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Chapter Text

March 5th 1770, Boston.

Ratonhnhaketon was caught.

He thought they would at least drag him to his father, their Grand Master, but no, they just pointed the muskets at him and were about to fire.

“Wait!” He shouted, protesting.

“What say you?” The leader of Redcoats sneered at him.

“My father! Haytham Kenway is my father!” The words just slipped out. It seemed the fear of death had got the best of him, but he couldn’t help. “Take me to him!”

He had stopped shaking when he arrived at the fort, escorted by a group of guards, but he began to feel another sense of anxiety, or said panic, rose form the bottom of his heart.

His heart beat thundering, he couldn’t hear the guard knocking, but he heard that firm “Enter” somehow.

Father. He thought. Then the door opened, and he saw him.

“What’s your name, boy?” Haytham inquired, steely eyes searching over the young Mohawk’s face.

“Ratonhnhaketon.” He hesitated for a second, this is Father, he thought, then decided to give his real name. With the word let out, his panic faded.

Seeing Haytham tried twice to pronounce that Mohawk word and failed, he added: “You can call me Connor, if you like.”

“Your mother gives you this name too?” The older man asked, his clod blues softened when he mentioned Mother.

“No, Achilles - my mentor gives me.” He could bite his tongue, he regretted offering his other name immediately.

“Achilles Davenport?” Haytham narrowed his eyes, although his voice remained low and soft, the aura around him froze, and so did Ratonhnhaketon’s heart. “You are an Assassin?”

“… Yes.” He swallowed.

“Why?” Haytham simply asked, leaning back in his chair, face unreadable.

“A spirit told me to… And my mother knew Achilles, he used to help her.”

“How is she, your mother?”

“Dead. Murdered by your men!” He tried to contain his resentment, but not fully successful.

“What… do you mean?” There was a mix of shock and sorrow leaking from Haytham’s mask, seemed real, his voice too. What does that mean?

“They came - your men came, and burnt my village, along with Mother inside!” He spat, couldn’t and unwilling to control his anger and hatred anymore, “Lee, Johnson, Hickey, Pitcairn, Church, all five of them! Your men!” Each name he uttered drained more colour from the older man’s face, with his final growl, Haytham even shuddered a little.

Finally, after a long pause, Haytham called a guard in. “Bring Charles Lee to me now, and sent words to Johnson, Hickey, Pitcairn and Church, let them meet me as soon as possible.” The older man just ordered.

In their waiting, Haytham asked: “Did they hurt you?” He looked at Ratonhnhaketon’s jaw, there was a bruise on it.

However, the young Mohawk’s mind was still with those five men of his father, “Lee choked me, and hit me.” He turned away his head, didn’t want to meet his father in the eyes.

“… And?”

“Then I passed out, the others just watched.”

“What about the Redcoats, today? Did they hurt you?”

He turned back, looked at his father, eyes surprised, his hand run up, wanting to reach his side, before he thought best of it and put down his hand - but too late, Haytham already caught his movement. “Come here and take off your shirt.”

“What?” He made a noise.

“Come here, and take, off, your, shirt.” His father repeated nicely.

So he complied, this is his father, right? Maybe he just wants to check out if there were another man of his had hurt him.

There were some scrapes on the edge of his ribs, oozing some blood, no bruises or bumps, it would heal over the night. Haytham used a clean wet handkerchief for his sallow wounds, and rubbed some ointment over his side and his jaw too, the fingers were calloused and strong, made the younger one shivered for once, he thought that would remind him of the hard brutal touch of Charles Lee - but no, it just reminded him Mother, gentle but not as soft, a Father’s touch, he thought.

Ratonhnhketon looked at his father’s head from above, he had took off that hat, put it on his desk, his hair was almost grey, neatly pulled back into a low ponytail, a red ribbon banded it. He was much older than the portrait hang in Achilles’ basement.

But he was tall and imposing, even just sat in his chair, and he had broad shoulders. One day I will look like this. The young one thought it absently.

He sat in a spare chair Haytham offered, once he put his shirt back on.

He looked at his father, still trying to absorb the experience of this eventful day. Apparently Haytham was too. They both sat in silence for a while, observed each other from a near distance, and before Haytham opened his mouth preparing to say something, a knock on the door broke the silence.

“Come in.” His father sat square and said.

“Haytham, what happened?” A man walked in, asking, it was Charles Lee. “Why call me back at this late?”

Ratonhnhketon tensed, eyes scowling.

“I’ve been told that you had burnt down a native’s village years ago, along with William Johnson, Thomas Hickey, John Pitcairn and Benjamin Church.” His father said with a calm voice, rose form his seat.

“What? When?” Lee frowned.

“November 1760! You burnt my mother alive!” He could not resisted any more, so he shotted up, shouting.

“You…?! Who is the boy? Haytham? Why is he here?”

“Answer my question first, and I shall answer yours.” His father’s voice even became lower and softer, but there was undoubted danger in that soft tone.

“No, I have not done such thing. You can ask the others.” The man declared. “As for the fire, it was George Washington’s men’s doing.”

“Liar!” He shouted.

“Then why were you there that day? Explain.” Haytham asked with patience, ignoring his son’s another loud outburst.

“I was… William said he had troubles with the natives, so I thought we could offer some help…” The man muttered.

“By bullying their child?” Haytham narrowed his eyes, lifted his jaw.

“How do you… ? Who is he, Haytham?”

“Now, let me answer your question - he is my son.”

“What…? How can you be so sure…?”

“Look at his face, Charles!” His father exploded, “Can’t you recognize that face?!”

The young Mohawk lifted his jaw, mirroring his father, said nothing but glared at Lee with his flaring brown eyes. He knew how much he looked like his father by now, when Achilles pointed his father for him, he recognized him immediately - not by his symbolic uniform but by his face, it’s like looking into a mirror, or his future self - they looked more alike in person than facing a portrait.

“I… The natives were stubborn! We were going to warn them!” Lee flustered, “It really was Washington’s men! I swear! I can show you the record! He has burnt a lot of natives’ villages!”

“And all five of you? Show me the logic!”

“There was a Precursor’s Site you said, I thought we should…”

“Even after I have told you, all of you, to stop pursuing it? I have said the Order’s real work should be more…”

“And you went to North Atlantic with that Cormac!”

“I was to prevent the Assassins destroying another city which could endanger all the humanity!” Haytham sighed heavily, closed his eyes then reopened them, “Why you didn’t report it? The village and the fire.”

“Because we failed, they refused to leave. Washington’s men came after we left, we didn’t know that at the beginning, William told me weeks later, and I did not think it’s a good idea to tell you your… was dead.” Lee sighed too, “And I didn’t know the boy is yours.”

“And you know now.”

“Yes, I know now… I’m sorry.”

“Say that to my son.”

“I’m sor…”Before Lee could finish his apology, Ratonhnhketon had punched the other man’s face on the nose, now it’s broken and bleeding.

Haytham saw that coming all along but made no efforts to stop it or warned his subordinate, he just looked at Lee with his cold eyes and said: “I believe you deserve this, don’t you agree? You even had choke him with your own hands.”

“You could choke me if you want.” Lee muffled, tried to stand his ground and covered his nose with one of his hands, the Templar ring shined on his finger.

“That’s enough for today. I shall keep score and settle the rest with you someday in the future.” The younger one just said that.

“If you insist.”

“Now leave, Charles. And find yourself a physician for your nose.” Haytham dismissed that man.

Once they were alone again, Haytham helped cleaning his hand, it had Lee’s blood on it. Ratonhnhaketon could do it himself, but his father wouldn’t let go his hand, so he just let him. It was odd to let other man hold his hand, but the man was his father, and he kind of liked this intimate moment, they were bonding, he had a father who really cared for him now, he thought. 

Then the older one led the younger one to a chamber inside his office, it had a bed.

“Now rest, child.”

“I am not a child. I am an adult.” Ratonhnhaketon said.

“How old are you?” Haytham raised an eyebrow.

“Almost fourteen.”

“And when will you become fourteen?”

“Next month.” Ratonhnhaketon frowned.

“Which day?”

“The 4th.”

“April 4th.” The older one murmured, looked down at him. He was taller than him, for now, the young one thought. “And you are thirteen now.”

“For a Kanienkehaka, thirteen means adult.” He glared.

“Fine. But you are still very young. Now rest, Son.” His father rephrased his choice of word, “We shall leave here next morning.”

“To where?” Ratonhnhaketon raised an eyebrow. No, he would not admit that he was mirroring his father’s behavior.

“My residence. It’s far, so rest.” Before Haytham turned and left, he added: “You are safe here, it’s my chamber.” Then he closed the door, left the younger one alone in the room to ponder.

Chapter Text

They took a carriage to Haytham’s estate in Virginia next day.

On their way there, Haytham showed him the document and letters proved that it was Washington indeed who should be responsible for the fire and his mother’s death.

Ratonhnhaketon wanted to jump out off the carriage, but Haytham stopped him. “You can’t just rush out, and run to Washington’s camp by your legs trying to assassinate him, Son.” Haytham held him by the arms, “He shall pay, he will pay, I promise you, and I can teach you how to avoid being caught by the Redcoats again if you stay.”

“I have a mentor, show me the logic why I need you?” The words just rushed out, soon he regretted saying it, for he saw how his words had pained his father. Sorry, he said in his heart, but his pride wouldn’t let him surrender, so he maintained his lifting jaw and glaring eyes.

“Because I have beaten him when we were in prime.” His father just said, “And I thought you should learn from the best, which is me. And, your mentor left you in the middle of Boston, alone, surrounded by the mobs and enemies, mind you.”

The younger one said nothing, he just turned his head away, stared through the window, pretending to look the view.

They both kept quiet after that.

Once they finally reached their destination, Haytham led his son in. It was a big estate, and beautiful too, Ratonhnhaketon had to admit.

Inside the villa, his father looked down at him: “Mr. White is the butler here, he shall answer all of you requirements, he will lead you to your room later. You may go anywhere you want here, but please do not try to open any file box carved with a Templar cross, nor enter the armory without my accompany. You can try to leave and back to your Assassin’s nest, but I don’t suggest you to, for I know exact where to find you if you do so.” He just told him, before he went up changing, “The tailor will come before dinner, White will give you some my old suits for interim. Now if you excuse me.” Then he nodded at his son and disappeared.

He looked at the butler Mr. White, who bowed to him slightly and said: “Young Master.”

“Uh, my name is Ratonhnhaketon. …you can call me Connor, or anything you like.” He felt a little nervous, the butler looked even more old fashioned than his father, like a fossil if he could say that.

“Yes, Young Master.” The butler Mr. White just said, he didn’t bow this time, so it’s a progress, for Ratonhnhaketon at least.

Mr. White led him a tour around the estate, their last stop was his bedroom.

It was a nice room, a big bed dominated it, the bedding was silk and soft and most furnitures looked new, the colours were harmonious and not ostentatious, he liked it immediately, suited his taste.

At the foot of the bed, there were several sets of clothes laid out, his father's old clothes, three suits that seemed like formal attire for him, two more casual sets, and a set of nightclothes. He didn’t change though, his clothes were still clean.

So he went to his father’s study, and found the man himself in it already.

“If you’re hungry, go to the kitchen.” His father glanced at him for a second, gazed his clothes, before he turned his attention back to his letter. “The lunch we ate in the carriage seems not enough for your age.”

“I am not… well, only a little.” He admitted, he did hungry, and dinner seemed a bit long for him to wait.

So Haytham called out a maid, Frances, to bring them something to eat.

“You said you will teach me.” He bit his scone, while Haytham sipped his tea. “What will you like to teach?”

“What do you want to learn?” His father tilted his head a little.

“I don’t know, fighting maybe?”

“Sure. And what about your general knowledge courses?”

Rathonhnhaketon stifled a groan, this was going to happen when you had a mentor and a father at the same time, they would both care more about your general knowledge than the fighting lessons.

So he told his father about his training by Achilles, fighting and learning. The older man checked some subjects he mentioned, but seemed not very pleased. Rathonhnhaketon tried not to feel hurt, he only got educated months.

“I shall teach you personally start form this evening, Davenport might have tried his best, but it is far from barely qualified.” Before his son could protest, he added: “I can also expound the history and Creeds of the Assassins, my own father was an Assassin, he had taught me how to think in their way, and I have spent years to study it.”

“What…?” The young one frowned, however Haytham did not grant him the opportunity to finish his question.

“And the Templars’, of course, seeing you have misjudge us in a deep degree. Davenport must be hating me.” He just said that.

“Why is Achilles hating you?” Haytham had successfully distracted his attention.

“I was the one shot him in the leg.”

“Why?”

“To make sure he will not try to destroy another city, again.” Haytham knew his son wanted to asked more, but he decided not to give his time to ask. “Now, find yourself a book, if you wish to remain here in my study, Son, I still have work to do.”

“Fine.” He agreed, albeit with some reluctance.

“There was a pile I have picked specially for you, you may start with them.” The older man offered.

The young Mohawk said nothing, but he went to the pile of books his father had chosen for him, and started to read in silence.

However, this time the quiet didn’t last long, he began to ask another dozens of questions about the book he read, it was a literature, and he was still working on his English, especially in reading. Haytham answered with patience, despite his son’s continuous disturbing his work, explaining with examples, even enlarging the ideas in them.

Haytham had much more patience than Achilles ever was, that cranky old man would ignore him in his good mood and threw him out of the room at his second inquire if he had a bad mood, and Haytham was more knowledgeable too. Ratonhnhaketon began to look forward to the evening training his father promised.

The arrival of the tailor saved Haytham from further interruptions by his inquisitive son, so he could focus on his work in peace.

The dinner was great, they dined at the dining room, though the young Ratonhnhaketon wondered why there were only two of them dined here, so he asked.

“Why Mr. White, Frances and the others do not eat with us?”

“Because I pay them to eat at the kitchen.” His father said, “Please, do not judge me that, and they have gotten used to it.”

So he said nothing of it.

“I pay them well, and treat them nicely, you may ask them to check if I speak the truth.” Haytham added.

“Sure.” He didn’t really mind this.

At their evening lesson, Haytham gave back his axe taken away by the Redcoats when they captured him.

“Please do not wear it inside the residence, you may scare the maids. You can take this instead, if you like, hidden it under your cloth.” His father gave him a knife, an eagle drew on the handle. “However I can’t give you the hidden blades the Assassins bear, we don’t have them.” The older one explained.

“But you have one.” He had saw it on his father’s inner arm, and the symbol of the Assassin out side his sleeve.

“Yes, I trade it with my horse, and his free to go.” His father even smiled a little. Ratonhnhaketon wondered the story behind it.

“You said your father was an Assassin, what happened to him? And to you too?” He asked the question he wanted to ask since the conversation at the study.

“He died, and I was taken by a Templar, that man became my tutor.” Before he could ask more, Haytham sighed, and said that: “It’s a very long story, I will tell you in the future, but not now.”

“Fine.” He agreed, sometimes his curiosity was indeed endless, and Haytham was already patient enough. “Now what?”

“Now, let me see how good you are.” The older man smiled with ease and leisure.

He chose to not use his axe at the first, just his bare hands, he didn’t want to hurt his father, who had showed him much amity. However he had underestimated the older man, much underestimated per se. Even with bare hands, Haytham took down him quite effortlessly.

“You can use your weapon. In return, I shall use my hidden blade, only to defense.” The older man just said, his breath was even.

So he used his axe, and Haytham kept his word to only use his hidden blade to defense. However that didn’t improve much.

This was humiliating, he thought, panted over an hour and a half later. Haytham had reviewed at the beginning, but he reduced it, even stopped it when he found his neutral comments would hurt his son’s self-esteem.

“It’s fine, you are young, and just start training no more than a year.” The older man comforted him. “I was trained since I was six, the year when I could hold a sword.”

“Will I ever beat you?” He asked, unconfident.

“Why do you want to beat me?” His father raised an eyebrow at him, tone playful.

“I mean - will I ever as good as you?” He pouted, rephrasing it.

“You will, Son, you will.” Haytham said, softened his eyes, his gentle voice even made it sound like a promise.

So the younger one curved the line of his lips, and nodded, he shall look forward to that day.

He took a bath once he back to his room, and changed to the nightwear his father provided. It was a bit large for him, but he thought one day it would fit him like a glove, he could feel that.

Haytham said this room used to be a spare room, and the most furnitures were indeed new, Mr. White arranged them form this morning, so it was a little empty, and he promised there would be more to arrive at the following days.

But Ratonhnhaketon did not consider the room empty, he felt the room was full of his father’s care and value for him.

He run his fingers through the edges of the books his father had picked for him, now they were settled on the new shelf neatly.

If there were a heaven like the white people said, he must be in it.

Chapter Text

The following days flew by.

Haytham rearranged his training schedule, now he practiced fighting skills in the morning with his father - he was making progress, and then he read during the rest of the day in Haytham’s study, Haytham would answer all his questions, he tried to keep quiet because Haytham did have work to do, as for the night, it was his favorite part, Haytham told him the history of Assassins and Templars, and what they truly sought, sometimes he even got some stories from his father’s past.

According to his father, both Assassins and Templars were seeking the same thing: global peace and harmony of the entire humanity. Only their ways were different, the Assassins believed in freedom and liberation, while the Templars working on order and control. Haytham said the freedom would be a fragile illusion without the order to maintain it, ground it, then became anarchy, and soon the people would become dangerous mobs and threatening the peace of community, and if the order lost its purpose which was to bring peace and freedom to everyone and control too much, it would cause damage and self destruction, because the people would hope to be liberated and rose a revolution themselves.

“So you are seeking a balance?” He asked. They were sitting in their library - well, Haytham’s, to be specific - and the warmth from the fireplace was cozy and drowsy.

“Yes, but sometimes I feel that I can not achieve this alone.” His father sighed.

“I can help you.” He volunteered. He really wanted to help his father, besides their goals were a aligned.

“Then how would you like to offer your help?” Haytham tilted his head slightly, eyed him curiously.

“I am an Assassin, I can work with you, and one day I will lead all the Assassins in the Colonies, then the Assassins and the Templars can work together, seeking the same agenda together.”

“I appreciate your noble ideal and generous offer.” His father smiled a little but also sighed, “However the reality is cruel, and you may not like it.”

“What do you mean?” He asked, confused and really curious.

“Sometimes we have to do the things we do not wish to, do what must be done and make the hard calls.” The older one lowed his eyelids, concealing his thoughts and feelings. His father tended to hidden his emotions, he had found out that during this days they lived together.

“Maybe there is another way, you just haven’t found it.” He said, trying to help.

“Maybe, but in most instances, the time is pressing, and we do not have the luxury to devise a perfect plan and satisfy everyone, we have to choose. And that’s what I have mentioned early, the hard calls.”

“Perhaps you just need some help, like a new perspective. So you can revalue your calls before you make them, to minimize, even to eliminate the damage.” This was really pained his brain, but he did want to help.

“Like yours?” His father deepened his smile, this time with less bitterness but more interest and genuine.

“Yes, like mine.” He mirrored the smile, but widened.

“Then, I shall be very looking forward to the day you lead the Assassins.”

They sat in peace for a while, both smiling, before his father chose to reduce it, asking another question.

“May I ask why you choose to side with Assassins? Do you know I’m a Templar before you join them?” Haytham’s confusion seemed genuine, it must have troubled him in days.

So he told his father his spirit journey and the words the spirit told him. He only knew his father was the Grand Master of the Templars after Achilles accepted him, but he didn’t tell the older man the conversation with Achilles about how he had to kill his own father. It’s silly, really, he saw no reason now, his father was a reasonable man, who had a noble purpose and pursuing, and was trying to do some real good things. He could work with him, there was no need killing him. The only one needed to die was his mother’s killer, Washington. He could even let Charles Lee live.

Suddenly, an idea occurred to him, “Does my Assassin’s status trouble you?” He asked, he did just realize that.

“A little. I was shocked at the beginning, knowing that I have a son who happens to be an Assassin, but I think I can make peace with it.” The older man just said.

“Why?” This seemed had became his favorite question.

“Why I make peace with it? Hm, because you are merely a harmless Assassin puppy to me, at least for now.”

“I won’t hurt you, unless you make me.” He just said that, and then, “What do you feel when you see me?” He asked with a sense of unease, looking forward to the answer yet dreading the possibility of disappointment from his father at the same time.

“Like looking into a mirror, or say… into the past.” His father weighed his words with deliberation, lowered eyelids veiling a tumult of emotions that were hard to decipher. “I couldn’t believe at the first, but your face proved that you are my son, me and Ziio’s son. …and the look on it too. You remind me of her, and myself.”

He pressed his lips together, then asked a question that he had kept to himself since he was a child: “Why don’t you come back to her? To us?”

Haytham just sighed, closed his eyes, then reopened them, watching his son with his sad grey-blue eyes and said: “Because I have a work to do, a Rite to run, a responsibility to bear. Besides, I didn’t know your existence, and the last time I saw her, she made it clear that she did not want to see me again.”

He actually knew the answer, he had looked through his mother’s journal secretly a countless times when he was just a child, but he wanted to hear it out from his own father’s mouth anyway. And now he heard it, exact as he had expected, which was fine, however that didn’t change the pain and soreness squirmed in his gut.

“But I know your existence now, and I want to make it up for you.” The older one said, the same kind of soreness filled his deep, rich voice too.

Haytham took him to New York and Boston, and other cities too, though most of time was for business, but it was fine for him.

He had met William Johnson, Thomas Hickey and John Pitcairn, all those men had apologized to him. Johnson even cried in front of him, said that he really regretted that seeing Lee did that horrible thing to him and did nothing but let him, and when he found out Washington’s men had set fire on his village after they gone, he actually tried to find him but failed.

That guy looked kind of sentimental, and perhaps he did care and wished to help the natives like he said. So he forgave him.

Hickey was… well he could not really blame a brainless man after nothing but his own pleasure, like his father had said. As for Pitcairn, he looked like a decent guy, and he was indeed doing something important things even if he was working with the Redcoats.

He hadn’t met Benjamin Church though, that guy excused with lack of time, his father had grumbled about it from time to time, but he told Haytham it’s fine.

It is fine, really. He already decided to spare them all, for his father’s sake, so he wouldn't lose his aides because of his son’s falsely vengeance, they weren’t his mother’s killer.

But someday they should talk about his killing list Achilles gave him, he still felt something’s wrong, he just did not know what was it now.

Sometimes they lied on the rooftop of their estate - his father’s estate, whatever - together, stargazing, he would tell some tales of their people, of stars, or other spirts, Haytham listened quietly. And Haytham would speak of his father’s saga sometimes, as a legendary pirate, and an unusual Assassin.

“You mean he actually joined the Templar first?” He asked, incredible.

“Yes, but he did not know who they were or what they were at that time, he just went with it.” There was a sense of smile hiding in his father’s voice.

“Then what?” He asked, couldn’t resist his curiosity.

“Then he sold out the map of Assassin’s lay outs in Caribbean, that almost caused the devastation of the West Indies’ Brotherhood.”

“How do you know that?”

“I have looked the official record and documents from our Order in the West Indies’ Rite.” His father said, “He was quite infamous of the time, both the Assassins and the Templars wanted him dead.” He even curved the line of his lips making it into an undoubted smile.

“Why the Templars wanted him dead?”

“Because he had deceived them first, he pretended to be an rogue Assassin, as I have told you minutes ago. Then he seemed to decide to amend his wrongs, which was selling location of the Assassin’s lay outs, he worked for the Assassins then, helped them to eliminate the Templars there.”

“And you don’t get angry with it?” He asked, confused. That was his father’s colleagues.

“Why should I get angry with it? I wasn’t even born at that time.” Haytham answered, spared his son a wry look. “Besides, they were a little crazy and inordinate, truth to be told, seeking the unrealistic things than working on our true purpose.”

“For the harmony of the entire humanity?”

“And global peace, yes.”

“Had he successfully wiped out the all the Templars there?”

“Not entirely, but he did eliminate all the high ranks at the time, and he did it single handedly.”

“Well, he was indeed a legend.”

“Oh, you should wait until I finish his saga before you say that.”

“There is more? Tell me!”

Chapter Text

When Ratonhnhaketon realized, it had been near three weeks since he met his father and parted with Achilles.

“I need to go back to Homestead, Achilles will worry.” He spoke to his father.

“How about some days later? At least after your birthday.” His father frowned, seemed reluctant to let go of him. “Have you celebrated your birthday before?”

“Not since Mother passed… ” There was actually another one, his thirteenth birthday, for his turning into adulthood. But he saw no reason to tell his father at this time.

“Then stay, so we could celebrate it together.” His father smiled at him, “As for your mentor, do not worry about him, I have sent words for him the day I took you back here with me.”

“Alright.” So it’s settled, and he mirrored the smile at his father too, only a little wider though.

It’s good to have a father, it really was.

He spent his fourteenth birthday with his own father. Father took him to a chocolate house, and told him that he used to celebrate his birthday at a chocolate house in London with his family, White’s Chocolate House he said.

“It’s that why you hired Mr. White?” He chewed his cake, it was a bit too sweet for his taste, but his father seemed liking it.

“No, no. It’s not.” Haytham laughed, shaking his head. There were some chocolate stuck on his teeth, but he didn’t mind his father, he wanted to know how long it would take Haytham to find out that.

The answer was he didn’t find out at all. So Haytham Kenway, Grand Master of the Templar Order’s Colonial Rite, a well-respected senator from the Continental Congress, a member of some kind of secret high-class club Ratonhnhaketon did not know at all, demonstrating his stained teeth while he was talking and shaking hands with people, introducing his son to others.

Hope he wouldn’t get angry with me once he found out, Ratonhnhaketon stared at the piece of chocolate and mused. But he didn’t really worry about this, besides, it was fun.

When the day he really needed to go back to Achilles’ Homestead, Haytham just adjusted his collar - he had changed back into his old clothes.

“Do come back to me.” Father just said.

“I will.” He nodded, promising.

“Be careful on the way!” His father raised his voice to make sure it could reach his son’s ears.

“I will!” He sat on the back of a horse, raising his voice too, waving at his father for goodbye.

It took him two days to get the Homestead.

He felt some kind of guilt for leaving this long when he stepped on the stone stairs, it had been over a month since he left here, but it’s not all his faults, right? He was caught by the Redcoats, they could have killed him, if only not his father, they really could. And Achilles just left him in an unfamiliar city, alone, with no friends nor allies. Thinking this, he found some ease, so he opened the door and stepped in.

“It seems you haven’t forgotten the way back here.” Achilles was sitting in his empty living room.

“Of course not.” He did not know what else to say.

“I thought you have joined the Templars, and are going to lead them to eliminate me once for good.” There was his clod anger hidden under the old man’s voice, and his eyes too.

“Why would I do that?” He frowned.

“Your father is their Grand Master, and you are his son.”

“He has nothing to do with this. And I am not going to join them.”

“Oh really? Because last time an Assassin went rogue, he joined them immediately, even volunteered to eliminate all the Assassins he used to called brothers and sisters.” Achilles’ words were full of resentment, the pain and hatred bubbling in his eyes like a black lake of venom, “And your father is a dangerous, manipulative man, knowing nothing but calculating and plotting! He has put his mind-control tentacles into your brain, hasn't he?”

“NO! You do not speak him like that!” He shouted at that crippled man, defending his father, “He is nothing like you have said! And you don’t even know him!” How could Achilles say ill of his father?!

“Oh, I know much of him, boy. He was the one who put a bullet in this.” Achilles sneered at him, pat his crippled leg, “And he even dares to send his Templar come here to inform me of your staying.” The man burst into a bit, resentful laughter,  “Do you know what those Templars had done during their last visit?”

Rantonhnhaketon did not know, but Achilles was not really waiting for his answer.

“It was to wipe out the rest of us, all of us, except me!” There were tears in the old man’s eyes. “Your father left me here, watching my organization dies out. He! Leading a Templar army! Said that I should be grateful for his second-time mercy!!”

He felt his tongue sticking on the roof of his mouth, he wanted to say something, anything but failed, all he could do was to watch the miserable old man drowned in his own anguish.

Moments later, he finally manage to find his voice, among his heavy breath: “He mentioned that you had destroyed a ci…”

But before he could finish his sentence, the old crippled man burst out: “GET OUT!!!”

So he slept in stable again.

The next day, he found Achilles had locked the front door, and the windows too.

About a week later, he run out of his patience so he pried the lock open, his father had taught him during their training. Achilles stared at him for a while, then ignored him.

So he could sleep at his room once again, it was cold out there.

The following day he spent lots of time to repair the old broken furnitures in the big old house. He train himself alone, reading the books his father pick for him in his room. He even saved some people and asked them to stay here, so the Homestead could be more worthy of its name. And he did all these with Achilles’ one-sided ignoring.

Weeks later, he went to Achilles: “I know you are probably still angry with me, so I will make it quick. You left me in Boston alone, and I went with my father without telling you, so that’s even. I’m going to my father’s residence for the following month, and shall go back here then. I’m not going to go rogue or betray the Brotherhood or do anything you have said that day, I mean it, believe it or not is up to you, I don’t care, but I will come back. So that’s it, I shall see you about a month later.”

Then he left, rode the same horse heading to his father’s estate.

Chapter Text

It was curious, how he just stayed for merely a month, but he already considered that residence of his father as home, he had never regard the Homestead as his home before, and he doubted would he ever see it as his home, since he already had one.

When he entered the estate, seeing the familiar faces of his father’s household, he couldn’t stop his smiling, he was in a such good mood, he even hugged his father when he found him in the study.

“I see you have came back, as you promised.” His father smiled back.

“Yes, I come back.” He widened his already wide smile, he must looked like an idiot.

“Good, now go changing, the tailor has sent some new clothes here.”

“More? I already have lots.” But he go changing anyway, he even took a bath.

At night, they sat in the library as usual, enjoying the warmth from the fireplace.

“How was he? Has he given you a hard time?” Haytham asked, tilted his head slightly.

“He is fine. He ignored me, but he will figure it out eventually.” He just said that. There was no need mentioning he had to sleep in the stable in this cold nights of this early spring, he didn’t want his father worried for him, or blamed Achilles, they already had a lot of tensions between them.

Haytham just nodded, said nothing.

Ratonhnhaketon looked at the man sat opposite him, pondering Achilles’ words, and decided to give a try: “He mentioned that you had wiped out the entire Brotherhood here.”

“Yes, I had.” His father returned to his honest but reserved self, just staring at his son, waiting for the other one to initiate.

“Why? May I ask.” He did learn a thing or two from his father, Father would be pleased to hear this.

“Yes, you may. And the answer is I have to.” Fine, it seemed his father had chosen tonight’s topic as interrogation skills, or the trail of his patience.

“Could you explain more? I know you are not a ruthless man, but why did it so thoroughly? Can’t you find a mercy way? I know that you have spared Achilles. But why not spare others too?”

“How do you know that I’m not a ruthless man?” His father even lifted the corner of his lips, as if he was determined to give his son a trial, but for what, Ratonhnhaketon did not know yet.

“I know you and I have eyes.” He couldn’t help but rolled his eyes, he knew Haytham wouldn’t criticize him for doing this.

“You know the sides I have showed you, and eyes can be deceived.” The older man said that quite earnestly.

Alright, he knew, tonight’s topic was philosophy. “Could you possibly give an example, if it's not asking too much?” He was going to become a real British if his father persisted on making him talking like this.

His words must please his father, because he had smiled, curving both his lips and his eyes. Shaking head, he said: “I have killed a priest coldheartedly, enjoying it, even making sure of his suffering, and I had brunt a monastery, slaughtered dozens of priests, I lost count, I didn’t care.” The smile in his eyes had gone, replaced by agony, as for the smile once on his face was reducing, fading into bittiness.

“…Why?” He managed to ask, voice hoarse - somehow he felt that pain too.

“To revenge.” His father merely whispered, his eyes went to somewhere far, far away, into his past, a past the young Ratonhnhaketon hadn’t had the chance to witness.

He did not know what to say, he did not know how their conversation became this, maybe he shouldn’t ask too much.

“As for your question, I spared Achilles Davenport because a friend asked me to - he used to be an Assassin, but chose to side with us at the end. And I listened,I shot Davenport in the leg to make sure he will never forget his wrongs and the consequences of them, and wouldn’t use my mercy to take a revenge, to my friend or to me. As for the rest, I don’t believe them would show me and the rest of us the same rational and mercy, they would only seek vengeances as they had done it before, for their mentor, once they knew what we had done at North Atlantic.” Haytham told to his own son, deciding to show some mercy to the younger one. “Besides, they had made a lot of anarchies in the Colonies in the past, and with their high ranks died out, losing all the controls over them, the rest had became more and more dangerous, so we took actions, and brought back the peace eventually.”

One day he would ask about the former Assassin and what happened at North Atlantic.

He believed Haytham’s story, despite lacking of details, Achilles himself used to admit that was his fault, although he didn’t explain it. So Haytham was right, without control, freedom would become anarchy, and endangered the peace, his father had seen it with his own eyes.

He shall remember that in his heart, he would not make the same mistake Achilles had made before.

“I do admit that some of us made it too much.” His father continued, seemed still dwelled in the past. “Some of the leaders had lost their rational minds during the confrontation, taking actions without permission, slaughtered innocents to find out the runaway Assassins.” He closed his eyes, voice filled with tiredness. “I should have done better.”

“It’s not your fault, you just need some help…” His comfort was too little and too light, it was useless for the man in front of him, so he tailed off.

“Perhaps.” His father just said that, to avoid letting his son feel his words had fallen on deaf ears.

Since that night, Haytham let him ask more, and by not giving the direct answers, made him think more, even letting himself to make up his mind, and only gave his opinions when his son asked to. It’s fun at most of times, while the rest of times it felt more like torturing his son’s excessive curiosities, and Haytham even used that to buy time, avoiding some stories he didn’t wish to talk about at that time. He will tell, I will get answers, the young Mohawk told himself.

One day Haytham asked him: “What’s your name’s meaning?”

“It could translate as life that is scratched, or his spirit has emerged.” He explained.

“Your mother’s name means the pretty snow.” His father whispered, he must be missing her, as did Ratonhnhaketon himself.

“What’s your name’s meaning?” He hadn’t heard any one who used the same name, since the white people somehow liked using the same names, he had met a lot of John, or Sam, or Charles.

“It was transliteration of an Arabic word for eagle.”

“Why Arabic?”

His father sighed: “Remember that I have mentioned my father was an Assassin? It was to in memory a Arabic Hidden One who led a branch of their own in England during the late 9th century - I believe, my father didn’t tell me, I found out during my own research.”

“Wow,” He just said that, he really didn’t know what else he could say, despite his recent training of talking skills: “He must be expecting you to become an Assassin.” Haytham had taught him the relationship between the Assassins and the Hidden Ones.

“I believe he was.” His father's voice was muffled, so he sat up from the roof and looked down at his father who was lying beside him.

They stared at each other for a moment, before his father decided to check his homework: “So, what would do if you were me?”

The younger one groaned, fell back to lie on the roof. They had discussed this for days, Haytham asked his son to reconsider the situation of the time then he back to the Colonies from the North Atlantic, and let his son to make the plans, different plans, and kept asking why. He had made some silly plans, however Haytham didn’t taunt him, just by asking a lot of why and then what, drove him to complete his plans, which made him realized how hard his father’s work was and how naive he was. Although Haytham’s intention was genuine, he knew it, it pained his brain anyway. And if Haytham’s father or tutor used to train Haytham this way, he felt sympathy for his father.

Haytham just smiled, he could hear it from his voice. “My father used to say that, to see differently, we must first think differently.” He turned to look at his son, “And I’m doing the exact same thing.”

“Had he made you to come up plans - different plans, and complete them?” He asked wearily.

“No, he had not.” His father widened the smile on his face, and it was more audible in his voice now. “I just feel fun, to see you thinking hard. And I think one day it shall prove useful, for you.”

“I don’t really think that I am the one who needs to think of how to deal with the Assassins.” He said.

“Then consider them as the Templars, or any other enemies.” His father suggested.

“Fine, fine. Just let me think of it first.” This’s gonna be endless.

Chapter Text

“If you really want to find yourself useful, go to the dock and find Robert Faulkner, help him repair that ship.” Months later Achilles finally decided to speak to him.

“Alright.” So he gladly obeyed, left the house and went to the dock.

Another moths later he and Mr. Faulkner had successfully repaired her, Aquila was her name, a beautiful name, as was she.

Mr. Faulkner invited him to set sail together, he hesitated, he didn’t want to leave without a word, although he was reluctant to admit that was more to his father, and besides it’s near the time he needed to go home.

So he sadly refused, but promised to join the venture next time he was here.

On his way home, he thought: Father would be glad to hear that I have a ship, I’m like Grandfather now, a sea captain.

And Haytham was indeed glad, a mix of proud and nostalgia flickered in his blue eyes, a reward for the months he had kept this secret, all for surprising his father at this moment. Maybe he could ask Haytham to meet him at the port of Boston or New York, so they could sail together. But he need to tell Mr. Faulkner first, he didn’t want to scare his first mate by letting the man himself find out that there was an uninvited Templar onboard.

“So I assume you no longer consider them as your targets?” Achilles asked him one day he was at the Homestead, asking for his assassinate targets hang in the basement down there.

“No, I don’t see the necessity. There are far more important things than killing people.” He answered.

“Then what kind of Assassin you are, if you don’t kill?” Achilles sighed, bothered and confused.

“I will if I have to, but killing is just a method, not the purpose.” He said, quoted his father’s words: “We are the architects of our actions, and we must live with their consequences. And even with good intentions, one misstep could turn it into evil deed, so I must balance it, because I know how lethal I am. So if I have to kill, I shall weight the consequences of my killing before I take actions, to make sure I won’t make mistakes, nor to regret afterwards, for the life is fragile under my blades.”

Achilles stared at him for a long, long pause, and before the old man’s eyes got too moist, he turned away, taking a deep breath, then asked: “Is this your father’s teaching?” His voice trembled, didn’t turn back, but waited for the answer.

“Yes, and his father was an Assassin, who had trained him like this. He also spent years studying our history and Creeds.” He felt both proud and sorrowful, for his father’s profound understanding and the mistreatment by cruel fate.

The old man sighed, rose from his seat with the help of his walking stick, “Come with me.”

They went to the basement. Down there, Achilles gave him a pair of hidden blades, and the robes too.

“Don’t let me regret doing this.” The old man sighed, then looked up to the robes in front of him. “This robes was made from a British Assassin named Edward Kenway. There was a rumor that your father had a history with him, I couldn't find out more back then, but I think your words have just confirmed it.” He turned to look at the Mohawk in the eyes, and said: “Now, I think it’s time to give it back to you.”

“Thank you, Achilles.” He knew what this meant, for him and for Achilles too. He had prepared this robes for his own son, Connor Davenport, who had died long ago - Mr. Faulkner once told him during their working together repairing Aquila.

The old man just waved at him, turned and left. Ratonhnhaketon didn’t follow, for knowing the old man probably needed some time alone.

He just looked at the robes, lost in the whirlwind of his own thoughts.

One day, Kanentokon came find him, thankfully he was indeed at the Homestead. He should tell them how to find him if he was in his father’s estate, however he couldn’t just give them address, Father would be angry about it - it was a personal property, even his Templars didn’t know the location.

Kanentokon told him that William Johnson wanted to buy their lands by force, and other villages’ too, the elders was angry about it. He felt something was wrong, and one misstep could escalate the already existing tensions between the natives and white people, so he decided to meet Johnson in person, and talked with him, and thanks to his father, he happened to know where to find him.

So he mounted a horse, after he bid his goodbye to Achilles, heading to meet with William Johnson in person.

On the way there, he was thinking of the potential solution already, he knew what was about in a rough degree. It was the lands. He had learned the history and economics - thanks to his father, and he knew what lands meant, to the outsider and the natives. This would be tricky, he thought. He liked the modern cities, loved to see the progress, but for the natives… that was their ancestors’ lands, he knew them, and he knew himself. He was told that their lands were sacred since he was a child, and they were meant to live there, so they could get the spirits of their ancestors’ blessing. He sighed heavily.

To his surprise, when he found Johnson, he found his father as well. They were talking something heatedly, though Haytham was with more ease, while the poor William Johnson looked both bothered and frustrated, and he was sweating too.

“Ah, your Hermes is here.” Seeing his son, Haytham said sarcastically, but was to Johnson, not to his own son. “Fix this, use him wisely, ask his opinion if you need to, report to me once you make up your plan, do not do anything stupid before you get permission.” Then he nodded at his son and walked away with his hands behind his back.

“What happened?” Ratonhnhaketon asked the poor man.

Johnson sighed, forcing a smile at him, before he explained the matter.

So he spent a full month helped Johnson complete his plan, then spent the following months to help him practice it. And of course, there were a lot of obstacle and frustration, and they had to adjust their plan from time to time, but he was glad to offer some help, so they could avoid violence and bloodshed. However, some of the villages still refused to leave, and truth to be told, his own village was one of them.

He sought his father's help occasionally, not in a direct way, but merely through their conversations, for which was already a form of assistance, as his father had abundant wisdom to share.

Sadly, even with his father’s help, he could solve this by his mere will. So all he could do was to maintain the peace, reduce the tensions. At least the they believed him and Johnson, he thought, wanted to thank God or something, though he didn’t believe it.

At his next birthday, he came to the eighteenth year of his life, Haytham sent him a big gift - to be specific, it was a lot of money.

“You could use this money to buy your people’s lands, turn the lands into your personal properties, so legally no one could brother them any more. So that your people could live in peace, at least for decades.” His father merely said, but he knew what this meant, and it was a lot. “And with this money, they could do a lot of things to improve their life.”

So he just said “thank you” with his hoarse voice. They did not need words, did not need to act a certain way - they understood each other. Haytham knew Ratonhnhaketon needed this, so he gave, and he knew how much he would appreciate it.

Chapter Text

He gawked at Haytham, who was working on his letter absorbedly, didn’t realize another man was staring him at all.

It’s just fascinating how his father’s face came together, all those features, blended in seamlessly, symmetrically. Despite their faces were so much alike, Ratonhnhaketon preferred them on his father’s face. Oh, that pair of cold blue eyes, thin lips, firm jaw, milky skin, and the fine neat grey hair… and his long fingers… He could die for just kissing them. How could his father be so trusting while he had no idea what was going on in the his own son’s head?

He wasn't sure when this had started, but he would blame those shameless sailors in a tavern near South America, where he had overheard their obscene conversation accidentally.

He used to have wet dreams, which was normal, for he was a healthy young man, but most of the time he didn’t remember what he had dreamed of, or they didn’t effect him much. Then one day, his father showed up in those wet dreams, and he couldn’t forgot. He really didn’t want to recall how awkward and embarrassed he was back then, for he had to wash his under breech himself in the morning from time to time, and some times his sheets too, and he had to ask the laundry maid Mia helped him cover this up, and of course all Mia needed to do was to pretend she cleaned theses all herself, and kept watch for him when he was washing his breech and sheets, so no one else - especially his father - would know.

When those dreams with his father involved became daily, he accepted it, didn’t think too much, for his life was simple and his choice was little. It’s not a big deal, just some silly dreams, everybody dreams, it’s not like they’re actually going to do this in real life, he told himself that.

One day he found he was hard even though he was awake, even though he was in a training with his own father - bare hands fighting training, to be specific, they did it every morning, as long as they were in the estate at the same time. And all he thought back then was: oh, that’s unusual. Thankfully, his father seemed hadn’t noticed it at all. So he went to his bedroom, and took a bath with cold water, trying to clam himself, only to find he failed, so he touched himself for the first time in his life. And then, it happened again, and again, almost every morning during their fighting training together. So he told himself that was because the adrenaline caused by the fight, which could make people excited, it’s not a big deal. He kept telling himself.

Then his dream became wilder, Haytham moaned under him, calling his name, calling him Son. So he started to stared at his father and daydreaming. He had been caught at the beginning, but thankfully Haytham didn’t ask, just minded him to focus, or told him to get some rest - Haytham probably thought he was merely tired, which made sense, for he was quite a busy man now, he had some new recruits now, and was working on his own cause, helped the people from time to time, fought against unjust, the Assassins’ business was thriving, he could say that.

Then he set sail to the Caribbean one day, and overheard those idle sailors, talking about things they did with men. Oh, how he really hoped he hadn’t inherit his father’s sharp ears, for ever since that, he finally realized something was really, really wrong with him, because he knew that now, that he wanted to do the exact same obscene, hideous things to his own father those sailors had said which he overheard. Oh God, I will burn in hell. He thought, even though he didn’t believe it, Father Timothy would be pleased to know this, for he finally admitted the God and the hell, as long as Timothy did not know what on earth had triggered him.

“Have you changed your mind?” Haytham spared him a glimpse, parted his thin lips and spoke to him, he could see his lovely pink tongue between those delicious lips.

Oh, right, they were arguing recently, about George Washington, for he had decided to spare that man.

“No,” He back to earth, and said, “As I have said, people need him, so I can’t kill him. Besides, revenge is an empty thing, as you have told me once, so I don’t see the need of killing him.”

He had changed his mind during those years since he lived with his father. Despite Washington’s flaws - which were a lot actually, the people needed him, chose him, supported him, and the country too. So he couldn’t kill him for his own vengeance, the consequence was too great, besides killing him couldn’t bring Mother back, so why would he? Like his father had said, revenge was an empty thing. He remembered the pain and sorrow and numbness in those eyes, when he talked about his late friend and his tutor, he feared those pain and sorrow and numbness would consume them both one day.

And he had a father now, who loved him, cared for him, smoothed all his pain and hatred with a father’s enormous, unconditional love. What else could he ask for? So naturally, he had all the mercy and kindness he needed in his heart, bumping a will of benevolence to his entire body with ever heartbeat.

So he could forgive. Although he felt guilt for his father, who had even delayed his own plan of eliminating that commander for his son, to wait until the younger one made up his mind. Haytham thought Ratonhnhaketon was just reluctant to finally settle his vengeance once for good, so he waited with patience - he hated that man as much as his own son did, however he didn’t wait for what he had expected, but an announcement of absolution, which angered him to a great extent.

“Oh, your mother would be so proud to hear this.” Father satirized him.

He lowered his head, he knew Haytham didn’t really mean that. But the cold words pierced his heart anyway.

He wondered had his father regretted to teach him, asked him to think independently, for one day he would question his own father’s decision, even dared to defy, then worked hard trying to prove his father’s wrong.

They set sail together, went for the treacherous Benjamin Church. It was a sweet torture for him, for he had let Haytham stay in his cabin, and shared bed with him.

He had to keep the distance between he and Haytham when they slept together, the good thing was he needed to take shifts with the crew members, so the opportunities of they really lied on the same bed were rare, which helped him reduce the chances being caught by Haytham for his improper reaction clearly under his breech. He still had those dreams, and they had became more and more frequent, and as vivid as well, especially when the one he’d dream of was right within his reach.

Like this one, an extraordinarily vivid dream, so real he could smell his father with his nose, and the touch, and the taste, the warm skin under his lips was so intoxicating, he would be amiss once he woke up. So he took his time, seized the opportunity, to do things he wouldn't dare to think about during his waking hours.

He moved his lips up to the neat grey hair, nuzzling, then went back to nip those thin lips, savouring his father’s taste with his own tongue, using his hands slowly wondered around, to feel, to touch, to draw the map of his father’s body. Gently he thrusted himself against the other man’s body, pinned Haytham in place with his strength and body weight. This was so, so real.

“Ratonhnhaketon.” The swollen fine lips parted, called his name. Haytham rarely called him by the name, perhaps was the twist of tongue, a bit difficult for the Brits for they only had flat tongues, but it was fine, he could teach him, using his own tongue to teach him. As thinking so, he did it, went back to lick and suck the soft wet pink in his mouth, teasing, nipping, and dancing with it.

“Ratonhnhaketon.” See, his teaching worked. “Do you know what you are doing?” The tone of warning was so real, and so was the coiled strength under his palms.

And before his hands could went down to reach the roundness of joy, a tight grip grabbed him, denying him, so he opened his eyes, met a pair of clod blues in the middle, and then, he woke up.

“Do you know who you are dealing with?” The pair of cold blues said, calm as usual.

Oh, oh.

Ratonhnhaketon didn’t remember how he got out from his father, and rushed out to the deck. Thankfully there weren’t too many sailors on it, or else he really didn’t know explain what happened to him. The chilly night breeze on the open sea cooled down his overheated brain slightly, however, failed to bring his feverish body back to normal. He is going to doom, he thought, petrifying.

He avoided his father for the rest of days, spent long hours taking the wheel, or hiding in Faulkner’s cabin, refused to explain to his first mate what was going on to him.

Chapter Text

After that incident on Aquila, he stayed in New York for weeks once they back to the Colonies, then went to Boston, then Frontier, he even stayed in Homestead for some time. He spent months wondering, keeping himself away from his father. For he couldn’t dare to go back, couldn’t dare to meet his father’s cold blue eyes once again.

However the time of solitude did not help him rebuild his mind, instead, it had only amplified his homesick, and the longing for seeing the older man again. So he went home.

It was a humid and sultry summer night, no winds to be found, the clouds loomed low, the leaves hung still, yet the anticipated storm lingered, unwilling to give a mercy.

When Ratonhnhaketon entered the residence, he thought Haytham wasn’t here at first, for the lack of candle lights and the quiet, but the butler Mr. White showed up and told him that Haytham was in the library.

So he went to library, and found the man he had missed sat in the darkness, staring at the dim sky through the window silently, an aura of loneliness surrounded him.

The sky flashed, offering a brief glimpse into Haytham's face - pale and sweaty, with eyebrows frowned, a hand held to the edge of his ribcage - and then the thunder muttered from the distance. The storm was about to come finally.

He rushed out towards to his father, knelt beside him, and ask: “Father, are you alright?” Clearly, he was not, yet Ratonhnhaketon had no idea what else he could say at this very moment.

“It’s fine.” The weakness from Haytham’s voice verified Ratonhnhaketon’s worry.

“No, you are not.” He said, standing, helped the older man to stand too. “Come, you should lie down.”

Once Haytham was in bed, Ratonhnhaketon washed his hands, using a wet handkerchief to gently clean the sweat on the older man’s forehead, and then Haytham reached his hand, caught his son’s sleeve, “The ointment, is in the drawer, it can ease the pain.” He found out that ointment right where Haytham had said, held it in hand, then he paused, hesitating.

Shutting his eyes closed, took a deep breath and cleared his head, he reopened eyes, with slightly trembled hands, he took of his father’s vest, then shirt, and then undershirt. There was a large knotted scar stood on his ribs, his old wound, a souvenir from his past, Haytham had’t told him the details of it.

Concentrating on the pressing matters, he poured the ointment onto his palm, gently rubbed it to spread it, and then carefully applied it to Haytham's old wounds. He caressed the knotted scar and the skin around it, until Haytham’s breath evened, half closed eyes reopened.

He met Haytham’s gaze in the eye, there was no coldness to be found, only the thick sorrow clouded. “I thought you won’t come back.” The older man said, his voice low, and tone deep.

“I…” He tailed off. Yes, how could Haytham not to worry? “There won't be again.” He promised. And then, “I’m sorry.”

Haytham just reached for his son’s hand, holding it, and then closed his eyes, fell into sleep immediately, drained by the pain and tiredness.

Ratonhnhaketon just knelt beside the bed, staring his father sleeping, whirling in misery and remorse. Out side the building, a rainstorm poured.

Another few months later, they came to Haytham’s 53th birthday, the older one chose to open a fine bottle of brandy, poured two glasses, one for him and one for his son.

Ratonhnhaketon looked at his father with wry eyes, he knew Haytham drank, but rarely, for the man trended to show much self-discipline, as for himself, he simply disliked the taste.

One glass finished, Haytham explained to his son: “Today I have officially older than my tutor.”

Ratonhnhaketon just blinked, he knew that name, Reginald Birch, Father mentioned once, but only the name. And the good thing was, for this time, Haytham wasn’t really waiting for his son to answer, because he already started to tell the story.

It was indeed, a long, long, sad story, like his father once told him. He listened it quietly, his mind went with his father’s deep, slow voice, upstream through time, into a past he could never reach.

Once finished his sharing, Haytham looked both relieved and grieved at the same time - he had drunk a lot of brandy so far.

So Ratonhnhaketon stood up, took off the his father’s glass, and said: “That’s enough, Father, you're drunk.” Ignoring Haytham's protest, he helped him up, and eventually held him up, a way back to Haytham’s bedroom.

However, this time didn’t go as smooth as last time, for the drunken man refused to let go of him, even tried to drag him down. He really wished this was merely another dream, so he could lay down all the moral burdens he had carried, and held this man in his arms. “You're drunk, Father.” He just kept saying that.

And then he was dragged into a kiss.

It was different from kissing a man to being kissed by a man. He wanted to maintain his rational mind, but failed, judging by who was kissing him now, he’d respect his willpower for lasting this long later - for he had more pressing thing right now.

He peeled off all the fabrics which covered Haytham’s body with trembled hands, he had hesitated for a second before he took off Haytham’s breech, but he did it anyway.

He held the man in his arms, gently caressing his body with both of his hands, worshiped him by his lips and tongue, he even took Haytham’s member into his mouth, teased the crown with his nimble tongue, tasted his father from the sensitive slit.

He didn’t took off his own clothes though, didn’t need to, he just wanted focus on his father’s need, which he did, and Haytham was whining and writhing under him, yelling his son’s name desperately.

He cleaned up Haytham’s by his own mouth, swallowed all the seeds down into his throat, and then his stomach. He wanted to leave after that, but Haytham’s grip was still tight around his wrist, so he stayed. Laying down with his own father who had already fallen asleep, naked and satisfied in his arms. Despite his untouched need, he closed his eyes, buried his face into the crook of his father’s neck, listening to the steady rhythm of heartbeat, eventually fell into a deep, deep slumber.

He was woken by the tickles along his jaw, he reached out to snatch it with his closed eyes, but caught by a firm warm hand, so he opened his eyes and found it was his father holding his hand.

He tensed for a second, but his father chose to break the silence: “Good morning, Son.”

He remembered Haytham called him son last night, and his name too, then he belatedly realized that his father was still in his arms, naked as well. Thinking of this, his cock twitched immediately. And, apparently, Haytham sensed that too, for he had lifted a corner of his lips.

Swallowing, he greeted his father dryly: “Good morning, Father.” He tried to draw back his hand, which was still held by his father, but failed.

“You have somewhere to go? … Good, now, shall we continue?” Haytham lifted another corner of his lips, made it into a smile.

Feeling an uninvited sense of uncertainty mixed with dread creeping up along his spine, he cleared his throat, and managed to say: “What do you mean, Father?”

Haytham raised a eyebrow at him, but didn’t say anything, he just used his another hand to reach down…

“Uhm… Father… stop, this is wrong…” He tried to stay still, didn’t dare to move a muscle, breath shallowed, however, his another part of body had its own will, for Haytham’s hand had warped it, teased it, even squeezed it.

“Son,” His father sighed, “What are you so afraid of?” While his face straight, his voice calm, his breath even, however his hand was doing totally another kind of thing inside his crotch.

He stifled a whine, managed his words: “This is… ha, wrong…”

“Is it?” His father drawled, those pair of blue flickered under the gradually lightening lights of dawn.

“Isn’t… it?” He inhaled sharply, still trying to say. “Father.” His voice trembled by the torment of joy.

“Well, I don’t think it's wrong… And I thought you felt the same.” Haytham blinked, leaned in, almost touching his ear, and then he breathed: “Now tell me, Son, do you still consider this is wrong?”

He didn’t say a word, for he had no rational mind left, along with his self control, all brunt, by the fire set by his own father.

He dragged Haytham into a desperate kiss.

His clothes disappeared somewhere along their kissing, he came once on his father’s skillful fingers, so he pulled that stained hand up, licking it with his tongue, cleaning up every one of those beautiful long finger, like what he had done last night. Stared at his father’s eyes while he was arousing again.

Haytham moaned at it, unfolding his limbs, relaxed under the younger one, letting his son take over his body.

His tongue licked along Haytham’s arm, up until he met his father’s neck, then bitting it, making a shallow mark on it. Then up, up until he could kiss Haytham again - they kissed like two starving men.

Haytham was thrusting against him impatiently, so he reached for it, took his father’s length into his palm, gently teased the head, stroke it with unhurried, driven his father to moan again.

“There is oil… on the nightstand.” Why does Father have oil? He decided to ask him later, if he could remember it after what they were going to do.

He fumbled absently, with his mouth and eyes still stuck on Haytham, luckily it was the only object on the nightstand, so he fetched the vial, using a silent exchange by eyes to make the final confirm, he slicked his trembled fingers, then poked at his father’s entrance, rubbed it, before he gently pressed in. Haytham sighed for the sensation.

It was hard at the beginning, for Ratonhnhaketon was still a virgin, he knew what to do in a theoretical way, yet he did lack experience, luckily his father was not, so he taught him, as their other trainings. So quickly, the younger one found the way.

He buried himself in his father, surrounded by the hot tightness - he could die in it. Haytham’s legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him near, clenching him from both outside and inside. “Father.” He exclaimed, then opened his eyes to meet his creator, his savior, his father.

As he sped up, so desperate thrusting deeper, his hand winded up and down along his father’s hot, long hardness, bent down to kiss him. And then Haytham cried out against his mouth, arching, yelling his son’s name, before painted their stomach white with his release, clenching tight around the younger one, pushing him through the edge of glory, and then spilt himself deep into his father.

“Let go of me, Son, I need a bath.”

Reluctant to let go, so instead of moving, he asked: “You don’t angry with me?”

Hearing this, Haytham just smiled, shaking his head, like facing a spoiled child. There was a enormous fondness in his smiling eyes too. “No, of course not.” His long finger gently brushed over the edge of the younger one’s face, from cheekbone to jaw. “And besides, I more fear of losing you.”

Ratonhnhaketon said nothing, he felt the same, fearing one day he would lose the man in front of him. So he tightened his arms which never left his father’s side since they “continued”, and buried his face into the crook of Haytham's neck like a lost puppy.

Moments later, “Now get off.” His father demanded, “You are deadly heavy.”

Chapter Text

His age had expanded to twice the age he was at their first acquaintance. The war ended, both he and Haytham were busy.

One day, Haytham gave him the amulet he had worn for years.

“I feel that I should give you this.” His father just said that.

“But it belongs to your Order.” And that’s the object drove him across the Atlantic to here, it was his original mission.

“Then take it as a peace offering, for our organizations’ unity.” His father smiled, eyes softened, reminded him of a spring lake, brimming with the crystalline essence of the season's first waters.

So he took it, wore it around his neck, tucked under his shirt.

Achilles passed away, he and others buried him beside his wife and son.

His mentor’s death must had triggered his reluctant dread for another important - more important man’s potential departure deep in his heart, so he had a dream, a terrible, horrific dream.

“Ratonhnhaketon, wake up.” His father was shaking him, saving him from that dream.

He panted, grasped for air, horrifying, the dream was so real, like a living nightmare he couldn’t escape from. In that awful dream, he and his father didn’t meet at the night in Boston 1770, but a desert church years later, so they didn’t have time to know each other, didn’t trust each other. At the end, he killed his father with his own blade, the warmth of the other man’s blood - his father’s blood -  still lingered on the tip of his fingers. Thinking of this, he shivered again.

“It’s alright, just a bad dream.” He had sat up, Haytham was smoothing his back.

“I dreamt I had to kill you.” He muttered, his throat brunt, voice hoarse.

“Ah, that dream.” His father just said that.

He looked up, finding Haytham didn’t even move a muscle on his face, seemed unimpressed.“What? You have dreamed it before?” How could this be possible?

“In that dream, we met in a desert church, with snow covering it. I jumped from above and caught you unguarded, is that correct?” His father said with a clam voice, as if he was verifying some less important things with him. “Oh, and I always called you Connor.”

“How do you…?” Is this another dream he was living in?

“Then I assume we have indeed dreamed the same dream.” Haytham’s hand was still on his back.

“When? And why didn’t you tell me?”

“Few years ago. And for your latter question, because it’s just a dream.”

They sat in silence, looking at each other. Ratonhnhaketon couldn’t help but recalled the dreadful dream, a shiver went through him. So he buried his face into the crook of Haytham's neck, took a deep breath of his father’s smell, nuzzling, listening to the steady lulling rhythm of heartbeats.

“I’m sorry.” He managed to say, warped his arms around the his father, tightening.

“It’s not your fault, and it’s just a dream.” Haytham murmured from above, enfolding his son in return.

“I can’t believe I had done that.” He muffled.

“Maybe I was the one who made you do that.” One of Haytham’s hand had moved to small of his son’s back, continued to smooth the younger one. “So it’s not your fault.”

“Then I won’t let you do it again.” He said, promising.

Moments later, seeing his son showed no intention of going back to sleep, Haytham sighed: “You know that one day I have to leave, right? I have lived over three decades before you.”

“No! Don’t say that! Not now!” He tightened his arms again, refused to accept the brutal truth.

They stayed snuggling in silence for a while after that, the Mohawk closed his eyes, clinging to his father as if the warmth of another's body could shield him from the uncertainties that loomed, finding solace in the stillness that enveloped them, feeling nothing but Haytham's heartbeat against his chest and the warm breath that gently brushed over his ear and hair.

“Son.” Haytham sighed again, “I can’t breathe.”

So he eased his grip, just a little, but continuing to hold the other man in his arms, still reluctant to let go. He will never let go.

The year after his father had gave him his amulet, he went back to his village. Greeted by his people, so he greeted back. Then he came to the longhouse, found the box contained the crystal apple which had changed his life permanently. He opened the box and reached for the apple, now it glowed in his palm.

“Ah, long have we waited for you to return, you have succeeded, although you haven’t done as we asked, but the path you chose leads to the same end.” A female voice said.

“I couldn’t help. He is my father.” He knew what’s this about, years ago she asked him to avoid the cross, which implied the Templars, and his father too.

“It doesn’t matter now, for you have found it.” The spirit showed herself.

“This?” He looked down and found the amulet was glowing under his cloth, like the apple.

“Now you must hide it, where none shall think to look. And then, in time… in time, what once was, shall be again.”

He said nothing, for he did not understand what the spirit was saying, but he didn’t care.

“Remember, you must hide the amulet where none might find it.”

Then he decided to hide it in his grave, he and Haytham’s, where one day they shall lie together six feet under.