get a good view of himself in Liam's tiny tarnished mirror, and frowns. It's impossible to tell if he needs a haircut before he leaves. Maybe he should just get one when he gets to Lisbon? But what if delaying an hour allows the Templars to get the Piece of Eden?

"You should tie it back."

Speaking of Templars, there's only one man that precise, clipped, upper class English accent can belong to, and he really has no business on the Homestead. "Why should I take personal advice from you , Templar?" Shay tries to sound the perfect mix of disinterested and annoyed as he turns around to glare at his visitor. Wonderful--he's gray-haired which means he'll be extra insufferable.

Haytham tilts his head a fraction of a degree and smiles. On someone else, it might have been an expression of fondness and nostalgia. But on the Templar's face, it's probably mockery. "You'll look better like that. Less...scruffy."

Shay scoffs. "No thanks, old man. The ladies like me as I am now."

The smile slips for a second, then returns, sharper. "That won't always be the case. What if I told you the path to the bed of the most amazing woman you'll ever know involved tying back your hair and shaving off that idiotic mustache? And you definitely need better clothing. I'd totally forgotten how unflattering that coat was on you."

Shay frowns suspiciously at Haytham. "Unflattering? I quite like it. Especially the hood , matter of fact."

Haytham rolls his eyes. "You know, I'd hoped that Liam had picked out your clothing for you, with the intention of making himself more attractive by comparison. I see I overestimated your fashion sense at this age."

Shay makes a rude noise and goes back to packing. "Sorry to be such a disappointment , Grand Master," he mutters.

"No, Shay, never a disappointment."

Shay looks up, startled, to find Haytham's lips pressed tightly together, his cheeks faintly flushed, his eyes firmly on Shay's travel trunk. Just Haytham being weird again. Now where was his other wool stocking?

"Oh, no, Shay, not those !"

"What's wrong with 'em?"

"They're...dirty. And they smell ."

Shay crams them into his trunk defiantly. "It'll be cold when I get to Lisbon, I'll need 'em, smelly or not."

Haytham is being extra weird, looking stricken for no reason. "Don't--I--Shay, please reconsider."

Shay slams his trunk shut and locks it firmly. "Not a chance. Important Assassin business to take care of." He sticks his tongue out at Haytham, then hauls his trunk down the stairs just as Achilles enters the manor house with one of his informants, a native woman. The late afternoon sun seems to make her skin glow, and Shay stares a moment.

"How do you know Braddock is dead?" Achilles is asking her .

"I know ," she insists, frowning.

"But are you sure ?" he presses.

" Yes ! I...intercepted a message from Charles Lee."

"Do you still have it?"

The woman glares. "It was a spoken message for the Grand Master."

"How did you happen to overhear a conversation between Lee and Kenway?" The woman huffs and stomps past Shay, up the stairs. Achilles follows her, just audible. "What's going on, Ziio? I haven't heard from you in almost a year, then you show up talking about mysterious messages, and pregnant of all things..."

Shay hears a strange strangled noise, and turns in time to see Haytham's look of guilt, longing, and defeated misery before his visitor disappears.

It's not the first time he's wondered what the point is of visiting, if there's any kind of reason or rhythm to it.

Chapter Text

Aveline had only intended to sit down for a minute to take some of the weight off her aching feet--this fourth baby is her largest yet, and she hopes to give birth within the coming week. Or now, now would be just fine. She's not exactly displeased to go visiting, though. Anything is better than trying to get Philippe and Rory to stop pinching each other every time her back is turned, and lounging on Shay's bed in the cabin of the Morrigan sounds absolutely delightful. Perhaps she can see if vigorous lovemaking while visiting would send her into labor upon her return. Or if it's too early for that, some chaste bed-sharing would be quite welcome. Especially when the bed is devoid of giggling, kicking, squirming toddlers. Oh, it sounds like heaven , and all she has to do is drag Shay away from the papers he's snoring on at his desk.

She glances at the papers, out of habit, and pauses just before her fingertips touch his shoulder. His letter is dated 1759, so lovemaking is out, but tormenting him is still on the table--but she stops short as the name of his correspondent jumps out at her.

How could he? How could he do this, how could he betray her--no. She forces herself to calm down and think through this rationally. He is a Templar, and at this time in his life, Aveline is but an enemy and a friend, merely a visitor. Not his beloved, not his wife. He probably doesn't even know that Madeleine de L'Isle is Aveline's stepmother, only that she's a Templar in Nouvelle Orleans asking for the assistance of Shay's private navy.

Aveline edges the letter out from under Shay's face, and reads the full missive. He wants to know why she needs more money and more ships; apparently this isn't her first request. He reminds her that he himself is fighting two wars at once, and closes with a grudging request that she not waste good men and ships, and be thrifty with the money he'd looted from her countrymen. Curious, Aveline searches for Madeleine's letter, finding it half splattered with wax from Shay's cheap candle.

The words blur as she tries to focus on the oh so familiar script, and the faint scent of the paper, even now, reminds her of piano lessons, midnight slave rescues, leisurely dinners with her father and stepmother. Etiquette practice, fancy gowns, a comforting hug and backrub the first night she'd ever woken up with her stomach roiling to find her legs and linens smeared with blood. A wave of nostalgia, sorrow, remorse--foxglove, she places the scent, and now she can swallow the lump in her throat, she can see clearly through the reek of the poison that felled her father.

Madeleine's letter is masterfully vague, requesting extensive assistance while carefully avoiding complete explanations. Her resources have been depleted by her latest project, she writes, and the British Rite has failed to adequately provision her of late. Aveline reads the entire thing twice and grudgingly acknowledges that Madeleine's done a fantastic job of pitching her request specifically to Shay. She writes of recruitment without mentioning slavery; she reports progress without discussing excavations; she cites goals that she neglects to explain concern Precursor artifacts. She complains that the British Rite has failed to help as promised, but doesn't admit that the expedition was originally bankrolled by Reginald Birch, now skewered on the sword of Shay's own Grand Master.

All in all, Madeleine's handled the whole thing quite deftly, managing to deceive Shay into diverting Templar resources to enslaving people to dig up First Civilization artifacts, an endeavor absolutely antithetical to everything he believes. Aveline considers ripping up Shay's reply, but he'll just rewrite it when he wakes; if he's writing to Madeleine, he's probably already begun to assemble the convoy, and any obvious tampering will only raise suspicion. Indecisive, Aveline grips the letter in trembling hands, then turns it over to read the postscript that's caught her eye.

"I have just discovered that my very own stepdaughter has been taken in by this Assassin foolishness. While I can appreciate that it would appeal to a young freedwoman like her, I had thought you had quashed their nonsense before it could spread here; clearly I overestimated your success. Once I have discovered who has been defiling Nouvelle Orleans with this poison, I will be sure to eliminate it--consider it a favor."

Aveline narrows her eyes--poison, indeed. She grabs Shay's pen without thinking, intent on writing--she's not sure what, so she pauses and lets her anger melt away so she can consider this logically. To her knowledge, Madeleine had never made an attempt on her life or even Agaté's until Aveline had discovered the identity of the Company Man, so something must have changed her mind from this plan. Something convinced her not to aim for elimination but conversion...

Of course! Who better to convince Madeleine to convert an Assassin to the Templar cause than an Assassin turned Templar?

Aveline thinks a moment, then puts pen to paper and scribbles, in a passable imitation of Shay's rough hand, "P.S. Sorry to hear of your family troubles. Ever considered letting the Assassin train your stepdaughter and then getting her to join the Templars? Young folks like to be Assassins but when they grow up they sometimes learn better. I'm sure if you love her as your own you'll be able to sway her in time."

She bites her lip, unsure whether to elaborate more. Too little and Madeleine won't be convinced; too much and she could become suspicious. She finally settles on, "I'm sure one day she'll be as useful to the Order as I've been," which just fits in the remaining space. She waves her hand to help the ink dry, then folds it up as soon as it seems safe, dripping Shay's sealing wax shakily onto the paper and delicately coaxing his Templar ring off his finger to press it decisively into the wax.

"Hmm?" Shay asks sleepily, half lifting his head and frowning at her, confused.

"Just checking," she tells him sweetly, slipping the ring back onto his finger and simultaneously adjusting her posture to distract him with a fine view of her low-cut neckline and burgeoning bosom.

Sure enough, he blushes and turns away, mumbling, "You're enough to drive me mad," in a moment of unguarded honesty.

She chuckles fondly and pats his hand. "I know."

Chapter Text

Shay's first instinct, when the hooded man appears between his pistol and the straw target, is to squeeze the trigger. After all, he's survived more than the usual number of assassination attempts lately. His second instinct, when he notices the man's white beard, is to still his finger before he accidentally murders some innocent stranger. Then he looks at the old man, really looks at him, sees the familiar face under the hood, behind the beard. Just to confirm, he looks at the man's left hand, and--yes--there's that tingle of visitor presence he hadn't noticed in the moment when he'd almost reacted only to the hood.

"Altaïr," he greets with a wary nod. Young Altaïr, understandably, generally tries to kill him. Middle-aged Altaïr is friendlier, though with a tendency towards a knowing smirk that he won't explain. Perhaps there's a very embarrassing event Shay's yet to experience; maybe it's the same one Desmond complains about, the one that apparently involves over-the-top amounts of nudity.

He can hope that elderly Altaïr is even more tolerant of him, but he knows hope is likely to get him killed when dealing with Assassins.

"Shay," Altaïr nods cordially, and hustles his old bones to sit on a decrepit bale of moldy hay judged unfit for even the most desperate horses in the English cavalry. "Don't let me interrupt you."

Shay nods briefly and returns to his target practice. This new set of pistols is finely ornamented and promises a longer range, but the trigger on the one in his left hand has a tendency to stick, and it takes him several shots before he's got the trick of the action. "'Fraid I'm not very interesting to visit today," he apologizes to Altaïr as he fishes the bullets out of the target and sets about making new cartridges with his powder horn and last month's newspaper.

"On the contrary," Altaïr says politely, but there's something tense and charged in his tone. "You're demonstrating exactly what I need to learn."

Shay looks sidelong at the elderly Assassin. "But you don't even have guns." Altaïr gestures to his left forearm; Shay blinks with surprise at the slim metal barrel nestled against the blade. "You...have a gun?"

"Yet, if I miss my first shot, I will surely be killed," Altaïr confesses dispassionately. "I had hoped to visit a skilled marksman--or woman--to practice. And here I am."

Shay huffs, "You flatter me," but hands over his right-hand pistol.

Altaïr is not a good shot--he's unprepared for the recoil, and overcompensates for the bullet's trajectory--but age hasn't dimmed his eyes or dulled his mental acuity, and within a dozen cartridges, he's consistently hitting at least the outer rim of the bullseye. Shay retrieves the spent bullets and sets them aside for later; he's yet to finish the current issue of the newspaper before sacrificing it to his firearms.

"So this fellow you're targeting," Shay begins, "what is he, the new Grand Master or something?"

Altaïr huffs. "He styles himself the Assassin Mentor."

Shay stops in his tracks. "He--what?? You're gunning for an Assassin?!"

Altaïr nods. "It's been known to happen. He...he was my brother in every way imaginable, save blood. Then he killed my wife and son, and my dearest friend. And he flouts the Creed with his every breath."

Shay clears his throat. "I guess I know better than most what you think of Assassins who break the Creed."

Altaïr shakes his head firmly. "You break the third tenet alone, for good reason, as I intend to. But you hold fast to the first, the most important."

"Lisbon is full of the bones of innocents who'd disagree with you there." Shay can't bear the kind understanding in Altaïr's eyes, and turns away, frustrated.

"Your mentor killed them," Altaïr tells him after a minute's thought. "He sent you to retrieve an artifact, knowing what it might do."

"The blade kills too, not just the hand that wields it," Shay interrupts. "Worse, still, because I let him tell me what to do instead of thinking for myself."

"Did you have the knowledge to make a good decision?" Altaïr counters.

"O' course not," Shay snaps. "So I'd no business goin' after it."

"I think following a trusted teacher's guidance is hardly the worst crime we have both committed."

"Aye, well, 'nothing is true' an' all that. Right?"

"And everything is permitted," Altaïr agrees. "Everything. Even..." he gestures to Shay's clothing. "Even leaving the Brotherhood, even becoming a Templar."

"The Brotherhood disagrees," Shay retorts bitterly.

"I don't think much of the Brotherhood in your time. In your shoes, I might have done as you did. Who knows?" Altaïr hoists himself off his hay bale with slight difficulty. "I assume you, too, prepare to kill an Assassin?"

Shay sighs. "Hope...I don't want to kill her, but she's got these plans for poison gas and the like. She means to kill innocents. She leads gangs that torment people."

Altaïr nods. "So I would say she is a worse Assassin than you, my friend."

Shay snorts. "That's going a bit far. But...I do see your point."

Altaïr lays a comforting hand on Shay's arm. "Next time you see me, I may well be less friendly. And for that, I do apologize. In the meantime, good luck on your mission."

"I make my own luck," Shay replies automatically, grasping Altaïr's forearm. "And you're doing the same, I'm sure there's none in your time can out-shoot you now."

Altaïr half-smiles. "You may be right about that. And...I know your allegiance no longer lies with those who style themselves Assassins, but..." He pulls Shay into a tight embrace, and Shay tenses, ready to fend off an attempt to kiss or to kill--but Altaïr merely whispers, "Safety and peace, my brother," before vanishing.