ASSASSIN'S CREED ONE-SHOTS!

#2

DFK - This one's long, but I couldn't bear to split it up and make you guys wait for no reason. So enjoy!

Connor sat in front of the grave of his father as the cold rain fell on his face. He was freezing, but he didn't feel it. He was shaking, but not from the cold.

He was shaking from the knowledge that had come to him, three years after his father's death. He hadn't found it in a book, or convinced someone to tell him.

No, Connor Kenway had been revisiting one specific moment for the umpteenth time, before realising the truth.

Haytham snarled, pinning Connor down with one hand. The other holds Connor's free arm while Connor attempts to get out of the chokehold. He chuckles.

"Even when your kind appears to triumph, still we rise again. And do you know why?"

Connor is slightly occupied with not choking, so he doesn't respond. He's fairly sure that it's a rhetorical question anyway. Haytham continues.

"It's because the order is born of a realisation. We require no creed, no indoctrination by desperate old men-"

Connor can't help but briefly wonder in that moment if that's Assassin tradition. It's certainly how it happened for him.

"-All we need, is the world as it is."

Haytham pauses his speech to place two hands around Connor's throat, increasing the pressure. He continues, shaking his head at his son.

"This is why the Templars will never be destroyed."

It's in that split second, that Connor realises that one of his arms is free due to Haytham choking him with both arms, and he stabs Haytham in the neck.

It's only now, looking back, that Connor is able to see something in his father's eyes, right as he changes to the two-handed chokehold – conveniently forgetting about Connor's hidden blade.

Desperation. Terror. Worry.

And then, when Connor stabs him, relief.

As if the Templar didn't want Connor to die. At the very least, by his own hand. And if Connor thinks for a moment, he believes he can see the conflict in his father's eyes.

Save his son.

Serve the Templars.

Son.

Templars.

Family.

Belief.

Connor looks back on all the limited moments he had with his father that they weren't trying to kill each other.

He can now see a small glimpse of that eternal war raging inside Haytham that Connor was too ignorant to spot earlier. In certain moments, Haytham's eyes would flick to his feet. Or he'd cough. Or he'd adjust his hat slightly.

His father was never shy. He was never sick.

And he never needed to adjust his hat.

Connor had once been certain Haytham cared more about the damn hat than him.

But of course, that wasn't true. He knew that now.

A tear rolled down Connor's cheek, before he wiped it away. His hand brushed over Haytham's headstone, clearing it of the thin layer of moss.

Connor had never really understood Haytham.

Now, he knew that he never would.

The man was too full of complexity, conflicting ideals and morals.

But he at least knew something.

Haytham's eternal torment had been passed down to him.

For even as Connor stood up, the fire of his father was faint in his eyes, but visible.

Connor Kenway left the grave of Haytham Kenway, unaware of the two ghosts watching him from the trees.

One of the ghosts was in an outfit like Connor's, with a lot more guns. He had blue eyes and long blonde hair. He had several scars on his face. The only sign of him being a ghost was the fact that his skin was paler than it should've been.

There was another ghost, several metres behind the first one, almost like he feared being spotted. He had a sword in a scabbard and slate grey eyes. He wore a European outfit, and a rather distinctive tri-corn hat. He had the same nose and strong jaw that the other ghost had.

And then, from out of the shadows, another ghost emerged.

Unlike the other two, this one was a female. She was wearing clothes that looked like native American garbs. Her dark brown eyes locked onto the European ghost from her perch in the trees.

The European ghost squeaked. In fear, or excitement, it was hard to tell. He adjusted his hat, despite it already sitting comfortably on his head.

The scarred ghost leaned against a tree, watching with apparent amusement at the other's performance.

The European ghost, aware that he was being mocked, threw dirt in the scarred one's face. The scarred one shook his head like a dog to get rid of the clumps of dirt that clung to his face, obscuring his vision.

He sighed when he saw the European ghost kissing the native American ghost. But there was a smile on the scarred ghost's face.