Author's note: Because the story is from her POV, things might seem distorted or confusing. She sees things differently than Haytham does and she had been left out of the loop in a lot of ways. The first few chapters are just a retelling of events, and are in past tense as she's recalling things. Later on, that will change. There will be a cannon break and things will go quite differently from there. In the end, really, this is an AU story. Enjoy, you nutters.

It takes a thousand voices to tell a single story.

I know not of who said these words but they are the truest ones I have ever, ever heard. We are just a piece of a tale, one that is weaved throughout the long lifetime of this world that we occupy. And each of us, every one, plays a role in the pattern that is mended. It can either be unkept and dirty, or well made. As far as I can see, with the pale faces, with our feuds, with the death toll, this tale is weaved as a messy one. I cannot say one word, however, because to speak of it would be wrong. All I can do is press on and struggle to survive, as I have been reminded of on so many occasions. To dwell, is bad for the soul. After all, that is all anyone can do, to move forward. The rain falls upon the just and the unjust. We all suffer. We're all equals, in the end.

I am Kaniehti:io. Or Ziio, as most would call me. I am of the Kanien'Keha:ka tribe, the Mohawks. And this, this is my story.

It all happened so quickly, all of it. The man, Haytham Kenway, infiltrated the Southfort Gate with his co-conspirators and he set my people and I free. But it was for a price. I was to help him. He was a man with a unique perspective on life. A Templar. A man of the Order. He didn't even need to say it, really. I knew his kind, the type who were strong and loyal. But I knew nothing of his Order. And the way he spoke, the way he kept his heart close to his chest, it was enough for me. And it was hard for me to resist trying to get through to him, to try and break down those barriers. I wanted to understand him.

I assumed he'd had a hard life, that he'd lost his family. I could look into his eyes and I saw pain. For a long while, there was only pain. But, things began to change and when he looked at me, there was something else. It was a spark. A spark of life, of attraction, of a desire that would be against the laws of his own people to fulfill. But it would have been so easy. The moment I met him, I knew he would be trouble. They were always trouble, the white men. But somehow, he was different. He was altogether a completely different kind of trouble. He was the kind of trouble that a woman runs to because she wants it. That's what scared me the most. I wanted him.

You see, when I met him, everything changed. I never thought I'd fall in love. And never in a million years did I think I've ever meet someone whom I felt a burning desire for, or even something as basic as a need to make them happy or get to know them. A friend. A lover. I never thought I'd find that in a man. Not everyone does. Very few people ever find a man that they truly, truly and with everything in their heart, love. There are many different kinds of love but among them, that kind, that kind is rare.

It was like as if found my place in this great world when I met him and really got to know him. And suddenly, everything made sense. My place was to be by his side. I just knew it.

With him. Always with him.

And since then, I've always migrated toward him. His nearness is calming, to say the least. I know he has his own agenda and his own plan for things, for the future. But, after all, he rescued my people from captivity and he's shown me nothing but kindness. Of course, yes, despite the fact that he couldn't even pronounce my name correctly, he's a good man. These white men, they have too many chiefs, but he's made a name for himself. He's tough. He's a warrior, in my eyes, even if he's from another "tribe", you could say. But I respect that about him.

He doesn't, and he never once has treated me as if I were dirt. He believes us all to be equals in the eyes of God, his God, our Gods. It's all the same to him. My heart beats the same way that his does, and the same blood that runs through his veins is the very same throughout my own, and we breathe the very same air. There's no difference. Not to me, not to him. Maybe that's why I'm so drawn to him, because he's so open-minded and so honest about the way he views life and the occupants of this earth. He's rather down to earth, as my mother would have said.

I took a chance the night he'd gotten into that bar fight, overhearing the Regulars' conversations for information on The Bulldog. He'd cut his face and I just couldn't resist. I never can, as my mother also used to say. Quite often, in fact. Call it a downfall of mine.

We'd been so close, he and I. I'd wiped his face with a cloth that had whiskey on it, if only to clean it as best as I could. He never even argued. And those eyes, those eyes could have been the death of me. I think he knew, then. At least some part of him did. It warmed my heart when he thanked me, too. There was a gentleness to him right then. His expression, the way he leaned into my hand as I cleaned his cheek. Everything about that moment felt perfect.

So much was still to happen, things I had both control and no control over. And in hindsight, I was naive in some ways. I didn't realize the damage men could do. All I was focused on was fighting the white man, fighting The Bulldog himself. I was a warrior. It was my job. Unlike my people, I wanted to take a stand. To make a difference and a change, for the better, one has to stand up for themselves. And each person is his own judge. I just couldn't sit back and do nothing. But it wasn't just me. I had Haytham by my side. He was the catalyst.