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Chapter Text

Valley Forge - Late winter 1777 (The week of the 8th of January 1778 in the book)

The sheer mind-numbing cold of the bleak winter is starting to bite into the exposed skin under my deer-skin fingerless gloves – causing them to stiffen and turn blue with the abuse from the weather and holding toughened horse reigns at the same time.

I look up from my musings to see the spiked mound of land that is Valley Forge – its shadow caste over the thick white snow, contrasting with the also white sky, further filled with snow. I urge my mare into a swifter gait, my stolen cavalry sword batting lightly at her flank as her hooves pick up into a stronger rhythm as I head towards Washington’s battlements. The last time I had seen him was in New York, during his attempted assassination by none other than Thomas Hickey. I do not know how to greet him after that… event. I hope he does not believe any forecoming danger to be from me, but rather the Templars, and his trust in me strengthened once again.

The shadow of the camp has come upon me as I ride into its outskirts, looking for a suitable place to tie Wathahi:ne, my mare, for when I finish speaking with the commander. Her painted skin sticks out from the muted colours of the camp’s own horses, covered in dirt and sludge from mistreatment. I could not think of leaving Wathahi:ne in such a state, when she is also a living being deserving of basic care – particularly when she carries me away from hostile redcoats, with cartilage skimming past us.

I dismount, weaving her reigns around a post securely just as the savage wind cuts through the valley. She whinnies softly, stomping her feathered hoof as she does.

I’m sorry Wathahi:ne, I will return soon. Do not fret too much.

I gather my own robes around me all the tighter, trudging up the steep track leading to Washington. (This at this point was a stream of thick mud and snow, to my displeasure. My softer animal skin boots are no match to Colonist’s sturdier footwear in such times) as I reach the middle of the encampment, I catch sight of the tell-tale signs of Washington’s presence. As I approach the commander, I see the blue of his cloak warping in the wind, the snowflakes swirling at his feet, and his men stood apart from him, either from respect or displeasure from their current living conditions.

I slow my pace, taking in the scene of the down-trodden forest and valley before the commander before coming to a stop beside him. 

Chapter Text

“Commander” He glances to me, taking stock of my presence here.

“Connor”

I forged ahead, asking what had been plaguing my thoughts for some time.

“Any word on Lee?”

He looks to me and then down, shifting his stance.

“Not yet.”

The commander pauses, breathing deeply and becomes increasingly restless on his feet.

“My apologies… I have been distracted. Supply caravans meant for the encampment have gone missing…” I see him look out to the wilderness beyond us before pressing on. “… I suspect treachery.” He finally moves from his stiff position, turning as he does. I move to follow him only to stop in front of him after a few paces, listening to this new information.

“A traitor named Benjamin Church, recently released from prison, has vanished as well.” He ends on a sigh, wearied by the turn of events. He turns around to face me, concluding – “the two events are surely related.” Another pause. The cold air around us just seems to become… colder. I lift my head up a fraction, indicating my interest, catching his attention once more. I speak in a level tone, not to betray my intentions just yet.

“What was his crime?”

Washington walks to the right, expressing his information with the wave of his hand – “He was caught sending letters to the loyalists, detailing our troop strength.” He steps closer, eventually stopping in front of me, jerking his head to the side. “He claims it was a scare tactic – a means to avoid war. A poor lie.”

I make a decision. I will not tell the commander of the looming threat of assassination above his head, as Achilles advised, (I suppose the Old Man will be reminding me of this for years to come) yet I will act to eliminate Church. That leaves Lee and… my father, Haytham Kenway. I doubt my fath- Haytham will act alone to be rid of Washington, which leaves still leaves Lee as a prominent threat. However, given more recent developments in the Patriot’s war effort, I do not think any action will be taken against the Commander. I step in closer to Washington, tensing at the smaller distance between us. I look at him from just under the seam of my hood. “I will find Church for you.”

He does not question my phrasing. My stance. He looks me in the eyes and knows what I intend, from whatever he sees there. His face tightens.

“Why? What reasons have you to help?”

The interest or I suppose the suspicion shows. I have no desire for him to know my true purpose here.

“Does it matter?” I say flatly, in an attempt to dissuade his course of questioning. It works. He nods his understanding to my response - “As you wish.”

He turns (yet again, what is it with this man and turning around every time he starts a new line of conversation?) and begins to step away.

I try not to let my sigh of new found relief show.

“We have received reports of various trouble along the road south of here, might be he’s responsible.” He turns to give me a look, “I suggest you begin your search there.”

I nod my thanks before passing him by. This lead should provide me with Church himself or one of his Templar men or at the very least, lead me to more information concerning his activities.

I trudge back down the sodden slope in which I climbed up before, making my way to Wathahi:ne, patiently waiting at the post, shivering as the snow begins to lay on her back and shoulders. I murmur an apology as I approach her, brushing the snow from her mane as I unwrap the reigns from the hitching post.

Shifting to I was stood by her side, I placed my now muddied moccasin into her stirrup before pulling myself up into the leather saddle, which of course was also covered in snow. Too late now.

Yet another thing to clean and dry when I am done here.

I pull lightly on her left reign, nudging her on her flank as I do so to turn her on the spot before encouraging her into a swift trot out of the camp and onto the South road.

Chapter Text

I can see the top of the abandoned church through the snow storm as I approach, and from here the area looks deserted. Which means the cargo and Church have already moved?  

However there is no harm in being extra careful, I should leave Wathahi:ne here, out of sight.

I dismount and wrap her reigns around the branch of a nearby tree and trudge up to the church from the Northwest side, away from the road. As I close in, I reach up and pull my hood as far as it can go over my face, the wind starting to bite a little too hard for comfort at my cheeks.

I really cannot wait until this is over with.

I came to a halt, half stumbling and collapsing into a tree from the sheer unmoveable mass that was the snow, piled up at the tree line.

The snowfall now is lighter than before. Soft pattering sounds fill the air as the snowflakes finally land from their long journey through the sky. Looking up, I find the need to shield my eyes from the winter glow of the sun, reaching through the clouds, and creating great dapple patterns upon the pristine snow.

Other than the everlasting snow, a deafening silence fills the air, echoing through the valley in all its sublimity.

A faded sound broke the veil of stillness – fracturing my single moment’s peace.

 A harsh animal’s cry.

I still feel icy tendrils from the idea of danger sink in my stomach, rebelling against Achilles’ training.

“…”

 – There it is again…  Another horse.

 Could be regulars or civilian, as I am not far from the town back in Concord. It is more than likely the former.

Luckily, it sounds washed away by the wind, meaning that any threat isn’t that close. Good. I nod my own affirmative, taking a step forward through the stubborn snow, then another, eventually making my way to the door of the church.

I quickly glance around, taking in the state of the abandoned church. The floor is mostly clear, if not for a few smashed crates and ripped planks, with the wooden walls peeling from disrepair. I step further inside, coming to a stop in the middle.

It is now apparent that the crates were moved not long ago, a matter of minutes even. Cursing under my breath, I make to turn around, only to still at a very distinct shuffling sound from above.

That is most certainly not caused by an animal.

Within a matter of seconds I snap around to face the threat, expecting it to have come from the door, only to find myself flat on my back and expertly pinned to the floor.

With whatever breath I had forcibly knocked from my lungs in a shout, I glare up into the smug face of my attacker.

My father.

I can’t keep my face from scrunching up in a grimace as the bow digs into my spine. This is not how I wanted our meeting to play out.

“…father”

His smug face twitches into what I assume to be his version of a smirk.

“Connor”

I attempt to lean forward on the hand on my sternum, finding that his hold on me is too strong to push against. His head tilts to the side, studying my every movement.

His smirk widens fractionally.

“Any last words?”

His own hidden blade closes in slightly as he hones in on my neck, leaving me speechless for a number of reasons, nearly all of which flitter across my mind to quickly to register. My breath tremors, ice skitters through my veins.

I do the only thing I can, I panic.

“-wait!”

The smirk vanishes. He shakes his head and regards me with what could almost be disappointment. Despite the current situation, this somehow still hurts.

“A poor choice”

What happened next was a blur. I knock the blade away from my throat from the inside of Haytham’s arm before hitting him in the stomach to regain some distance. He regains his balance quickly, coming at me again within the second. I manage to get my legs up to block his advance, using my entire weight to push back off the floor and drive him away entirely.  

I pull myself up quickly, wincing at the sharp ache developing in my back before rounding in on his right side, returning his glare with equal measure.

“Come to check up on Church? Making sure he’d stolen enough for your British brothers?!”

I can’t keep the ire from entering my voice at the end of my words.

He replies in a deep English timbre, sounding unfairly as irked as I do.

“Benjamin Church is no brother of mine –“he gives me a once over, scrutinising my posture and my advances towards him. The obvious hostility in regards to the Crown. “- no more than the Redcoats or their idiot King.”

He turns away, exasperated; “I expected naiveté, but this…” he rounds upon me, like a parent admonishing a child.

Well, technically.

“The Templars do not fight for the crown, we seek the same as you boy!  freedom, justice, independence.”

I curl my lip at his obvious deceit. Does he think me that stupid? That his attempts at buying my people’s land were to keep them safe? I do not think so. That his counterfeit money and the tea to fund such an idea were morally just? Allowing Biddle to tear up the seas and Pitcairn the land? No.

My glare intensifies.

“…But – “

“Hmm? But what?   

We finally halt from circling one another, coming to a stop in the middle of the church.

“Johnson, Pitcairn, Hickey! They sought to steal land, to sack towns, to murder Washington!” I throw their names out, almost like they are the accusation themselves. Wanting him to see that with each member of my Father’s precious order, came a different line of corruption.

He gestured his arm out, sighing. “Johnson sought to own the land, so we might keep it safe” –

Amongst my increased time in certain parts of the colonies, I have heard many different idioms over the last few years.

So I can safely say that what he is claiming is ‘horseshit’.

“- Pitcairn aimed to encourage diplomacy, which YOU cocked up thoroughly enough to start a goddamned war!” his raised voice hits me like an arrow to a deer.

It was never my intention nor was it by my own doing that the fuse for this war was ignited, but by the people who wanted freedom and liberty. I simply aided the right side as much as I was (and still am) able.

He resumes pacing, pressuring me to walk around in a circle, now going in the other direction. He continues speaking; brashly almost as if he was describing something mundane.  

“George Washington is a flimsy and piss-poor leader. The man is overtaken with uncertainty that is evident in every battle in which he’s taken part, and as a result, lost.”

His voice levels out in a softer baritone, “only look at Valley Forge to know my words are true. We’re all… better off without him”

And I have. I know what he speaks of, and I recognise that his words do ring true. But there is also hope found there. People from throughout the Colonies, perhaps even from the furthest reaches of Europe have come together to fight this war. To fight for their rights as civilians in a new, separate colony from the British Empire. Men like Adams, Chapeau and Washington see this, where others like my father, and the Templars by extension, don’t. At least, not from the same perspective.

“…” His annoyed exhale pulls my attention from the past and back into the situation at hand. He gives me what I would call a ‘pointed’ look.

“As much as I would love to spar with you, Benjamin Church’s mouth is as big as his ego.” He paces left, holding his arms out, as if that eases the tension forming in my shoulders in preparation to wherever he’s going with this. He tilts his head up, our eyes meeting directly. Seeing both the questions and trepidation in mine, he continues, albeit cautiously. “You clearly want the supplies he’s stolen. I want him punished. Our interests are aligned…” He gestures between us.

I try my best to be subtle. I really do. But there’s no hiding the scowl that inches its way across my features at the suggestion of a partnership.

“Then what do you propose?”

…A sharp inhalation. “A truce.” He shifts, clearly uncomfortable with the subject at hand, or rather, the implication of furthering our estranged blood relation. He clasps and unclasps his hands. “Perhaps… perhaps some time together might do us some good. You are after all my son, and might still be saved from your ignorance.”

Cocky bastard.

However, the idea of a truce weighs heavily on my mind.

For the last 8 years, I have been trained and prepared to take down my own father. My only living parent. But in recent times, I have felt that determination fade along with my dedication to the Creed. I loathe admitting, but I have noticed areas where the Templars gain the moral high ground, so to speak. If I accept this truce, then have I softened? Become weaker in my resolve?

He takes my silence as a que to unsheathe his hidden blade. “I can kill you now, if you prefer”

My complete lack of verbal response probably isn’t helping things. I let a small smile tug at the very corners of my mouth, indicating my acceptance to the proposal.

What am I doing? This is my enemy that I swore an oath to eliminate. But… he is also family.

 The non-verbal answer satisfies him. He sheathes the blade he so brashly held out moments before. He adopted a lighter tone and straightens from a hostile position, making for the door. “Excellent. Shall we be off?”

Um, no?

Haytham ignores my silent protest, walking to the door.

 I pray to whatever deity is listening to save me from this stuck up, pompous, arrogant –

“Connor? We don’t have all day now”

-British dick of a father.

I turn slowly and walk to stop beside him. Now that we aren’t at each other’s throats, I begin to study the man who is supposed to have had an important role in my life.

He’s taller, only by a fraction, probably due to differences in shoe types. He has the barest hints of stubble covering his jawline, kept in check by a sharpened knife. His hair, from what I remember seeing at the Boston Massacre in 1770, has gotten whiter. I feel a cold warmth, much like the sun during winter, settle in my heart.  

He doesn’t seem to have much time left.

I shake myself mentally from such thoughts, as this is not the time or place for sentimentality.

“Do you even know where Church has gone?” He looks to me. Without disdain this time.

“I’m afraid not. It seems we were both too late, they’ve completely cleared the place out.”

We look out to the frontier, beyond the church grounds in unison with the bitter wind slicing at our cheeks, the snow partially covering various broken crates at our feet. I can still see the signs of recent movement and tampering’s.

“I may be able to track him.”

Chapter Text

We have only been walking what must be mere minutes, and I already want to bury my father – alive – in the snow. Questioning my abilities, whereas anyone with eyes could see the trail I have lead us on is obviously the right one – with the tracks and footprints becoming more and more recent with every step.

He pads silently a few paces behind me, becoming silent when he accepts that I am promptly ignoring him. The near arctic wind that was searing through our clothing, numbing us to our very bones, has died down now that we are in the cover of the forest. The trees are becoming increasingly dense, ladened with thick snow as we continue onward up a slope.

Snow…

Wathahi:ne.

How could have I forgotten?

More importantly, how to I tell my father that we need to retrace our steps to fetch the horse I forgot about?

“Connor, hold a moment”

I halt, twisting my head first to determine a threat out of instinct, only to find my father standing at the bottom of the slope, having called up to me.

He looks out of place amongst the trees of the frontier.The smug look on his face also is most definitely out of place. He must have been waiting until I realised that he wasn’t beside me, too consumed by my own thoughts to notice his sudden lack of presence.

I can’t stop the sigh that escapes me.

“What is it?”

He glances at me condescendingly from under the brim of his tricorn hat before shifting slightly on his feet.

“Come down here will you? I am not talking to you from this distance. Besides, we do not know who else is in the area.”

As if on que, the steady beat of an English drum echoes softly through the trees, his point becoming clear since I am not particularly well liked by the redcoats. I make my way back down the slope, coming to a stop just off of his right, keeping both the track and him in full sight.

He looks to me, almost hesitantly, before speaking to me in a more hushed tone.

“It… it seems we would be traveling further than I previously expected. If you would not mind too much, although I’m not giving you much of a choice, I would need to acquire my horse if we are to walk any further out.”

It seems I am not the only one who forgot then.  That would explain the foreign horse whinny I must have heard earlier.

“It is of no bother to me. I also have a mare not far from here. We will meet here once this is done with”

I leave no room for complaint, brusquely walking past him and off the path into deep-seated snow, finding the quickest path back to my mare. Now that I am out of my father’s sight and earshot, I slump against a nearby pine, closing my eyes and feeling beyond exhausted. I inhale, letting the quiet, cushioned sounds of the falling snowflakes land on the ground fill my ears and the pine wood’s scent infuse into my lungs with every slow inhalation.

I did not expect to meet my father today.

Haytham. It’s Haytham and nothing else. Since when did I start referring to him as father? It’s almost as if I’ve de-aged by about 6 years and am having an early ‘mid-life crisis’ as Stephane might say.

I slowly open my eyes again after a few moments of peace, pushing myself off of the damp tree trunk to trudge in the direction of where Wathahi:ne is tied. It takes longer than I had hoped, forcefully pushing my legs through the snow, severely dampening my leggings in the process. I finally come through the treeline, into the clearing where the church is sat. I am surprised that I have not seen absolutely anything of Haytham, how far away did he leave his mount?

I cross the track to the left, down through the adjacent treeline across from the church itself. To my relief, my mare is unscathed from both predators and the elements. I walk to her front, pulling her reigns free from around the branch and then come up to her flank, but not before giving her an apologetic shoulder rub.

“…you should know that I feel guilty for leaving you, Wathahi:ne. That was not my intention.” I murmur softly into her ears. Her fur coat is not fully fluffed out quite yet, and it was irresponsible of me to leave her standing out in the harsh wind for so long.

I mount her quickly, already wanting to be done with this business, and begin to trot in a steady pace back to our rendezvous point.

I squeeze her flank, urging her to break into a slow canter, trees starting to blur together. We break through the clearing onto the main track, just shy of where I left Haytham. I pull gently back on the reigns, slowing her to a stop gradually just at the bottom of the hill.

No sign of my father.

I look around, only now realising the evening birds are in full song, accompanied by the deep reds, pinks and oranges saturating the sky. Soft shadows cast by the setting sun take up most of the ground – with the snowfall earlier only now just dying down, allowing the feeble light scatter through.

It’s getting late – and still no sign of my fath-Haytham. It’s Haytham.

“…” “…” “…” “…”

I still in the saddle, alerted. The soft clomping sound becomes harder, more solidified.

“ …” “…”

I turn Wathahi:ne around to face the opposite direction to the hill, and to the direction of the church. Could someone have followed me?

It’s then, I realise, as an irritatingly familiar tricorn hat seems to float through the trees, the sound I heard was Haytham’s own horse. He rides what appears to be a male draught horse cross, a stallion no less, that lunges more than it walks. Carving his own way through the snow, the deep dark bay coat stands out against the white ground, contrasting Wathahi:ne’s lighter one.

Haytham continues to ride and halt next to me, glancing briefly at Wathahi:ne before looking forward at the road ahead. I follow his unreadable gaze. I see him turn fully towards me out the corner of my left eye.

He tips his head, revealing one enigmatic eye.

“Shall we?”

I nod my affirmative, not looking at him once, before once again urging Wathahi:ne into a walk with his larger mount falling into step beside mine. I try not to think of the future, beyond this simple mission and by extension, Church.

But,

I can’t help but feel like this the beginning of a new chapter; it’s ending known but changing. With us walking side by side and a truce aligned, would I still kill him? This all feels so… metaphorical? I need time to…

“… Connor!”  

Pulled out of my reverie, I am greeted with the stern look of my father.

I think I will just give up on calling him Haytham in my thoughts.

Once he (successfully this time) catches my eye, he nods towards the silhouette of a man and a cart, it’s broken wheels continuing the half concealed trail I found earlier. It seems he didn’t make it very far, perhaps due to the hurry he left in. Not that it matters now, as my father is already pulling forward to make for the cart. I urge Wathahi:ne into a swift walk, catching up to him, soon passing him as he stops his mount entirely.

Apparently I’m doing the talking then.

“… just my luck… goin’ to freeze to death if I’ don’t get this fixed…”

The lackey stiffens and turns at my approach, looking up in uncertainty.

This is why I don’t do the talking. What do I say? I cannot just ask him of who he’s affiliated with.

“Are you Ben Church’s man?”

Idiot.

The man immediately starts sprinting in the opposite direction, confirming that yes; he is Ben Church’s man.

I don’t even need to look around at my father to know he’s half judging, half laughing at me. Of course, he’s careful to not let it show. My jaw clenches, and I tilt my face towards my father to acknowledge him.

He smirks at me, knowing all too well of my current state of embarrassment –

“Well played”

I smartly resist the urge not to just knock him off his high horse. Literally.

Chapter Text

I slip my feet out of the stirrups and swing my body astride Wathahi:ne’s, dismounting within seconds. I reach up and pull her reigns roughly, dragging them swiftly over her ears and head before promptly handing them to my Father to hold.

I round his stallion, tensing up, getting ready to sprint. I look over my shoulder to my father, looking rightly miffed holding my mare’s reigns;

- Since all you have to do it sit tight while I run through thick snow -

“Come after me! - ”

I break into a sprint – as much as I can with this snow - diving into the treeline after the cart driver, rogue snowflakes and wind cutting through my face. I see him up ahead, stumbling wildly through the trees, making for the road leading to Lexington. Ducking under a branch, I scramble up the side of a steep, rocky hill to the left, taking a shortcut to intercept him.

Bursting out from the shrubs and in his momentary shock, I slam into his side - and pin his stuggling body to the nearby tree.

“It was not wise to run.” I look at him pointedly, but his attention is focused on something behind me.

 It seems father has arrived.

I hear him walk up, noticeably on foot – where are the horses? – Before stopping a few meters behind me.

Gripping the cart driver's shoulders tighter, I pull him forward slightly – before ramming him back into the rough, ice bitten bark of the tree, gaining his full attention.

“Where is Benjamin Church?”

 The lackey’s eyes dart furiously from me and to my father behind me.

“I don’t know!...” he splutters, desperate to get his words out – “We were ridin’ for a camp North of ere’, that’s where we normally unload the cargo! Eh – m-maybe you’ll find him ther-!”

I drop my hands immediately - shielding my head and ducking low and letting the cart driver drop to the floor as blood sprays forth, showering everything with fine droplets within the immediate vicinity.  The gunshot echoes throughout the valley, as well as through my own skull.

“Enough of that”

Father!!

“You did not have to kill him!”

…I can’t believe this

I swivel around, to find him just… stood there, as if he was considering tea. I almost go to swing at him, barely controlling myself - at his… unabashed and most unnecessary show of violence!

He shifts his gaze from what’s left of the cart driver to me, not seeming to care or at least be the very bit concerned –

“Enough of this pointless banter. Go catch up with the rest of Church’s men…”

Wait a moment –

“… Infiltrate that camp of theirs and see -”

“why me? Where are you in all of this?” He reaffirms his position and straightens before placing his hands behind his back, like he was about to admonish a 4 year old. “Enough of this pointless banter...” He looks at me condescendingly, as if I were in the wrong and he about to lecture me – “…And never you mind about me, just do as I ask.” He finishes in what I can only call an exasperated tone. He turns and starts to walk away towards the man on the floor, presumably letting me do all the work while he’s just going to admire the mess he made on said floor and the trees. I look down to myself – and me.

Like that’s going to happen.

I stalk up behind him, gaze burning into his back until he realises I haven’t gone anywhere. I should think my less than pleased presence should be evidence enough to suggest a different course of action.

A few moments pass.

“…”

He sighs and drops his head slightly in his crouched position, and then tilts his head to look at my most unimpressed face.

“I suppose, by your still standing here, you mean to drag me with you?”

Drag you?!

I tried. I did. But I swear I could not stop an eyebrow rising. Luckily for him, half my face is hidden by my hood. “You wanted this truce. I did not agree to this just to be ordered around by you like one of your lackeys - ”  “… Now, they’re hardly lackeys as you so put it – ” He starts to argue,  I ignore him – “if this is to work? I am not doing everything myself.”

He sighs again, more resigned this time. He stands up, facing me after closing the distance between him and the… scene, and me.

“And what, pray tell, do you want me to do?”

What can he do?

I nod in the direction of the camp – “You can stay in the side lines, out of sight, while I investigate the camp. That way, I know where you are – ”

He gives me another one of those looks at that.

“- and within a close distance should I need your help.”

He smirks. “You mean if you get caught, and need your nearest and dearest to bail you out?”

There’s still time for him to mount his horse and me to promptly knock him off

My face contorts in a glare.

“Just get the horses. We can ride there and dismount, leaving them closer should we require a quick escape.”

“We best be on our way then.”

That’s it? He’s not going to push?

He looks back at me from where he started walking to, somehow seeing straight through my hood and noticing my confused expression.

“Connor, I wasn’t aware your legs suddenly stopped working”

Never mind.

I slowly trudge behind him, picking up speed as I get my footing in the snow. The snowflakes themselves have almost stopped falling entirely; once again letting the sun’s glow through to the ground, only, it is noticeably colder than before. It’s getting late, at least, in terms of physical daylight. 

I hunch in slightly in myself, at this very moment, just wanting to be curled up in a blanket somewhere warm and not having to ultimately deal with the fate of this growing nation.

I see our horses ahead, half hidden behind some larger trees. My father must’ve dismounted shortly after I practically dumped a load of reign in his hands.  

“Here we are”

We sidle around, dropping down a small slope before getting half submerged in deep snow, just the other side of the tree trunk that both horses are tied to.

I look to my father, sharing another pointed look (at least it’s not directed at me this time) before wading out of the snow and to our respective mounts.

Reaching up, I give Wathahi:ne a quick head rub before placing my foot in the stirrup and pulling myself up. I see my father doing much the same out of the corner of my eye, if not more stiffly. I tug slightly on the reign, drawing her around to the right and passing father’s stallion from behind, coming up and passing on his right to get to the road. I know that he’s followed me from the duel sound of horse hooves passing from snow to dirt.

We don’t talk as we head slowly up the track, being mindful of our potential proximity to the camp not far ahead. The shadows of the trees now cover much of the ground, the sun’s height drawing them out and stretching them into long slithers. I look left, to the West, to see the soft orange light slowly disappearing behind the horizon.

I look back down to Wathahi:ne’s mane, taking a moment think.

…The cart driver from earlier. He worked for Benjamin Church, but, does that not also mean he worked for Haytham by extension?

I glance to my right, subtly, moving only my eyes to see what my father is doing, only to find him staring right back at me. He raises a single brow, and I hasten to look forward again.

“…Connor. If you’ve something to say, then please, just spit it out”

My gaze becomes unfocused. I tilt my head in his direction, acknowledging his silent question.

“Why did you kill the driver of the cart from before? I understand that you don’t want any loose ends but… it seemed a little… excessive?”

If I were on my own, dealing with the driver, I wouldn’t have had much thought of what I would’ve done either. Let him run free? Signalling to possible others close by that I was here after Church? Or tied him to a tree to let either soldiers or wolves find him?

I suppose in some, twisted logic, that killing him would’ve been the easiest thing to do. He is, after all, a part of a scheme to steal off of the people who wanted this nation free from British influence, as well as aiding a Templar plot to undermine Washington’s resources. But, as my father said before, ‘the Templars do not aid the crown’, as well as Benjamin Church’s recent departure from the Order.

“Stop here Connor, let us keep the horses a fair distance away from trouble.”

I reign in Wathahi:ne, gently nudging her behind a thicket of bushes and trees to keep out of sight. I hear father doing much the same somewhere behind me.

Dismounting, I once again wrap my mare’s reigns around a branch, not tying them in a knot in case I need a quick getaway. Once finished, I give her a thorough rub and a pat on her shoulder.

“You’re quite fond of that mare, aren’t you?”

I peek over to where my father is standing, also having finished with securing his stallion to a nearby tree.

“I suppose. She was just a foal when I first started taking care of her”

We both look over Wathahi:ne.

“A foal? She’s what, 8 years old now? How did you come by her, if you don’t mind my asking?”

I hesitated.

Achilles had her stationed in the stables, after she was orphaned from her mother in the frontier. He was going to sell her off before I came to him.

I was just 13. Achilles had suggested that she were to be my responsibility on top of the training I would receive, to help build my ability to be able to balance the life of an animal, who at the time, needed constant care, and other… obligations.

Would sharing this information be dangerous? To let Haytham know just how long (technically) the Colonial Brotherhood has been active?

“I… Achilles had her when I first came to him. She was originally going to be sold”

He eyes me. He checks his reigns are tight before heading slowly over to me.

“She was a foal…?”

Damn. He picked up on my hesitation.

He glances back to Wathahi:ne, and then back to me.

“Just how old were you if she’s 8 years old now?” He squints – “Connor…”

“13.”

He stops. He seems… confused? “you were that young when you came to Achilles? That must make you… wait, you’re 22 now??”

Saying I am now feeling uncomfortable is putting it mildly. I clear my throat, looking away.

“21.”

“Christ. Connor, you’ve no idea how old that makes me feel, you know that?”

Breathing in deeply he turns away, walking back up the slope – or should I say waddling up with all the snow – to the North, further towards the camp. I follow his hollowed path in the snow, ultimately making it easier for me. Leaning around him slightly, I can see another road ahead. Recently used.

“Father”

He turns his head, seeing me nod towards the track obscured behind a row of pines. He quickly swivels back around to scan the area for any threats from where we are stood in the underbrush. “That will be the road leading to the camp. Seeing as its recently used, I should expect – ”

I zone out from him momentarily, hearing a noise from down the road somewhere. Concentrating, I realise it’s becoming louder, the soft clattering becoming sharper and more clear.

It’s a convoy meant for the camp. Must be. Why else would a convoy be all the way out here and travelling away from any nearby town?

I grab the back of my father’s cloak, cutting him off and pulling him down to crouch in the snow, out of sight from the road.

He turns to glare at me – “Were you even listening to a word I said?”

I give him a withering look from beneath my hood, and point to the convoy where it has now come into view.

“Ah, well spotted” lowering his voice into a barely audible pitch. “… I believe it’s time for us to split. You follow the convoy into the camp, I don’t care much how you do it but don’t get seen – ”

     Obviously.

“ – and I will find cover close by. This shouldn’t be too strenuous.” I look back at the convoy as it trundles closer to our position, trying to find and exploit a weak spot.

“Connor”

“What?”

“I will see you on the other side. And… to answer your previous question, the cart driver told us all we needed to know. He served his purpose, and even if I chose not to eliminate him, he would’ve perished regardless.” And with that, he stands and makes for the general direction of the camp, heading to where a small outcrop is in the distance. I focus back on the convoy, pushing what he said to the back of my mind, with no luck with finding any way of hiding within.

However, who says I have to hide in the convoy?

I look up, pleased to find strong, twisted branches directly above the track, following the road until it is out of sight. I feel a shallow smirk pull at the corner of my mouth.

This will do just fine.

Chapter Text

It was not fine.

Every jump between trees feels like I am jumping from the pot into the fire, and then into a much bigger fire. For multiple reasons.

I glance down from my wooden perch, silently tracking the stuttering cart ambling through the thick snow, the mist from the ponies’ breaths clouding behind almost violently as they strain against their harness. I need to move now, before the hunting perches and trees grow fewer.The ground here isn’t an option, the snow is too thick and the winter foliage too thin. "...They shoulda done that a long time ago. All this fightin'? serves no purpose - The Crown's sure to win in the end..." Balancing myself onto my back leg, I push from the perch and reach for the next ice hardened branch, using the momentum to swing forwards and land on a lower felled tree to the left of the cart. Hoarfrost clings to my hands in a desperate bid to drain whatever warmth I have remaining as I descend down a second tree trunk. As I slink into the nearest haystack, and retaliate the winter’s attack on my hands by clutching them at my neck, a vague something pokes at my mind. 

Where has Fath- Haytham gotten to?   

Crouching down almost catlike, I cautiously make my way over its deep tracks to a position directly behind the cart, only half listening to the mundane talk of the driver with the wind scraping through my ears. Pressing closer I look past the cart, seeing tattered buildings rise up out of the brewing blizzard, other carts and crates slowly being buried and long lost in the mounting snow. Beyond those, guards. 

About four - maybe 5?

Reaching up, I grip the edge of the cart and hoist myself into another haystack to hide until I have a clear approach deeper into the camp. Haytham can surely take care of himself. Seeing as I’ve just stuffed myself into the back of this cart I am sure I am in more immediate danger. A lone guard stands to the front, and from peering behind I can see no others bringing up the rear of the convoy.

Another now approaches the cart from the right.

“Manifest?”

A stack of hay and an Assassin.

“…Alright, looks to be in order. Go and see the foreman. There’s another run planned for tonight.” The front guard of the cart slowly trudges up on the left, creeping closer to my not so hidden position. "...I will go bring the wagon up and meet up with you later."

I twist as much as the hay allows to the left, ready for the guard to start poking the innocent hay with his musket. 

"If there's anyone her- arg-"

After abruptly adding him to the manifest of the cart, I twist back fully to the right and roll out of the cart directly into some bushes semi-trampled by the cart. it crosses my mind fleetingly that what I’ve just done – what I’ve always done - is no different from what Father did earlier - the only real difference being whose faction the driver belonged to. Does it really matter anymore in war? A soft sigh escapes me without notice. 
This is not the time to be thinking of these things.

 "Oi - where’s the foreman?"

Looping round the front, I use the bustling movement from the ponies to mask my own, settling in the forward set of bushes. "Centre of the camp - near the tree. Can’t miss him."

"Thank ye kindly"

Through second sight, my vision is clogged with dense red spots and smears wherever I look. The camp is well-guarded, more than I – we - first thought. Haytham might be further in than he realises. The bushes are forgivingly placed, making sneaking through the first half of the camp and taking down a few Templar lackeys as easy as it comes. Still looking through the glaze of second sight, the red has thinned out enough to settle next to a burnt down hut – closer to the still talking lackeys. 

"You won’t be thanking me when you hear what he's got planned..."

Finally. This new mercenary should lead me straight to whomever's in possession of information about Benjamin Church.
"About time you showed up! Listen here. Boss -“

Church?

”- wants us to try something new tonight. A raid! No more convoys. We're to steal from the yank camp itself." Two of the 3 lackeys now split off from the original cart guard. Ducking into the burnt husk of the building, I dispose of the mercenary loitering inside before dashing back out into the wind and bushes. 

Winter is not a good time to be diving head first into bushes.

"Valley forge?" 

"That’s right"

Parting the leaves, the end of the camp is now in sight - where is the ring leader?

"You sure about this?"

"It’s not my business to be sure or not sure. I just do as church asks –“ 
How long as church been going against Haytham's back? This operation is clearly not last minute. 
"-If you’re so concerned - take it up with him!" 

"Is he 'ere?"

The superior mercenary chokes back a laugh, starting towards what seems to be the most restored building in the camp. "'Course not. Hidin’ in New York last I heard, tryin’ to keep a low profile - what on account on him not wantin’ to go back to jail and all."  Both lackeys disappear out of my line of sight behind a tall stack of crates. I must move if I am to hear their next words clearly. The bushes behind the campfire should do well enough if they stay turned away…

"Alright. I'm in."

Checking behind me for any onlookers - I make fast for the bushes - only to skid to a halt to duck behind the crates themselves at the very last second. Unfortunately, the guard sat beside the campfire was the least of my worries. I now no longer have to wonder where my father had gotten to. 

"Look what we found!" 

Guards in dirty grey and beige coats pull Haytham roughly by the upper arm; the one furthest away holding his arms secure behind him. They shove him to his knees - the position clearly painful for my- Haytham as his eyes squint in pain - swirling around trying to 'ascertain' my location.' 

"He was creeping around the camp all suspicious-like." So much for hoping he stayed put. "Must be a yank spy!"

 
The mercenary that was talking earlier now steps forward - I was tracking the ring leader all along it seems - raising his right arm almost in thought, before letting it fall limp towards the ground and crouch down casually as if he were inspecting a simple plant. 

Or a weed in this case.

He looks F-Haytham in the eyes as if he were better - "No. He's something else. Something special. Ain’t that right Haytham?"

Still ‘sitting’ captive - Haytham holds the mercenary's gaze steady with an annoyed glare of his own, the guards still holding him awkwardly - keeping him in place on the frozen floor. Must be a shame if his poor old man knees got stiff.

"Church told me all about you..." 

He knew that Haytham would come after him? Church may have already departed New York it seems.  

"Then you should know better than this." You are currently being held to the ground with your main weapons taken. I glance around quickly with second sight again; ensuring my position is still unseen. It is. 

"You’re not really in a position to be makin' threats - are ya?"

--Smack--

My head whips back around at the sound of flesh hitting flesh - bright red drips down Haytham's chin and neck – over a hand where a guard now holds his face up. This new position allows M-Haytham to squint upwards to my position behind the crates. Our eyes meet. I nod once. His eyes flick to the talking mercenary that threw the punch square in the eyes. 

"Not yet"

Grumbling under his breath - the talker - "Hold him up here" and gestures to the outside of the wooden hut. Hefting Haytham up, all three drag him harshly (not complaining) and pin him by the shoulders to the hut. I can see Haytham trying to catch my gaze again - but I duck behind and press my back as far back as possible to the crates. The muffled sound of flesh being hit resumes. 

Several things happened at once. 

Yelling can be heard echoing across the camp. Someone pounding an alarm bell and a thunder of footsteps can be heard approaching rapidly. The guard at the campfire starts choking on his soup in shock and spills it into the fizzling fire in a soft hiss. 
Dashing out - I catch the choking guard by surprise again - twisting around and slitting his throat with my hidden blade from behind while running past - the noise halts Haytham's beating within seconds of the murder. They relax their grip on Haytham and he regains the advantage, reaching forward to draw talker's sword, impaling the right mercenary as I take down the other two in a single leap - driving the hidden blades through their spinal cords. 

"There they are - GET THEM!" 

I barely manage to reach out in time for Captain Kidd's treasure to deflect a musket shot intended for Haytham - who was taking his sweet time collecting his gear from where the mercenaries had stashed it during talker's talking and seemingly leaving me - as usual - to deal with the growing problem. In fact, that same problem has now grown by about 12 lackeys. 

- Father! - 

Darting backwards, pivoting and grasping my father's arm, dragging him down to the river then continuing past to drag him behind the hut - sprinting North towards up to Valley Forge. Haytham, between shuddering breaths, "Connor - my arm please." 
Releasing his arm – shouting back - "follow me!” and then quitter, almost to myself; “I know where to go…" We vault in a blur over a fallen trunk, the now deeper snow away from the encampment now proving an obstacle but not just for us - the dismayed cries of the lackeys' are increasingly muffled. A frozen stream serves as a path for a second, before we make a sharp right turn onto muddied track - and then a sharp left up an embankment onto a hidden path sheltered by pines. 

Both breathing heavy - we press onward down the much freer track - aware of mercenaries still following behind us by a matter of yards - balls of musket fire screaming past us and splintering off the bark of the trees and shrubs alike, my ring deflecting the more lucky shots away from us both. "Father, here."

We almost slide onto the new track, pulling another sharp right that would loop us around the back of the encampment and blazing towards Lexington instead of Valley Forge. The blizzard - while a blessing earlier is now a double edged sword. In waves it becomes heavier by the second, severely slowing us down. We reach a decline in the road that slowly readies itself for the bridge up ahead, unused and now thick with snow as solid as vines. We are barely running - only pulling ourselves forwards, scrambling and sliding. 

This can’t go on much longer.

My own dense mists of air begin to obscure my own vision, and turning back I see my father isn't doing much better. He uses my momentary attention to catch up and, gesturing briskly, and barks sharply into my ear - "Connor! To the right over there, the house!”. I see it, barely, and glance behind my father to see the two remaining lackeys getting stuck, the long muskets catching the surface of the now freezing snow. We now are practically crawling up the slope; reaching the house and sticking close to its walls. Finally, we are able to hide ourselves from sight. The lackeys' are shouting over the blizzard, while we stay silent as we frantically catch our breaths, the shouting turns into muttering. 
"Ah fuck it; we ain’t paid enough for this Richie. Foreman’s’ dead, and Church is already on the move. I’m thinking we'll call it a night, and ..." 

Their voices eventually are swallowed by the howling wind. 

That was more eventful than it needed to be.

I turn to my fath- Haytham, finding him already looking at me. "New York." I say after an intake of frigid air. 

A refined eyebrow lifts.

"What about it?"

Shifting off the wall and clutching my once again frozen hands to my chest - "That’s where Church has gone.”

"Then that’s where we need to be." Haytham declares, looking off to the blurry and wavering lamps of Lexington. He sighs and shifts his feet minutely before regarding me again. 

"Horses?"

A small tug plays at the very edge of my mouth before nodding - "Horses."