A story entirely inspired by the heart-warming 2000 animated short-film called Father and Daughter.


A Father's Heart - though it made be tough, hard and mean, its touch is gentle and purposeful. That is the Father's Heart.


I don't know when the task for my Father's disappearance was announced, but I knew he had to leave me soon.

After he had spoken with the other Templar men in the room, within the chateau settled in England, he came back to his own quarters where I was waiting for him. I was 7-years-old that time, sitting at his desk and waiting up for him to read me another bedtime story on another fictitious tale of fools and kings. When he came back to his room, I instantly noticed a heavy gloom shadowing his elder face.

He looked pale from news that Reginald had given him. Although he would live up to the expectation, something told me otherwise about his newest destination and task at hand. It made me not ask him to read me a story that night. I pulled back to ask, but then, his eyes met with mine, and he gave me a small, sweet smile, and asked if he wanted me to continue reading the story he held off from yesterday. I said yes, and he read the story to me once more.

He read it a while longer than usual. With him next to me on the bedside, with one arm wrapped around my shoulders to bring me closer to his side, he read the story on and on again, not stopping on a chapter, like he would usually do nightly. My head rested against the front of his shoulder, with my tiny arms wrapped around his chest and back, with my eyes still open, as I listened to his heavy voice continuing the story, until it finally ended. I listened to him carefully, and knew something was bothering him. Whatever Reginald told him made him somber. It was like feeling a brick weighing on your heart, when you knew something was wrong.

And then that same night, he told me what was wrong.

He was going to leave for America soon.

I wanted to cry, hearing the terrible news. I wished I hadn't asked, yet I still desperately wanted to know. Tears prickled at my big, puppyish eyes as I gave him the most upset look I had ever shown. If he were leaving for America, leaving England... that meant he was leaving me, too. I didn't want to accept that. Being persistent and almost nagging, I begged him to stay and let someone else take on the task. I still wouldn't shed those tears, but he could see them visible filling up in my eyes. My face was pink from becoming flushed out of confusion and anger, wanting to blame Reginald as much as I wanted to, for sending my Father away from me.

But Father didn't want me to be mad. He still wanted to do this task, to find this hidden storehouse, and the ones that 'ruled, reign, and vanish from the world.' I didn't know what that meant. I thought he was talking about dead people once. It was silly, but it's what I thought he meant. As much as I wanted him to reconsider, I knew that he would be way too hard-headed to give in. When Father's mind was set on something, there was no going back on what he aimed to do.

I felt defeated when he firmly stated another time that he wasn't going to give up on this quest. I then retreated to my room and finally let the tears fall.

On the day of his departure, I wanted to go and see him leave.

He was traveling by ship, with a crew of pirates that were also heading out for America. The trip to the docks in the stagecoach was awfully silent and uncomfortable. Even if my Father were prepared to leave, and I was prepared to say my goodbye, there was still something lingering in our orbit. Something missing, it felt like. As if I had left too soon, and whatever important I left behind couldn't be retrieved, because I was too far-gone to go back for it. It felt like heaviness weighing on my tiny shoulders.

But then, in the middle of our ride to the docks, my father lifted his head up to meet my eyes. His eyes were dark with rambling thoughts, but I knew he wanted to say something to me. I just connected my eyes with his, and awaited for what he wanted to say.

"Johanna," Father spoke up to me with a quiet tone. "It's not as if I will completely disconnect from you, you know. I will always write letters to you."

That sounded assuring to me, slightly lifting me from the dark cloud that was pouring sad thoughts on me. My eyes sparkled some, as hope, but not enough to be convinced. "... It's not the same." I remember responding, with my squeaky voice of a 7-year-old's. "You won't be here."

He nodded silently to that. "I know." He only said, not sure of what else to convince me of saying.

But I wanted to ask a serious question this time now. "Daddy," I twisted my small hands together thoughtfully, nervously. "... How long will you be gone?"

He paused. I could see it physically. He glanced at the window of the coach for a moment to repress his thoughts, but I knew too well of what the outcome would be.

We just left that in silence. I knew he wouldn't come back...

At the docks, watching as other older and elder men were boarding the ship, with shipmates loading up the lower deck with goods and anything else they may have purchased widely on their newest destination, I watched as Father had let a pirate lad take his luggage and carry it up on the ship. I stood out of the stagecoach, walking towards the boarding steps up to the ship, watching my Father silently exchange words with Captain Smythe.

After their brief conversation, the Captain boarded onto the ship first, while my Father came back to me to exchange our last goodbyes. He knelt down to my height and embraced me tight, kissing me on the side of my forehead. When I embraced him back, with my arms tingling with sadness, I knew I had to let him go. As much as it ached inside my heart to let Father go, I knew I had to.

When he pulled away and stood upright, he turned and started for the boarding steps of the ship. Before he took a step onto the boarding, he paused, staring up at the vessel, and then looked over his shoulder at me. His brows were raised and expression full of purpose. My eyes welded in more tears when I saw his gray eyes meet with mine, but all I did was wipe my sleeve over my eyes to stop them from watering up further.

Father then ran back to me, with a warming smirk quirked on his old features, scooping me up in his arms fast to pick me from the ground. He embraced me once again, and I desperately hugged him back, with my arms around his shoulders and my head nuzzled close to the side of his neck. He twirled around once with me in his arms, his head pressed close to mine, whispering something to me before he squeezed his large arms around my torso.

"I love you, poppet." He smiled widely, eyes closed, as he still held me up.

I let my tears stream once more, sniffling and making a small laugh. "I love you more."

"I love you most." He retorted, full of heart and mind. His voice - I miss so much. He gave me a hard kiss on the forehead once more, making me giggle sheepishly as he did. He then pulled away to press my forehead against his. My bright green eyes met with dark voids, as I could almost see the glowing warmth of my Father's golden heart shine bright in the darkness. Eyes that gave me courage, I felt. Always the feeling of accomplishment and strength I needed most.

I childishly thought before that Father wanted to leave because of me. But then and there, I knew he still loved me with all his heart and might.

My Father's heart. I would remember it always.


Days felt like years, as they dragged on at a snail's pace.

When my Father had left England that day, I watched at the docks to look on at the departure. I didn't know if my Father was looking back or not. The ship was distancing itself so far off, it was hard to make out whether someone was standing at the railing of the ship or not. But all I knew was that my Father was on that ship. He left me, I knew, but it didn't discourage me.

Since he left, I had vowed to wait for him.

Everyday, after school, I would go back to the same docks Father left, and sit on the pier and watched the wide opened sea before me, awaiting for any familiar ship to come back to England and return Father. I was just 7-years-old at the time, yet I was mature enough to understand the long, long wait for his arrival back home. It would be the longest wait I had ever made... yet I would remain loyal, sit put, and wait. I think I would wait at the pier for hours, until it was darkening to a twilight's time. When it became too dark out to see, with just a dim light of a dying sun from beyond the ocean, I would get up and head back home.

Home... I had no siblings. I didn't have a Mother, either. Instead, I remained in the chateau Reginald owned. Other Templar men stayed in the massive mansion as well, but I knew to steer clear from their paths. As much as Father did worked alongside these loyal Templar men, he always warned me to stay away from them, if he weren't home to be at my side. I followed his words as if he were still there, and just stayed as a good girl, never bothering and never intruding on their conversations.

But I decided to start something my Father did when he were home. He wrote down all his bottled words into a journal. I would usually see him jotting down his thoughts into a journal, while I would be studying my grammar from school assessment. I was always curious to know what he wrote, but he told me to never snoop on other people's journals. When I became older, he promised to let me read his journal. I nodded to that, I remember.

When I began writing into my new journal I received from school, it felt a little better to write down all my own bottled thoughts. I liked writing, so this was a better way to sharpen my skill on English.

I wrote about the usual things a young girl would go through. School, home troubles, friends, outings, and what I did for the day.

One thing I knew I would repeatedly jot down into my journal pages were; I waited for Father at the pier today again.

I think writing into that journal made the months feel shorter. My thoughts written down to relieve some of the hidden stress I would feel, and the worry of school. I wouldn't talk to Reginald about the thoughts I had stored in my head. As much as my Father looked to him as a Mentor, I wouldn't find his presence so... nice. Reginald was a stern man, that wanted perfection and success. I didn't flow on the path of perfection - like anyone else couldn't - and it made me want to back away from the man, as much as I could. I was no student of his, nor would I be. My Father was my teacher, and I, a willing student.

For the past few months that went by quietly and uncomfortably, I had done the same routine everyday for my new life-cycle. Wake up, get ready for school. Go to school, get all my work done. School was out, walk to the docks, and wait at the pier for Father. When it was dark out, go back home, do homework, and then sleep. Same little cycle I did everyday, minding my own business, as the others did.

Until one day, a messenger arrived to the chateau, and said he had a letter for me from a Haytham Kenway.

I was so excited to read his letter. It's been four months! This was the first letter from him.

My dearest poppet,

How are you? Are you well? Are you keeping up with school and studying, as I hope you are?

I am fine where I am. America is awfully different - let me tell you. Boston is nothing compared to home. People are no different here, I assure you. It's rather dull and boring, but I still press on with my task. Do you remember the list of men that sympathize to our cause? Well, I met them. A strange bunch of men, I should tell you. One of the oddest being the man called Charles Lee. He's... alright? If you were here and met the man, I knew you would feel as equally awkward as I do. But, he's loyal, I'll give him that. Loyal as any man could ever be to our mission.

But I am still wondering how you are, my dear. You are well, I hope? It feels wrong of me to not be at your side. I worry constantly about you. There isn't a day that doesn't go by without you on my mind. It's only been months, yet it already feels like years. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, the quote had said in that book I read you. It wasn't lying. Write me back whenever you can, poppet. I'll continue writing to you on my end.

I love you,
Father.

Since that letter, I had begun my own messages responding back. It was amazing to read my Father's familiar hand-writing one again. Just knowing that he could write me back was precious to me. I wanted to keep the connection alive. I wrote down everything I had boggled in my mind.

Dear Father,

Gosh, it's been months since I last heard from you!

I'm doing all right here on my end. My school is allowing me to work with a music Mentor that will teach me violin. I want to play too many songs we always hear from the opera. Remember the last one we went to, before you were sent away? I wanted to play that song. It's really odd over here, without you. I steer clear from the other men in the chateau as you said, and none had dared to speak to me since you've been gone. Lonely without speaking to someone here, but, I still have friends in school to talk to, so I guess it's all right.

Yes, I remember the listed men on that paper. Charles Lee is a funny name. Tell him I said that! It'll be funny! Are THEY being nice to you, Father? If they aren't, I'll kick their butts, if you want. I'm strong, too. Just like you.

Do you know when you'll be home? Is it soon? I miss you lots. Tell me when you'll be able to come home the next time you write me, okay?!

I love you more,
- Johanna

When my letter was mailed, I continued my daily routine life. I waited patiently for Father to come home, or waited for another letter to arrive at the docks. I was overeager for his response on when he would be able to come back home.

We wrote to each other here and there, monthly. Since we were apart by so many months or how ever many miles by ocean, receiving mail was always painfully agonizing to sit and wait for. I was always happy to hear that another letter was brought to the chateau by the courier. Every time it were the first day of a different month, I would wait for any mail to arrive. I always had my own letter, while Reginald or any other man in the house had their own. I wouldn't usually show my own letters I received from Father, though. Natural reflex to stay clear from the other Templar men.

We wrote to each other for three years. Until one day, Father stopped writing back to me.


Days were becoming months. Months were becoming years. I was getting older.

Haytham Kenway, my Father, left home when I was 7-years-old. Everyday, after school, I would go to the pier at the docks, and sit there at the edge with my feet dangling down the pier, as I would wait and wait for a ship to come ashore. Days I would just feel as if it would become hopeless to wait for Father, but I didn't like to give in. Not yet. I knew he had to come home. He couldn't stay in America forever, could he? No, that was silly.

I remained loyal to wait for Father's return. In the meantime for his arrival, I had done many goals in my life. I had practiced violin everyday with my music Mentor, until I was hopefully as good as any world famous composer. I hoped. I continued writing in my journal, until it was filled up with no emptied page left for me to jot down in. Then I would be given new ones from school, and would fill up those journals until I needed new ones again. Some journals were filled with my day-to-day thoughts, and some were fictitious nonsense of fictional stories I wanted to write.

Reginald found it suitable to start training me when I was 10-years-old. He didn't want me to sit around and do nothing particularly as a Templar did, so he started training me on what else my Father knew best in climbing, fighting, understanding... and falling. I wasn't as sharp as my Father, but I would try my best to not stay on Reginald's bad side. I tried harder everyday to become better. I just wished I was as good as Father.

Climbing rooftops and scaling walls were actually fun. No one else in the city knew how to do the same, so it was all amusement to see their faces churn to confusion or shock when they saw me climbing along walls and jumping roof-to-roof with ease. It wasn't proper to teach a youngling these techniques, of course, but there was no stopping me from becoming like a skilled Templar like my Father. I had even thought I was scooting closer to Reginald's good side, sometimes. I would fall back to between what he felt, though, floating here and there, to good and bad, all the time. It made no sense, but when had he ever made sense?

As my life was going forth, my determination to hear from my Father again never subsided.

I would write letters, still. Addressed to the same place he last wrote from in America, and I would still have no response. It didn't stop me. Everyday I would wait up for him at the docks, no matter what. Every time I returned to the docks, I would remember the same memory of my Father giving me one last goodbye before he left. How he embraced me tightly and kissed me on the forehead. I didn't want to give up on our bond. He was all I had left.

Workers at the pier would recognize my face every time I arrived to the docks. They would say hello, wave, talk to me, sit with me at the pier, or would offer some goods from their booths they were selling. It was very kind of them to think of me when I came around, but I didn't like taking things from others. I didn't deserve them. I would take their delightful conversations and chatters, yes, but nothing physical as an item. Perhaps I still needed friends in my life. I had lost some recently. Some died of an illness. Some just... didn't want to talk to me anymore.

At the pier, I would practice playing my violin. Before, I was atrocious with a string-instrument. It sounded like two cats dying slowly and painfully in a back alley way. I would usually get in trouble for it. But, I was becoming better, the more I tried to remember on how to be quaint with my ability, and treat the violin as if it were my soul. Sometimes I played familiar songs to myself that would usually fall short, because I hadn't learned that far yet. Some would go on for minutes without end. I couldn't help it. I was strange enough to think Father could hear my violin playing from across the giant oceanside. Could he? Do currents carrying out the sounds of another world to the next? That would be fantastic.

Reginald began to start teaching me on how to play violin, too, actually. He knew I had a music Mentor already, but he still wanted me to be sharp and perfect. If it was taking my Mentor too long to accomplish that, then he would do it himself! That was just how Reginald worked. Stubborn mule he was, too. I wouldn't had known he played, hadn't he given me his own book of music sheets he collected from over the years of his teen-hood. I was happy to received the gift, and I began to think about trying to be more open with him. I didn't know how that would work, but it never hurt to try.

Sometimes, besides violin, I would play piano. It was more tough to learn than I had ever imagined. Every key and every note were something mind-bending, and I couldn't comprehend too fast. I had stumbling fingers when I played. I would try to sound like Mozart, but then I would end up sounding like a terrible train-wreck in the middle of a Summer thunderstorm blasting arrhythmical noise. God, it was so embarrassing to even try. I eventually gave up one month later.

And still no letter from Father.

Father,

What is taking so long to have a letter of your responses? Are you too busy now?

My birthday just passed this August. I'm about 10-years-old now. I don't know - I just wanted you to know that... I think I'm getting more good with my violin playing. My music Mentor told me that I was at the peak of successful performing at a school concert soon, with the student-orchestra. I think I want to learn how to play cello next. It would look funny to carry around the over-sized instrument, though. Or I could just think of learning how to play the guitar... I'm not sure.

But, I am still waiting for you. I don't know if you'll respond back, but I just wanted you to know that I'm still thinking of you. I'm still waiting for your return. Could you please write back? Tell me how you are? What're you doing these past three years? I'll be awaiting a letter again.

With lots of love,
Johanna.

My heart would feel empty after I would send the letter through the mailing ship. I knew I wouldn't get a letter back. Why was I even trying?


How long has it been now? Four years?

I am 13-and-a-half-years-old now, and still no letter from Father. And I was a broken teenager full of heart-break.

That wasn't healthy for a young girl to have. Not to be full of doubt, stress, and the dark thoughts of misery clouding my small mind. I couldn't help but be so sad and soul-shattered from the inside. Something happened to me. Something not very nice.

A month ago, I was almost sexually molested by one of the newer Templar men that joined the Order. It was on a quiet night, where the house stood still, as did the air.

The man's name, I daresay with a hiss of disgust, was Enoch Maxwell, an older man likely in his mid-thirties. He was a pretentious snob, but nothing compared to the good and kind-hearted folk, like my Father. I hated his attitude the day he set foot into the chateau. I hated him instantly. Now I had many reasons why.

What could I seriously remember from that horrid experience? Well... He had rotten teeth; I could remember seeing when I opened my eyes to find him hovering over me. His eyes gleaming darkly and his rugged face shadowed in cruel intentions. I was lucky to still have my butterfly-knife still hiding underneath of my pillow, for something like that to ever happen. Father gave me it. I saved myself that night, but I didn't kill Maxwell.

I was a clumsy fool with the blade. I grabbed the butterfly-knife and stuck it at the front of Maxwell's left-shoulder. I was actually aiming for his heart. Why did I aim left, I would never know. It was enough to draw him back, yelling in sheer pain when the knife's edge met his shoulder socket. I could have popped his arm right off if I wanted to!

Maxwell jumped off of me, stumbling back onto the floor with two-left feet. He fell down on his backside, holding onto his wounded shoulder for dear life that bled through his thick coat. Quickly I jumped out of bed and ran out of my room, running to find Reginald.

When I told Reginald about what happened, he was just about ready to backhand me or choke me. But he withheld those attempts with a frustrated inhalation, and just gave me a calm, sadistic look. His eyes were wide with pure, sheer anger, and his grin was malicious. I felt like finding a closet to hide in, and just as a fictional monster to hide me.

Reginald told me to never do it again. He told me… to obey. Obey every word.

I hated him from then on.

Maxwell never attempted the potential assault ever again, once he figured whose daughter I was. But, still, just the feeling of being close to a stranger's body like that... almost being violated by another foreign touch... I eventually had to pull myself together from that incident. I couldn't let it rule over me, while that pedophile was still inside the chateau. Reginald... I hated him, too. And I still do.


Everyday just felt more and more sad for me. My 14th birthday was soon to come around, and Father was still not home. Often when I would want to remember his face, I would look at a painted portrait of him that was in the living area of the place. When I would look at his painted face, I would usually wonder if his hair turned colors yet. If he had grown taller. If he began to get older. I would think often about the questions, while I knew that I was still growing up, reaching my mid-teens. I still missed him like mad, no matter how much I would want to strangle him for leaving me alone. I wanted to hate and love him at the same time. I wanted to scream and cry in joy whenever I could see him again.

I began to slowly halt on writing any more letters to America. It just felt like a lost cause for something I thought would eventually become worth-while. I began to focus more on writing my short stories of fictional adventures and school. But, you know what? I would still go to that pier.

I don't know what kept drawing me to that pier. Perhaps that small, small glimmer of hope twinkling in my heart that Father would return for me? I hoped.

Sometimes I wondered if Father had been killed in America. By a bunch of red coats or Patriots. Or the Idiot King. It made me more sad the more I thought it were true.

Until I had come to realize - I should ask Reginald. He always has the answers to the problems on my mind. I figured that he would have known what has gone wrong with my Father not responding to any of my letters. Maybe he would know his condition so far during his last leave.

Venturing quietly through the chateau halls, emptied with no staff or Templar men, I had figured the others had turned in for the night. Reginald said he had something important to do that day, so I figured he was finally back home for me to talk to him. It was awful silent, which was somewhat eerie to me. But I ignored it, as I drew closer to the crimson door of Reginald's study.

To my surprise, when I opened the door, he wasn't home yet.

His study was practically like a library, I thought. He had so many shelves of thick books and journals, more than I did. Of course I was jealous. A desk, smack-dab in the middle of the study caught my attention. I couldn't help but draw closer to the forbidden desk I was never allowed to draw near. Reginald would have me dead if I were this close, I remember. But there I was, standing close to the table-side, and cautiously scanning the desk surface with my eyes. There were scatters of written document and closed books, with a single ink-well and a quill sitting aside from the important scraps. I didn't want to touch anything.

Instead, making it likely more worse for myself, I dropped into his comfy chair. Ah, what a comfy seat! So very lax and pillow-like.

Once I was settled into the chair, I had decided to peek into the lower cabinets of the desk. The first one I opened was just full of more books stacked onto each other like a tower. Most of them looked old, so I didn't intent on picking up any of them. Though they looked unused and aged, I still wouldn't think of leaving my track. I closed that one and went to open the second one. And when I did, an sealed envelope fell out. Shit! Reginald would know someone was in here now! He's got an eye of a hawk, I remembered telling myself in a panic, as I hurried to pick up the envelope.

I turned it over to the front-side, just about to set it back into the opened cabinet, when I noticed something straight off the bat.

Haytham Kenway's name was written on it.

I halted, freezing where I was, almost feeling my heart stop.

Was this real? In my hand, a letter from Father? I thought I would have to pinch myself and make sure I wasn't hallucinating my desperation for his letters. And I did. I pinched myself in the arm hard, enough to make me squeak. I clenched my eyes shut for a good ten seconds, thinking I was dreaming an awful dream, until I reopened them, and still found the letter in my hand, and still sitting in Reginald's study. It was real!

I dropped out of the comfy chair and sat on the floor, feeling extra heavy with shock, as I now held the envelope in both my hands. I took a minute to reread my Father's name over and over again, familiar with his signature and what ink he wrote with. This was his hand-written signature.

Quick in desperation, I tore open the envelope and ripped out the folded letter. I tossed the opened envelope aside and unfolded the letter, being met with a letter filled with my Father's recognized penmanship. This letter was dated seven years ago...

My beloved daughter,

Why are you writing these questions to me? Of course I am writing you! Did the last letter not make it through? I will be firm with the mailing ship later on, if this letter doesn't reach you on time. But I am overjoyed to read another letter from you, my poppet. Is that music Mentor treating you well? I trust he knows what he is doing, if you so highly-praise him this much. I hope you are doing well while I am gone. I still wonder if you are alright alone.

Before I could read on with moist eyes, I glanced into the opened cabinet, and found a treasure-trove of sealed envelopes... All of them from Father!

This letter didn't go through either? Please, my pet, do not think I am ignoring you. I am not! A letter from six years ago.

Why are you thinking I am wanting to stay here, and just abandon you, girl? Of course I wouldn't leave you behind! Why are you saying these things? Five years ago.

Your words, my dear... I am sorry. I want to be there, but, I am permanently stationed here to continue my exploration. Please, don't always write these letters of anger to me. I hadn't once thought of forgetting you. God, it's been two years now. I could only imagine how grown you have become. Four years ago.

I am glad you are becoming more efficient with training, love, but are these letters seriously not coming through to you? Are you not receiving anything I write? I have all your letters, but you write as if I am not even trying to respond back. If you are truly not receiving anything I am writing, then... Three years ago.

The cabinet was jam-packed with envelopes, all from my Father. There were so many crammed into a tiny space, I thought of how much effort it took to not let all these letters fall out without anyone realizing it. But I read them. Not all of them, but ones close enough for me to snatch out and tear open to read. I was crying tears of joy, and tears of despair. Father wrote me this entire time! Every year, every month, everyday. His words reached my heart as if he were right at my side speaking to me. I was shaking with happiness and fright as I continued reading Father's letters.

The last letter I read was something that made my heart ignite like a canon fire. It was dated for the present year I was 14-years-old in. He didn't start with a heading, and he didn't end it with a sincerely. In three bold words scratched in deep with a heavy dose of ink, Father wrote me;

I'M COMING HOME.

"Johanna!" A scream plunged me out of my aghast state, pulling me straight back into my dark reality, when I realized too late that it was Reginald's voice I heard. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" He fumed, more than I had ever heard him shout with wrath. I flinched hard, hugging the last letter close to my chest, as I lifted my head up to look at him. He stood over me, behind the desk, with eyes wide with fury and teeth bare like a wolf's on attack. "You're not suppose to be here..." He snarled lowly, continuing to watch me shrink beneath his intense stare.

But I didn't want to let these letters go! "You hid Father's letters from me!" I boldly shouted back at him, still feeling hot tears sting in my eyes. "He wrote me ALL THESE YEARS, while I just sat around and thought he had abandoned me! YOU hide all of these letters from ME!" I shot up to stand upright, looking him straight in the eye with a hard glare. "WHY?! WHY DID YOU MAKE ME GO THROUGH HELL?!"

It was a bad move to scream back at someone like Reginald.

Smack!

He hit me in the face! I felt over to the side on the floor from the sharp slap to the face. It forced me down, dropping the opened letter from my grasp. I held my hand over my stinging cheek, feeling an ooze of blood drip out of my mouth when I had bit my inner-cheek.

"YOU INGRATE!" Reginald seethed in a scream, dropping down to throw me on my back, and plunged his large, rough hands right around my slim throat. I croaked out in shock, flying my small hands up to his wrists to helplessly try prying his own hands off. "You were just like your pretentious snob of a Father, my dear. So curious and willing to learn." He hissed with a sadistic grin twisting on his features as he gripped his hands tighter around my throat, pressing his thumbs deep onto my pulse-spots at the sides of my neck. I choke out, hearing myself squeak in agony to the hands literally strangling the life out of me. "But, just like family goes - I assume - you are just as fucking stubborn as a mule! You don't listen. You don't understand. But I'll get rid of that problem."

I knew what he meant instantly. He was going to kill me.

I kicked and struggled under his tightened hold, feeling tears stream down my cheeks as my mouth hung open to the force of his powerful hands that were squeezing the life out of me. My face reddened and my hands desperately clawed at his arms and face to make him stop. But, Reginald wouldn't let up, and I was seeing spots of black coming into view before my vision. I was fading! No, not now!

I teared hard, willing for all of the madness to stop. Just to make it go away.

And before I could fall into my own demise, a figure behind Reginald came into my blurred sight, and lifted something over the tormentor's head.

Whack!

Was what I heard, at the same time as Reginald was knocked off of my body, and onto the carpet floor. I gasped in hard, my vision clearing up fast to sharpened, and coughed out in sheer pain when my closed-up throat was burning from the inside. I closed my eyes tight, and my uneven breathing ragged. I held my hand over my bruising neck, as I was met with the sounds of voices in my ears.

"How fucking dare you?"

Was what I heard from the stranger, before Reginald let out a merciless scream and was stopped with another hit into his face. The sound of what was the blade's edge of a sword hammered into his face profusely. I shot open my eyes and turned my head to see who was there. He looked at the man attacking Reginald. His back was turned and I couldn't see his face. But, the cloak and coat... I knew...

The man continued to hammer down the sword straight into Reginald's disfigured face, letting out everything on him. I had to watch in horror as blood splattered out in thick layers onto the floor, and hearing the noise of sharp steel meet with a crackled flesh-out face. I still panted hard, but I managed to turn over and pull myself upright to my knees, watching still as Reginald's corpse was delivered more and more beatings.

I was scared, and delighted at the same time, to see my potential killer being killed.

After a long, agonizing minute later, the stranger stopped, breathing hard, and holding the bloodied sword above his head. Examining Reginald's torn-up face with only his eyes, he tossed the sword aside, and stood upright from the dead man's body. I watched with caution as the man's shoulders heaved and fell, with his back still turned to me. I didn't want to move. I was frightened that he would want to tear me apart as well, if I made a sound.

But then he turned around to me, still breathing heavily, as his eyes made contact with mine.

I gulped hard when I saw his face, eyes widened before my mouth dropped open.

"... F-Father...?" I asked in dismay, heart pounding straight out of my chest, when I saw a smile creak onto his face with a sigh. "Is that you?" I stood up slowly as I could, with hands to myself, because I was still unsure. But I was despairing for it to be true.

Once more the stranger blinked through blood-soaked eyelids, wiping them away with just an index finger as he continued to give me the most gentle smile. The front of his clothes were covered in blood stains from Reginald. But, I knew those clothes anywhere. There would only be one man that I knew that would wear so much warm clothes in any given day of the year, no matter what. The cloak, the cape, the long coat with gold buttons, and the pure-white cravat.

The man offered one opened hand out to me, lifting it up quietly, making me flinched slightly. "Johanna," He said my name. His voice! Heavy with a pompous British accent heavy with and and low with purpose. Yet soothing to my ears, as I knew my Father's voice. "Don't you remember who your Father is?"

New tears filled my eyes with a heart-break full of joy and shaking forlorn. Finally, with my guard down, I ran into my Father's waiting arms. I didn't care if the blood on his shirt would stain my face or my arms as I wrapped them around his lean torso. I buried my face on his chest and bawled, holding him tight. As I cried hard, finally releasing the stress and worry from over the agonizing 7 years I awaited for him, I could feel Father's arms wrap around my back, with his hand over my cranium to pet me as comfort.

My heart fired up suddenly with so much of my emotions bursting. I was so happy, yet I was so furious with him at the same time. I turned my face from his chest and gripped my hand into a balled fist, bringing it back up to hit him against the chest angrily. I hit hard, I thought, but not enough to harm him.

"YOU LEFT ME!" I bawled more, hitting him another time in his chest. "YOU MADE ME SIT AND WAIT! YOU MADE ME WAIT FOR THAT SHIP TO BRING YOU BACK! You, you...!" I drifted off from my rant as I felt Father carefully take my fist into his hand. I couldn't stop feeling the hot tears run down my cheeks as he held onto my hand again.

"... I'm sorry." Father quietly apologized to me. "I never wanted to make you feel this way... I never thought you felt so much rage and sadness like this." He stepped back a bit to kneel down to my height. He looked me straight in the eye, with his hands on both sides of my face to wipe at the trails of tears with his thumbs. "I see so much you've withheld in your eyes, poppet..."

I wanted to say more, but I didn't want to pour out everything yet. There were still some things I wanted to keep back, until I knew him once again.

Father's fingers fell upon the side of my neck to witness the darkening bruises around my throat. He was shocked as to how deep they were becoming, and reddening with anger as he tried to gently brush his thumb over my new marks. I winced slightly, making him quickly draw his hand back from my neck.

"These monsters. These fiends. These... these..." His voice was full of utmost rage, growling as he glanced back at Reginald's unrecognizable face. He gave it a sharp glare, before he looked back to me with his eyes shining with tears filling them up. "I'll never go far from you. Never again, Johanna." He said in a hopeful voice, making this verbal promise to me as he pet the side of my head again to assure me.

But I wasn't alone to shed tears. My Father's eyes were also moist and glossy with fresh tears, yet he dared not to shed them. It was just like him, though. Always the one to hold back his own feelings as I did. He would never show his innermost hidden emotions for anyone. But I.

"Let's go." Father brushed my loose bangs aside. "We're leaving everything behind."

I didn't say anything. I blinked one more time to let the water fall, and I nodded my head firmly to that.

That day, I was not the same, ever again.


Holy shit, that was a long chapter. But! I really hoped you enjoyed reading it!

Johanna is my OC, just to let ya'll know. Description? Well, I imagined her to be a spitting-image of Ellie (The Last Of Us), and a bit of Lara Croft (Tomb Raider) - but with darker hair (same hairstyle), and more pale skin. Same green eyes, though, and different attitude, obviously.

I dunno if I should continue this in a second chapter or not. I'll think about it. But, in the meantime, enjoy reading this. :)