I absolutely love Shay and quickly beating Haytham as my favorite Templar (gasp), and what better what to celebrate his (fictional) birthday than a story dedicated to him. I thought of an OC as his daughter and I can't get her out of my mind. I may or may not make a full fanfiction about her. However, enjoy this one-shot for now. I hope you enjoy!

Oh, yes, this is dedicated to my beta and friend, MiserableCreature, who is always an inspiration to my writing!

I was born on the twelfth of December, the year of 1763. I was told it had been a very cold winter, and since it was Nova Scotia, the conditions were beyond harsh. I had spent the first several days—no, weeks—of my life fighting for my survival. It did not help that I was small infant. But I fought with all the strength my little body had, and I had been able to see the light of spring. At least that's what Mother told me.

She relished my fighting spirit. She was a pirate. Former pirate, at least. She had been part of the infamous Jack Reed's crew. Father rescued her from the ruins of a sea battle and welcomed her on his ship, despite the fact she was a woman. I can only assume one thing led to another, and I was conceived. They married at some time, too, but I don't know if it was before or after my birth. They never told me of the ceremony. I doubt they had one.

I was raised in the large manor my Father had purchased in Nova Scotia. He had kept another estate in New York and used it for business, but my family preferred the quiet isolation than the crowded business of the city. I don't know how frequent he was in the first few years of my life, but I clearly remembered his presence when I was a little older. When I became seven, he returned to stay with Mother and me for a couple years to rest from his weary travels. And he began to teach me.

How to fight. How to sail. How to run. And he planned to make the most of those two years, so he was not easy. I remember my first lessons of swordplay. Instead of traditionally starting with wooden sticks, Father immediately started with steel swords. The man had explained he saw it stupid to adjust to the weight of something light, and then to waste time readjusting to something completely new. The swords were so dull they couldn't possibly hurt anyone and Father took great care to be gentle (though I still spent most of the lessons whimpering in pain).

How to sail was much easier and natural. Father first taught me basic knots, but over time they became more and more complicated. But because of it I could secure a rigging and release a sail faster than a veteran sailor. He then taught me about cargo storage and how to load a canon. Navigation came the quickest, Father even letting me steer his prized Morrigan through the rivers of the land. As part of that lesson the captain tried to teach me to predict the wind and weather. He warned there was no such thing as mastering it and Mother Nature would always be unpredictable, especially in the North, but it was a nice trait to have. But to predict weather just from glancing at the sky was hard, and I was still learning. However it was more than clear I had inherited my parents' sea-legs and by my eighth birthday I could do as much as a small crew.

Another activity I relished was hunting. I'll admit it had manifested by mere chance. Father was an experienced hunter and even though he had come to be with his family, he would still take hunting trips into the frontier. I convinced him to take me with him. But there was so much an eight-year-old could do. But Father tried his best, teaching me how to track an animal and skin it when it was killed. I was too small to hold any sort of weapon, so I just had to observe him shooting game with his air rifle. Naturally I learned more than hunting skill on those trips, learning how to survive in the wild and to climb through the trees.

At first it was a little hard, but I quickly adapted, my small body still eager to learn how to move. My father had laughed at my climbing, commenting I looked like a squirrel. But I was able to keep up with him though when we decided to fly through the trees. And naturally because I spent so much time climbing trees and masts, I found myself scaling buildings, usually my family's manor. It was rusty at first, but Father had caught my one day. Instead of scolding me, he laughed again and taught me how to find leverage in even the smallest of footholds. That led to freerunning, but it was difficult with my still growing body, not yet large enough to make wide gaps and faraway footholds.

By the end of my two-year training, I had learned of the Assassins and Templars. The war between our two factions and how it had spread across history. How it continued to this very day and Father was very well part of that war, and I one day will be, too. He even told me he had been on both sides, but he judged I was too young at the time to understand the situation behind it. But I had been shown the secret side of my world, and I was fascinated by it. I was not scared, and Father didn't worry about me babbling of it. I was mature for my age and was a quiet girl, knowing how to keep a secret.

Father left then, sailing for the Old World to continue his services for the Templars. His visits would become shorter and less frequent. But I didn't mind, as I continued my training on my own, improving them as I grew older. I would spend time at the docks, practice fighting skills with dummies, and go on hunting trips of my own (but would only go after small game). Mother never minded, even when I left in the middle of the night without a word. I would usually sell what I caught from my hunts at the market or bring it back home.

And while Father had taught me the arts of war, Mother taught me much more discreet skills. Observing, stealing, and stealth. It started lightly with observation. Mother would take me to the market, and ask me to remember what I saw or to watch some person or object. I began with just glancing curiously, but then I grew to absorb my surroundings and analyze everything I came by, anticipating what my mother would ask me. Very soon I answered each question correctly. And very soon I learned how to observe without looking like I was observing at all.

She taught me another skill that most adults would die of an assaulted heart before seeing their children gain it. Theft. Once again, it was a slow process. Mother introduced it to me as a game, that we would steal each other's purses without trying to have the other notice. I picked up on it in no time at all. Mother would then have me to swipe from those who annoyed her, and I eventually practiced the art for my own amusement. Mother didn't mind as long I didn't do anything serious.

I acquired stealth on my own. It started with just child-like mischievousness. Hell, one of my earliest memories was that I had crawled out of my crib and I didn't want to get caught (that failed though when Father snatched me one room over). I would sneak around the house in order to steal a snack or with the intent of scaring my parents (it always failed, though). But instead of scolding me for my behavior, my parents, especially Mother, encouraged it. As I grew older, she even gave me tips how to control my movements and noise.

By the time I was twelve, I was much more active and talented than any child of my age. I saw little of it. It was just before my twelfth birthday when Father returned after almost a two-year trip abroad. He looked both exhausted and excited at the same time. One night when he was home, I eavesdropped on a conversation he had with Mother late at night, both of them believing I was asleep.

"The Assassins have gone through a lot of trouble hiding that Box," Father said. "But I finally found a trail. It won't be long now. Maybe another year."

I was curious to what he was talking about, and what exactly "the Box" was. But if he mentioned Assassins, if must be part of a Templar mission. And based on his tone, it must have been a big mission. Perhaps that's why he was gone so long?

But this time I wouldn't have to go through the disappointment of my father leaving again. Because I was going with him.

He decided it was my "birthday present." We sailed across the ocean on the Morrigan, which my father still owned after these years. He said he would rather be gutted than leave his prized possession "to rot under the watch of some drunken harbormaster." It wasn't that he was possessive over the ship, but she was his first and only, as well as the greatest of her kind. It wasn't meant to be cast aside. He reacquainted me on combat and nautical skills, which I passed flawlessly. During the journey he cared to tell me about what to expect in Europe, but I already had an idea. Mother had gone through great pains to give me a high-level education, sometimes even visiting Master Kenway for special lessons.

Now a year has passed, and I sensed Father's long mission was about to draw to end. I still didn't know what it concerned over and I wouldn't be able to see it myself, but I knew. He had left early that morning with a Mr. Benjamin Franklin to visit the Palace of Versailles. A decadent place, Father called it. But Mr. Franklin seemed to be a kind man. I met him briefly when Father decided to bring him to where we were staying under the banner of friendship. Until they returned, I was on my own.

…At least now I was.

Father had left me under the watch of Charles de la Motte, whom I highly suspected was a Templar agent. Father knew I was more than capable of taking care of my own, so why he assigned me a babysitter was beyond me. Especially la Motte. The man stood like a statue, barely batting me a glance or twitching a muscle. My attempts of starting a conversation usually ended with grunts or one-syllable words. However escaping him had been quite easy. I was glad to be rid of his watch.

Now I walked through the cobblestone streets of Paris that were full of activity, observing the beauty of the city. There was absolutely nowhere in the British colonies that was like this place. Europe was completely a different world for me. I drank it in, wanting to etch every single detail of the exotic realm into my memory.

…All the while snatching the purse of a French soldier.

I immediately took off, eager to continue my tour of the city. However the man caught my movement in the corner of his eye and noticed the absence of weight on his belt.

"Oi!"

The soldier and his companion launched after me, yelling curses and insults. I only laughed. I ducked around the corner and flew down a paved road. Townspeople were to jump out of the way or be shoved to the ground. The guards yelled for requests for the people to stop me, only for them to stay put and stare in confusion. I swore I could hear the men's frustrated groans.
Very quickly I found myself in the local market, cramped with merchants and their merchandise along with consumers. Startled yells filled the air as I crashed through it all: shoving past unsuspecting customers, tearing through open-air shops, leaping over barriers, and even throwing down crates to slow my pursuers. I didn't give a damn what was in my way. And while I had flown through the marketplace in a matter of seconds (all the while leaving a path of destruction in my wake), the soldiers had a much more difficult time pushing though the busy square. Didn't help it was the busiest part of the day.

I ducked behind another corner, this time whirling to face the wall. My body moving on its own, I leapt up and clung onto the side of the building. Defying gravity, I scampered up the trail of microscopic footholds in no time flat. I had just slipped onto the roof by the time the French soldiers came around. Instead of running away, I turned back to glance down at them as they halted, whipping around for any trace of me. I cackled.

Finally one of the guards had the sense to glance up to lock gazes with me, his own narrowing dangerously. He shouted and I dashed away from the edge. I began to soar across the rooftops, sprinting across buildings in flying speeds and leaping across gaps with open arms. Paris was far denser than colonist cities, even New York. The buildings were even more complex and taller, too, having me dodge around chimneys and scramper up steep slanted roofs. But I was grateful for the ascended landscape because it wasn't very long at all before the soldiers yells faded behind me.

With another laugh, I pushed myself off a wall at an angle, snatching a piece of a roof that was out of my reach. I hauled myself to the top of the building, panting slightly and the wind ruffling my loose pitch-black hair. As I walked across the shingles, the view I had taking my breath away.

The dying sun illuminated the sky and gave the city of Paris a gorgeous glow, drawing out every detail and beauty of the land. A forest of buildings of all sizes and shapes spanned as far as the eyes could see, stretching to every horizon. A few splashes of green from trees and gardens gleamed in the sunlight adding color to the foreign landscape, which was already splashed with paint. I could see how it was considered the most beautiful city in the world.

But it was when I turned around what really took my interest. It was a gigantic building, broader than any I've seen and towering far above the buildings surrounding it. The exterior was decorated in gothic design. Each edge seemed to be carefully carved, from the railings stretching across it to the over a dozen gargouilles acting as sentries over Paris. Stain-glassed windows made-up almost the entire front, designed with such care that it told it could only be a church. The loud, echoing gong of the bells only confirmed its purpose, ringing from the tall, twin towers extending from the roof.

Notre-Dame.

Whatever breath I had was stolen. I was told it was utterly beautiful, but I had no idea… Nothing in America compared to this. And it was so big…

Suddenly a grin slowly curled my lips. What was it like at the top? If the city skyline was beautiful at this level, what did it look like even higher? And I was even more eager to climb it. It certainly looked like a challenge. By now my grin looking devilish, I made my way to the ground. I slid down the roof to fall expertly onto the overhang of a store before leaping onto an abandoned carriage. I landed on my haunches before bouncing onto the ground. My feet were once again on solid stone, I glanced around the courtyard that was already filled with people, but not a soul had seen my folly. Ducking my head, I walked away to find a secluded area to begin my climb. A pair of women's voices stopped me. They spoke in French, but both of my parents knew the language and taught me as well. Well, as least Mother did; Father just corrected me if I made a mistake.

"What? A murder in Versailles?" a woman practically shrieked.

I stopped dead. Versailles? Wasn't Father there?

"Yes," the other nodded frantically. "He was perfectly fine one moment and then—dead! Bleeding on the floor in front of an entire crowd!"

The first one moaned. "What has this world come to? If not even the King's castle is safe then what place is?"

The woman hummed in agreement. As quickly as the conversation started, the pair used to comment to change to subject to complain of their indolent monarch. I was still frozen, however. What of Father? Had he been at the murder? Was he the murder? I immediately shook the notion out of my head. No. Almost everything I knew came from Father. He was the one who taught me how to defend myself, because he know how to better than anyone. After all, he was a former Assassin.

I sighed, calming myself down before I became overexcited. Father was fine. I knew it. I continued on back to my task, wanting to continue my exploration. After I climb the church, then I'll consider returning. Father did promise to return by nightfall, after all.

I traveled the side of the grand building near the rear. This spot was covered in shadow as the sun hid behind the building. My dark clothing blended well, but it gave an ominous feel to the cemetery behind me, resting in the shadow of the holy structure. I glanced around to see if anyone was watching me, only to see a pair of drunks collapsed on the ground, babbling intelligibly. I was fine.

Planting the sole of my boot on the stone, I practically ran up the wall to cling to the still of a fancy window. I craned my neck upwards to see the dark building towering far above me, almost looking like it was touching the sky. It didn't look this tall before! No, I could do it. It was no different than anything I had done. And if I already accomplished so much in my life at the age of thirteen, climbing a stupid church would be no harder. After all, one must make their own luck.

I grinned again, still knowing if I did reach the top, it would be quite an accomplishment. Maybe I could tell Father. Knowing him, he would be quite proud. But then again, I would have to explain about la Motte and how I gotten there in the first place…

"Helena."

…Speak of the Devil and he shall appear.

I stopped my climb, which only made the altitude of ten feet. I glanced down to see a familiar figure.

"Yes, athair?" I greeted in our native tongue of Irish.
Shay Patrick Cormac stood the street where I had been only a matter of seconds ago, staring up at me. He wore his elegant clothing that would make a French nobleman jealous. A finely decorated brown coat wrapped around his body, neatly buttoned at his waist. However the coat opened just enough to show blue undershirt, the same shade of the calm Atlantic Ocean. Tall boots came to his calf, swallowing up his black trousers. A belt of ammunitions was wrapped around his waist with a pair of well-crafted flintlocks clipped to his side. The man's graying-black hair was tied back, exposing a now ghostly-pale scar across his right eye. It was like looking into a mirror as I stared into his dark eyes, which were identical to mine.

My father waved his fingers in a gesture. "Come down."

So much for my exploration. I ignored my rising adrenaline and anticipation as I retreated down a couple footholds before dropping to the ground altogether. I turned to my father as he neared me. I winced as I saw his inscrutable expression. I hated that expression. Or lack of one, really. It wasn't that it meant a harsh anger was brewing, but that I didn't know what was brewing. There was no way to tell what Father was thinking or what he would say when he looked like that. He was no more unpredictable.

"What are you doing, iníon?" Shay interrogated in the same way.

I ignored my nervousness and smiled innocently. I replied in French. "Nothing."

Shay cocked an eyebrow. He followed along. "You were supposed to be with la Motte."

I opened my mouth to reply, but stuttered when I couldn't find an appropriate lie. One in French, at least. Now Father tilted his head.

"Have nothing to say?" the Templar chided, reverting back to English.

I stuttered again before I gave up with a shake of my head. "I have nothing."

Now his stoic mask broke to narrow his eyes in a scolding glare. His voice went darker. "I told you behave."

"I was! It wasn't my fault the man was a cac!"

"Watch your language. Where is he?"

"…Somewhere in the Le Louvre."

Father sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. My throat constricted, but that wasn't an issue as suddenly a pressure enveloped my body as my father pulled me into an embrace. I felt his chin on the top of my head.

"You foolish child," he whispered in a fake hiss. "What will I do with you?"

I smiled into his chest. "You could make me into a Templar."

"Hmm. I'll consider it. But keep this up and you'll be a deck-hand."

I looked up to him with a look of horror. "You wouldn't."

Shay raised his eyebrows with a grin.

"You would?"

Father gave an amused snort as he released me and settled next to my side, his arm around my shoulder. I let him usher me down the street. We would usually fall into a comfortable silence, but instead I glanced up at him uncertainly as the women's conversation haunted my thoughts.

"How was Versailles, father?" I asked him.

"Rather dull, truth be told," Shay replied, his tone matching his words.

My uncertainty grew. Dull? Not according to the women. I paused for a moment and I found my mouth to be strangely dry. "Athair, I heard there was a murder at the Palace today."

Shay raised his eyebrows in surprise, but the rest of his body didn't respond.

"Oh? I didn't see anything like that."

"Weren't you there?"

"Not for very long. I must have missed the excitement. Good thing I did."

I forced a smile. "You make your own luck, after all."

Shay gave a light laugh, but I was still unsure. He appeared too nonchalant, even for him. Could he be lying? I decided not to push it, knowing it wouldn't do anything. I listened as the Irishman went on, though.

"Paris must be becoming a dangerous place if there is death in the King's palace," he commented. "Maybe it's be a good time to leave."

"Maybe we'll return to Mother?" I suggested.

While Father and I left for Europe, my mother remained on our estate in Nova Scotia. She could handle herself, but I was eager to see her again. However Shay only frowned.

"There's a civil war in the colonies right now," he informed. "It may not be the best time."

Immediately I was filled with worry. "What of máthair?"

"As far as I can tell, the fighting hasn't reached Nova Scotia. But if it worsens, I'll pay for her passage to join us."

I immediately sighed in relief. Mother was safe. But my worry found a replacement. I looked back to Father. "What about Master Kenway and all the others?"

I had heard Master Johnson was dead, murdered by Indians. Then it was Major Pitcairn, who was lost to the rebels. Who else was dead? Father's frown deepened, obviously sharing my concern. He would never admit it, though.

"They'll be fine," he assured in a cool voice. He made it lighter as he looked down at me. "Do you question Master Kenway?"

I immediately shook my head. Master Haytham Kenway was the Grand Master of the Templar Colonial Rite, being its most skilled and intelligent member. He was a cold and distant man, but he was quite kind. My father was one of his favorite subordinates, and so he adored me. I remember he would give me chocolate whenever I visited, knowing it was my only weakness. Master Kenway would be fine. Nothing could defeat him.

"Oh, iníon," Father's voice suddenly came, breaking my thoughts.

I hummed as he pulled his arm away from me. My confusion was quickly replaced by horror as the French soldier's purse appeared in Shay's hand.

"Where did this come from?"

Sorry if it was a little dull, but this was mostly to introduce my character. I even found a theme song for her. It's called "Prophecy" by Adrian von Zieglar. Haha, it's Celtic but I swear it fits Helena so well.
I also thought it would be fun to have Helena and Shay speak some Irish. I'm only using short phrases and I confess I'm using Google Translate, so if I happen to make a mistake, I apologize.
Translations:
athair – father
iníon – daughter
máthair – mother
cac – shit