A/N: Bet you a review and a favorite you'll read this in Connor's voice. :P


I have seen so much. I have fought so much. Lost so much. Gained so much. And yet for all I have seen and done and won, there still are injustices in this world to fight for.

My father is dead. Charles Lee is assassinated. The Patriots have won. A new country is born. The Templars are eradicated. And yet I feel as though I have lost.

All I have fought for feels as though it has been in vain. My village is empty. My people have gone West, and I am left alone. This does not feel like a Victory.

Even now, one year later, my injuries have yet to heal. The pain in my side is on days unbearable. I fear that I will never be able to run, to hunt, to climb, to kill, again. My duty as Assassin has been neglected. It is good, then, that there is not much to neglect. These people are free, and my duty is done.

I am free, the spirit said. Free to do as I wish. And yet all I wish is to lay down and join Achilles, my mother, my father, Kanen'tó:kon, the people I have killed, under the Earth. I am weary from my toil, from my fight. I feel as though I have earned my rest, and yet I lack the peace to sleep.

And so I spend my days in the house on the hill, where the old man slept. What I hope for, I do not know. Perhaps I hope for the same sleep. Perhaps I feel as though it will grant me peace. Peace I do not deserve. Peace I will never earn.

Doctor White attends to my injuries, and says I am healing correctly. But it feels as if this wound is a physical manifestation of my invisible injuries. It feels as though it will never heal, and I will be left like Achilles…an old ailing man, too weak to stand in battle of my enemies. Left only to teach, when some young man bent on revenge knocks on that same front door I did as a child, demanding to be taught. And I will never know if teaching him is right, because afterwards, all that is left is the blood on my hands.

Even if I could stand, who would be left to fight? We have won. The Brotherhood has won, and I am left; a soldier without a battle. I am left, as so many of my kind are, with a simple question:

What happens now?

I have seen the injustices left. These people, who claim to fight for freedom, and yet own slaves. These colonists, who will fight to defend their right to live with no man over them, and yet own another one of their kind themselves. How long, I wonder, before they will realize that this too is wrong. Ten years? Fifty? One hundred? Two hundred?

How long before every man is free? Will a man ever truly be free, when always there is someone willing to take control over his life? Will the war ever be won?

I feel the answer is no. I know the answer is no. As my father said, the Templars survive because all they require is the world be as it is. Corrupted and hollow with double-tongued words and ideals.

The war is never won, but it seems as though my battle is over. How do I lay down my Tomahawk? How do I remove the hatchet from the post, when it has been there for as long as I can remember? Always, I have fought. Always, I have had enemies. And now I have none.

How do I go on? How can I be expected to be free, when I have never been free? This burden that has always been placed upon my shoulders, and is now lifted. And yet I do not know how to stand without that weight. It has always been a part of me.

The people I have helped, the people who live in the homestead, they return my friendship for those of their own. They help when they can, not knowing exactly what has happened, but knowing that I am no longer the man I was.

Dr White attends to my injury. Lance builds new furnishings for the manor, and keeps it in good repair. Warren and Prudence and Myriam keep all of us well fed. Maurice always sees fit to give me advice that I do not need, though I enjoy his company to fill the silence that now haunts the manor. Faulker is there whenever I need an ear, the closest thing to a father figure I have left. He listens when it becomes too much to keep inside. Ellen's kindness has kept me well clothed, has kept all of us well clothed. Of all of my friends on the homestead, her kindness and gentle patriotism gives me the most hope.

It is years before I am able to see it, the special kindness in her eyes. That smile that seems to only be present when I speak to her. The way she listens to whatever I speak of. The way she gives hope to the homesteaders, and myself. It is her kind, gentle, but tough nature that is a balm against the raging that is the torment of my past.

It is her bravery against the lot she has been dealt in life that gives me my own courage to walk without a hand at my hip. It is her gentle encouragement that gives me the will to run. It is her softness that allows me to find the strength to climb. It is her kindness that gives me the light foot to hunt. It is her love that allows me the desire to live.

I never thought I would have the time to take a wife, to fall in love, to become a father. I never thought I would be a good husband. I never thought I would have the time. But with her, with the gentle patriot Ellen, this too is possible.

Though she is not a healer, she has a healer's touch. But solely, it seems, for me. She heals me, she heals the homestead. She heals the land and its people, like the Clan Mother of old. She shows me that the Tomahawk can be placed above the mantle instead of in the post, below the portrait of the old man and his family. There it sits until the next threat comes along.

My son, Achilles Haytham, has grown strong and wise, taking up his own place among our Brotherhood. My daughter, as well. She is as strong and brave as my mother, with the cunning of my father, the kindness of her own mother, and my conviction. If anyone were to lead the Brotherhood, it would be her.

And when I am old and gray, and my children have left, fighting their own battles against injustice, I find I have become the old man on the hill. For three years from the fever taking Ellen away from me, I hear a knock at my door.

What can I do but smile, and tell the persistent boy on my doorstep to go away?


A/N: Am I the only person who ships Ellen/Connor? I can totally see it happening...I mean, just watch any Homestead mission scenes with the two of them in it...they just click, I can't explain it.

Anyway, I feel Connor lacked a significant ending in AC3, so I wrote this. Because obviously Connor had children at some point, or Desmond wouldn't have been able to hop in the Animus and...oh, well, you know. This was my first foray into video-game territory for fanfiction, how do you think it held up?

And I know...Achilles Haytham...eeehhh...it's a bit iffy. I wanted to give Connor's son a proper Iroquois/Mohawk name as well, but I'm not up to the task, and apparently (from the research I've done) their names are very complicated. So I just stuck with naming Connor's son after his "fathers."

Anyway, this could be a one-shot, or I could continue it. I have an idea as to the format, as well as a few scenes, but it's a bit iffy and I'm busy with both school and my story "Remember Me," (yes, that was a bit of shameless self-advertising). But I dunno...maybe some point in the future, if I get more Connor feels I might have to express them in fanfiction format. Or Haytham feels...I love his character. I recently read "Forsaken" and thought it was pretty decent. But it shouldn't have gone a bit AU...I hate it when stories do that...and to think I paid ten bucks, just to get inside Haytham's head...and it read like a fanfiction...ugh.

Anyway, off the point. Did I win my bet about Connor's voice? I totally did. Now you have to leave a review :P