Oh boy. Another fandom for me to write for. This fic is meant to begin immediately after the death of Charles Lee, after which Connor somehow manages to get himself back to the Homestead, and will continue on past the end of the game. Not sure how long yet.

Also, apologies in advance for the weirdness of this chapter. I know it doesn't really give any sort of context whatsoever, but the next one will tell you exactly what's happening here. I promise.

The sun was setting. The world had a tendency to thicken at the edges when the day came to an end, mixing shadows and gold against each other and blurring the barrier between one place and another until it was easy to become lost amongst the depthless dapples and darkness.

He was lost in a sea of colors that had no end.

Eyes forward. Ignore. Pain will turn to numbness. Numbness can be controlled.

Vague silhouettes of familiar landmarks leered at him from behind the patchwork of the fading sun, slipping between the leaves of the canopy above him and throwing their deceiving shapes across the grass and dirt.

How far had he come?

Focus, boy. The old man's voice haunted him even now.

One more step. And one more after that. The journey behind him blurred with what was still ahead of him, fading into a meaningless sequence of one more steps. One more step. That was all. It would take him home.

Home where?

The world dimmed suddenly, slipping into black and purple. Was he on the ground? How long had he been there?

It didn't matter.

He had no feeling left, leaving only the jarring of his bones to inform him that he was back on his feet. One more step was all he needed. One more step after that.

Was this the right way?

"Y'lookin fer Davenport, boy? Don' worry; yer almos' there," the stranger said kindly.

Ratonhnake:ton nodded and dipped his head thankfully; the world of the white man was a large and strange place, full of names and directions and all sorts of things that didn't make sense. The Mohawk frowned to himself as he set off in the direction the stranger had pointed. They were such odd creatures, to give names to the land itself. The land didn't need a name; it wasn't as if it was a creature, like a hare or a wolf. No, the land was all the other things––the animals and trees and the stones and the rivers. Like grains of sand on the seashore, the land was and endless array of knots and weaves and beads, like Clan Mother's beautiful belt. Ratonhnake:ton could have looked at it for days and would still know nothing of its changing patterns, just like a strange land. One had to live and breathe the world around them before they could understand that there was no end.

Why was it dark? He had thought that the sun was setting, but the moon was already peering over the eastern horizon. Had he lost track of time? Strange, he felt hot, even in the cool nighttime air.

A sudden twinge of guilt found its way into his mind, but it was overcome by a gleeful sense of pride. Biting his lip, Ratonhnake:ton looked around for any signs of someone sneaking up on him.

"Kanen'tó:kon?" he called out.

No response. Ratonhnake:ton laughed out loud and picked up his pace. Nevermind the numbness; he wanted to see his cousin's face after such a fun game! Not one of them had found his hiding spot, even after this long! They would feel so foolish.

There, he could see him now. He was crouching silently behind a fallen tree, looking ahead intently. Was he hunting?

Ratonhnake:ton tried to whisper, but no sound came out. He tried again, and again he failed. It wasn't his throat, it was his lungs; he couldn't breathe properly. The heat, it was beginning to overwhelm him. Something was wrong.

Something was very, very wrong.

He tried to call out, as he had done only moments before, but this time the words would not come. A sudden, crushing sense of dread settled over him. This wasn't right. This couldn't––he couldn't understand why. Why hadn't he seen it before? He'd been so trusting, so naive, believing that they had meant freedom for everyone. Why hadn't they hurt him? Connor was the one to blame, not his people! Not Kanen'tó:kon! He should have told them everything, should have tried harder, should have––

––the figure behind the tree uncoiled, pulling a musket up to aim at something Connor could not see, but he had no time to think; he had to stop him, or he would bring death upon them all! He had to stop him, but he couldn't move! Every part of his body was numb and leaden, and he couldn't breathe! No, no, he had to do something! He swayed on his feet, grasping at every last trace of strength he still had in him. He didn't care if he couldn't stand anymore, he just had to stop this.

"Kanen'tó:kon!"

Kanen'tó:kon turned, and Connor's heart dropped. The blood… the wound… no… please, no…

"I didn't mean to," he choked, barely noticing that he was on the ground. "I didn't mean for any of this."

Kanen'tó:kon dashed to Connor's side, blotting out the moon until there was nothing but shadow and the distant thunder of gunfire.

"You have to believe me! There is a way to keep our people safe, but this is not it!"

"I rather think it is." Someone else appeared over Kanen'tó:kon's shoulder, someone old and familiar and evil.

"Charles Lee," Connor snarled, struggling to rise even as Kanen'tó:kon moved to hold him down.

"You should have listened to your father, boy. Perhaps all of this could have been avoided in the first place."

"You did this!" Connor shouted, thrashing against the hands pinning him down. "You did all of this!"

But the Templar only turned, as if Connor was no longer worth his time, and disappeared into the forest.

"I will find you, Charles Lee!" Connor screamed. "I will find you and I will kill you! Let me go, Kanen'tó:kon! He is lying to you!"

A brief moment of luck saw him kick his friend away, and Connor began to struggle to his feet. He was burning! His veins were drowning in fire, and it was climbing up his throat and throttling him. He wanted to fight, needed to fight, to do anything to relieve the bottomless forge that was swallowing him whole.

Why was there so much blood on the ground?

"Ratonhnake:ton, why do you do this?" Kanen'tó:kon was on him again. "You put them down, and still they rise. Those that know you think you mad, and this is why. Why do you still fight?"

His hand closed around his pistol. "Because no one else will!"

Kanen'tó:kon avoided the shot and pinned Connor's arm, but even the dirt beneath him seared him like a brand.

"That is why you fight? That is why you abandon your tribe? Your family?"

"I didn't mean to! It was never supposed to be this way!"

"It is this way, Ratonhnake:ton! The men in blue were at our doorstep, and the men in red gave us muskets and metal to fight against them! What other path was there to take?"

"I don't know!"

"Do you not fight for our people?"

"Everything I have done has been for our people, Kanen'tó:kon! Everything!"

"You killed our people, Ratonhnake:ton! You killed me!"

"It was an accident!"

"Over here!" More were coming. Whoever they were––Templars, Patriots, Redcoats––Connor knew that they were his enemies, if they were aligned with Lee and now Kanen'tó:kon.

Connor stilled. "Are you going to let them kill me, brother?"

"You are one of them now, Ratonhnake:ton. You stopped being my brother long ago. You chose to live like one of them, and so you will die like one of them."

They came into the light, one by one: Johnson, Pittcairn, Hickey, Lee, all those he had slain to see the Patriots succeed. Each one a symbol, each one a success that had carried to the end and to complete, utter failure. Blood spattered them each, marking their fatal wound, on the neck, the chest, the stomach, each leering and taunting him. You did it, they said. You killed us all. All for nothing!

"Where is Haytham?" Connor snarled.

"You know exactly where he is," Charles Lee said, almost irritated in his voice. "A grave in New York. You interrupted the funeral, remember?"

The Templars spread out, circling the two Mohawk, and Charles Lee came to kneel next to Kanen'tó:kon. Connor struggled again, but Kanen'tó:kon prevented him from reaching the one who had begun all of his troubles.

"I will kill you, Lee!" Connor swore. "As many times as I have to!"

Charles Lee reached for the Assassin's robes and pulled the shredded cloth away, leering spitefully at where Connor had been impaled. "Because you did such a bang-up job last time."

In the distance, someone shouted, "We've got the wagon!"

Hickey turned, looked beyond Connor's line of sight, then turned back. "'At's your ride, boyo," he said. "Funny 'ow you keep gettin' stuck in 'em."

"No!" Connor roared, heaving Kanen'tó:kon and Charles Lee off of him. Immediately the Templars were upon him, grasping and twisting and lacing around him to keep him still. They were closing in, taking the air, making it burn hotter, faster, blending into one another until he was suffocating––he couldn't let them!

Connor didn't think that there was anyone alive as intimately acquainted with death as he was. He knew how powerful a tool it could be, either to encourage silence… or to encourage action. And with the patient, expectant breath of the Sky World at his back, he knew, without a doubt, that these Templars were going to kill him.

But that didn't mean he was going to let them do it easily.

Someone was behind him, arms around his chest to immobilize his arms. He used their strength against his captors, dropping all of his weight into that tight embrace, bringing his feet off the ground, kicking, forcing the tight knot of people apart-

––and almost losing consciousness completely under the eruption of utter, blazing agony.

He was only peripherally aware of being dropped; the night, which had at first been cold and unfocused, had disappeared. His vision was slipping in and out of existence, and the voices of those around him were beginning to blend into white noise. Was this going to be the last thing he knew, then?

Hands were returning, searing his flesh as they grabbed him, dragged him, hoisted him up. He snarled tried to escape, but the pain was too great and his legs wouldn't move no matter how desperately he tried. Someone was wrapping around him again, in front this time, and again his arms were trapped. With the world blurred, Connor had no way of knowing exactly which of his tormentors it was, but he knew where they were so that it didn't matter. He cracked his forehead against his captor's nose, then crumpled to the ground when his support vanished.

He could feel his strength fading.

More hands came, bigger hands, smaller hands, hands that he was losing the power to fight against. He tried to yank free, but his efforts were fast becoming a lost cause. The agony was winning out over the spiteful defiance, and he had to fight against himself to keep afloat. Every breath was a laborious task to be completed, over and over, and he found himself wondering if it would be less exhausting to just stop.

He was pulled from the ground by hands that evaded his continued struggling, and soon he felt the hard, unforgiving surface of wooden planks. Was that Hickey grinning down at him, or Lee?

"You will not win," Connor growled, once more fighting back whatever pain he could in order to resist, more out of the desire to make their lives difficult than out of any real hope of escape. "We rise again, as well. You eradicate us, but every time you rise we rise against you, because our creed is not an ancient set of principles or goals. It is truth."

He twisted and growled, dislodging someone from atop his shoulder. But he was too weak to even attempt and escape, and so all he could do was wait until they were back on him.

"I may die, but I am not the last. You can… you can kill me, you can kill Stephane, Clipper, Carter…" He trailed off as his breath failed him. It came to him short and shallow, heavy and thick until it felt like a tedious chore to simply take one after another. "You can kill us… all. And again… we will rise. Because we… we are the people you try to… to control. We are the… people that will never… accept anything… but… freedom…"