Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or the storyline. This is only my take on a canon scene.
When out of breath and out of trees with which her fleet and lightly booted feet can rest like thunder on the branches —- for the snow slows her down significantly: to the same pace as the man pursuing her —-, the native finally allows the chase to end. She had learned long ago that she should not waste her breath on efforts that will not come of any use —- and in the long run, as far as she can see, running from him will make no difference. He, she has determined, is the strong, enduring type: he will not so easily give up a chase, perhaps not even if his lungs burned from the angry fire of a thousand spirits. Even then, he might likely think of it as a passable obstacle.
And so she stops, out of breath herself even as someone so accustomed to life in the shivering winds and running great stretches across the vast frontier, and turns to see what has him so hung on the pursuit. Her eyes blaze with passion: a great irritation lurks there, and perhaps even some anger —- for what reason does he seek her now? After all this time, all this silence, in which she had not attempted any contact, what reason does he have to seek her against her will?
Those fateful words slip easily from her tongue before she even has a chance to swallow them back down. "Are you touched in the head?"
But he seems utterly out of breath, exhausted. Whereas she stands quite content but for a faint pang in her lungs at each breath, his breathing is heavy and labored. How he had not given up on his attempts at braving the almost knee-high snow is beyond even her understanding.
His answer comes in broken fragments, interrupted by staggered gasps. "Me… Haytham… I come in peace…"
He comes in pieces. The Kanien'kehá:ka woman regards him immediately with disdain, a contempt sneer threatening to curl her nostrils —- they twitch already in anticipation at her crude expression, but she tames it back down. Another man of the colonies under the crude assumption that her people do not understand his language. Most of the people of her village know little to nothing but for the ruthless soldiers who threaten to encroach upon their land each day —- the language of those who harm the frontier makes little difference to them. But she: she had learned in her younger years the vocabulary she had needed in order to properly move amongst and hold her own against the colonists. Her sharpened mind can unscramble two tongues and harness them for her own good.
And now, this man thinks to throw away all that she has learned in favor of a more accepted view.
"Why. Are. You. Speaking. So. Slow?" she shoots back, throwing her arms wide, as if to accentuate her displeasure at the assumption. Surprise.
Doubled over in an attempt to catch his breath, the man named Haytham breathes out an unintelligible syllable before quickly repenting: "Sorry."
She purses her lips, her brow furrowing. The ordeal has passed —- he has paid his penance for his thoughtless introduction, and so satiated the anger in her mind. Both her body and her mind are now settled closer to their normal states, though not at all completely: enough for her to begin to think. And with that thought is a sudden question:
"What do you want?" He must have sought her out and remained so adamant for a reason.
He looks startled. "Well —- your name, for one."
She waits for the second desire, but that one never comes. Perhaps he is still trying to catch his breath after his long trek through the snow. She had, after all, given him quite the exertion. "I am Kaniehtí:io."
Bewilderment turns to a respect nod and a somewhat content acceptance. "Well, pleased to meet you g—…"
Oh no.
"—- gdz-z —- godz-zi —"
She lets out a sigh so loud it causes a twinge in her chest —- a reminder that the pain hasn't quite subsided. "Just call me Ziio."
"Diio."
Wrong. "—- ZIIO." She can hardly believe he cannot pronounce such a simple name ( a nickname ! ): even her truer name comes easily to her.
Evidently, he cannot believe a different thing. She can only assume that he believed he had spoken her name correctly the first time, but no —- her keen ears had not detected that simple buzz at the beginning that a drawn tongue can successfully form, and therefore he had pronounced her name wrongly.
"… Zii… — o."
Ah, now comes the proper and more reserved answer. Satisfied, Kaniehtí:io straightens herself back to her proper height, her eyes finally straying across the straps along his figure. From his shoulders to his waist runs a long familiar strap: likely to hold the sheath of the sword whose hilt she can see protruding visibly from his side. His robes, too, have, in the short time that she has known of him at all, become an iconic mark in her mind —- though not so much as his hat. She has seen many a person wear a hat like it, yet the tricorn never fails to pique her curiosity, for to her yet vastly unlearnéd mind, it is an unusual sensation to try and imagine such things on top of her own head. She prefers the wind through her hair, instead of the heavy feeling over her head.
She tilts her head to the side at long last, gaze moving back up to seek his face. "Now tell me why it is you're here."
Haytham's hand moves to his side, and she immediately braces for the worst. Is this how she must meet her end: chased by a man whom she had allowed to catch up with her? Dead from the shot of a quick pistol? She had seen far too many of her own people fall to the weapons of thunder: knows what impact they have: knows that the pistols can fell far more people than can her people and their swords and spears: knows that she hates how helpless she is against certain death at the end of the barrel. A little knife does nothing against a weapon that ranges so widely.
But no —- it is not a pistol he withdraws, but an amulet. Her keen eyes immediately focus on the round thing, tracing the indents and symbols in silence. The tension that her mind has built around her falls almost as soon as she realizes the familiarity of those markings. Recognition brings an old comfort, and before she can check her actions, she has reached out to grab it from him. Lowering her head, she brings it closer to her face.
Ah, but she has seen the markings before, and she knows truly that she is not mistaken. Since she was a child, she had seen the markings: her mother had taken her to visit the sacred temple.
"We protect these grounds," she had said, the first time she had ever brought her there, "so that others do not find them and use them against us. We live here to keep watch over it. Our village is needed on these lands, so that this temple does not come to any harm. You must remember, Kaniehtí:io, for some day you, too, will lead our clan and protect this land."
Since then, she had made it a habit to traverse the lands nearby. Every once in a while, she steps foot in the cave and studies the patterns on the walls. They are beautiful —- just like the amulet that rests in her palm now. But it had never once occurred to her that such patterns could be found elsewhere.
"Where did you get this?"
"From an old friend."
She turns the amulet in her hand. The markings are repeated on the back: mirror images of those strange, beautiful markings from the temple. "I've only seen such markings in one other place…"
"Where?" Eager.
"Well…" She will not tell him, even at the risk of disappointing him. Iottsitíson and her story must never be discovered. "It is forbidden for me to speak of it."
"I saved your people —- does this mean nothing to you?!"
She does nothing to call the anger from her heart, and yet she feels it flare like sparks in her chest. It is a common instinct that she has harbored since childhood to become incensed at even the slightest indignation from anyone else. Her heart has been hardened over the years, weather-beaten and worn, and her mind has become even more prone to outbursts of fury.
Of course it means something to her, that he had freed her people from the bindings of the slavetraders ( for how could she forget that he, of all people, was the man who had donned the red uniform and rescued her from a merciless ending? ). Her people, also, are grateful. His accusation is unnecessary —- if he truly thinks that, then there should be no reason to tell him anything. If he believes that merely sparing her life should grant him access to such a sacred place, then he is sorely mistaken.
The irritation must have twisted her features, for she is soon interrupted by a tone of voice bordering on apologetic.
"Look… " From the corner of her eye, she sees him move. "I am not the enemy."
She lifts her head to look back at him. The way he stands now certainly lends the expression that he is no enemy. Empty hands and a cocked head give her that much. A short search of the man's eyes tell her that he must be serious —- no liar can gaze at her for so long and hold that same expression.
Watching him now, Kaniehtí:io can only hold her glare for so long before she finally feels her own expression. And, soon enough, the corners of her mouth twitch: she cannot help but to smile now. Not the enemy —- she'll put it to the test.
She looks back down at the amulet. Perhaps —- if he shows her that his words are true —- she CAN show him the temple. But that won't be so soon for him. Now, her quick mind works at a plan, for her own sake; he has come at precisely the right time.
"Close to here there is a hill." She lifts her eyes again. "Meet me there, and we'll see if you speak the truth." And with that, she turns around, clutching the amulet in her palm. The Bulldog's men are waiting for them.