Disclaimer: I don't own the Assassin's Creed franchise.

*Note: There's parts written in past tense that is meant to be from the character's perspective as she thinks on from later years, while the present tense is just her thought process at that time and age. I hope it's not too cluttered.

"These are the times that try men's souls."

— Thomas Paine, The American Crisis

October 5th, 1769

Frontier

Crunch.

Snap.

Thump.

I pause halfway up the tree bark and tilt my chin down to survey the forest floor. Lush greenery and brown form a calm, gentle canopy above my head, sunlight filtering through the brittle leaves and form tiny yellow circles against the hearty soil. Out beyond the brush, lies silence. No hum of a bird's song or the far call of a mountain lion. I hold my breath and listen, hand tightening on a long skinny branch for leverage. Whatever or whoever made that noise either scampered away or is waiting for the moment I climb down so they can have me for lunch. Exhaling, I prop my foot up between the space where the tree separates and pull myself up into the crevice. The big branches supporting at either side of me provide sufficient aid against my small frame.

Leaning against the coarse wood, I reach into my side pocket for my trusty slingshot. It served me well through the seasons, but now the twine I used to tie the broken pieces of branches and fraying straps of leather together is falling apart with each use. I don't know what I am going to do when it falls apart completely. I suppose that's something I'll have to worry about another time; not when dinner is dangling right in front of me.

Fifteen feet away, pecking at an empty bird's nest, is a full feathered, fully grown hawk. It pushes it's beak against the messy assortment of twigs, jabbing at something inside, and jerks it's head up when there's disturbance in the foliage. I retrieve a thick round stone from my side pocket, thumbing it in my palm for a moment. I haven't succeeded yet in knocking a bird down from this distance, but the margin gets smaller and smaller with practice. If I don't make this shot, I will go to bed with an empty stomach like the night before. The wild didn't raise me to be this way.

I won't go home hungry.

Taking a deep breath, I slide the stone into place, pull back the leather strap, and take aim. The bushes rustle, crackle and whoosh with newfound presence, as though someone is trampling through them. The grey hawk tilts his head upon the tree, it's black beady eyes flickering in every direction. It squawks softly once, honing it's attention on a presence that's making a ruckus near a hedge of bushes.

Now I've got you, I think gleefully, stretching the strap back so far the material creases with wear and makes a tiny squeak of expansion. My pointer finger tenses in preparation to make the shot. Footsteps move below the tree's trunk, quietly. Then -

Silence...

Someone is there.

My lips part in a muted gasp at the realization and my grip on the slingshot slackens until it slips from my clammy fingers, plummeting all the way down to the ground. The sudden jarring noise makes the hawk's head snap in my direction, but I quickly rearrange myself behind the biggest tree branch so the hawk won't be frightened off. The presence of an intruder hangs heavy in the air and as I cling tightly to the wooden extension, I mentally chide myself for allowing a distraction to cloud my focus and make me lose my only weapon. The thought of any nearby creatures running off in fear startles me so much I can't bear to imagine going another day without a thing to nourish my weakening body.

Little by little, I inch around the trunk that's blocking me from view and peer over the edge slowly, raising my head forward until nothing but my eyes upward are visible from behind the protruding branches, thick with leaves and debris. Standing below on the forest floor is a boy. Young, a year or two older than me perhaps, with dark shiny hair coming to the nape of his neck. He's dressed in foreign garb of earthy colors. A long bow straps across his back. He remains very still, looking for something far in the distance. If he takes one more step, leaves will bunch under his shoe and the hawk will fly off. There's no way to call down to him without causing too much racket, so as slowly as I'm able to, I reach above for a hanging acorn that is attached to a vine around the closest branch. It trembles slightly when I pry it from it's root, then it goes still with the rest of nature.

With another tentative glance down below, I toss the acorn at the boy's head. The flutter of wind changes it's course and makes way for his back, ricocheting off the boy's wide shoulder instead. As if automatically knowing where the attack came from, the boy whips around and glares up at my spot from the tree. His eyes are as dark as his hair.

I wave at him before bringing a finger to my lips before he can speak, then motioning for him to come up to where I am. His figure disappears from sight after a moment and I think that he has decided against my invitation, but then I hear the scraping of shoes climbing up the tree bark. The boy's movements are quicker than I can grasp and by the time he hoists himself between the crevice, I scramble back to make room. We almost crash into each other from his speedy ascent up, but I hold myself at a safe distance away from around the thick trunk.

I peer around shyly at him. Now that he's closer, I see that he's not as young as I thought; a few years older than me enough to pass as my elder brother but not too old where he is mistaken for a grown man. The hard lines on his palms and night sky coldness of his eyes are something I have never seen in a person, not in a way that common frontiersmen carry them.

"What are you doing up here?" The boy asks.

He tenses when I shuffle closer, my arm nearly brushing against his as I point silently to the hawk that perches still on the branch. "Look. See over there?" I whisper up to him with childish excitement. "I was trying knock it down, but I... I lost my slingshot." The boy studies the referred area, leaning on his side against the separating trunk, one foot propped up. He's broad in the shoulders for someone so young in age and there's already a fine line of experience to his features. "Are you a hunter?" I ask him.

The boy looks down at me. "No. I, uh... I come in search of a symbol." He reaches into a fold in his clothing and takes out a map of the border. A strange shape is outlined on the thin paper, where the mountains peak at their biggest. "Maybe you have seen it," he says as he hands it to me.

I study it for a moment, turning the paper in every direction to get a better sense of the symbol, but nothing about it rings with familiarity. "No. I haven't," I tell him with a head shake and return the parchment. "You can try over by these hills." The boy nods, eyes following to where my short arms gestures as he tucks the map back into his shirt. "There's giant caves over there. But be careful when you go down by the creak," I offer warning. "Bears like to drink from there. I saw one yesterday and he was real scary."

"I will keep that in mind," the boy promises.

Birds soar in circles above our heads. I dig my stubby fingernails lightly into the tree trunk, feeling the air thicken between the strange boy and I. He goes quiet for a moment, his gaze occasionally skimming over the verdure before sliding back to me. He holds my attention for what feels like minutes on end and I feel my cheeks redden.

"I think your target has escaped."

I blink at his low observation and turn to view the tree branch that once harvested the proud hawk to now find it vacant, the branch swaying up and down a bit as though the bird had just taken flight seconds ago. Leaves flutter in the wake of it's departure and floats in the air for a moment before slowly trickling down. The sight makes my skin grow cold, as if my veins were wrapping around icicles.

This won't be the end of me.

"Oh, well," I mutter sadly and move to shinny down the tree to collect my fallen slingshot. I pray that it hasn't broken.

The older boy is so swift and agile in his climbing that he somehow makes it down before me. "Is that what you use to hunt?" he inquires as I bend down to pick it up.

I nod and inspect the tool, seeing no new evidence of damage, but I know it won't last for much longer.

"It is not very effective," the boy adds.

"I know," I answer. "But It's all I have."

"Do you... live in these lands?"

I look up at the sound of his awe struck voice, but he's not meeting my eyes. He studies the makeshift weapon on my palm before gazing around at the woodland surroundings.

"I try to."

The boy frowns at that and his deep brown eyes slide over my features, as though really seeing me for the first time. It's interesting. I have never seen anybody like him before; he is so different than the many settlers I have come across while making pilgrimages to the towns. He moves with a startling grace matched with equal momentum that appears advanced for someone of his age. I get a great sense of independence from him and it leaves me with a peculiar feeling, a cusp of curiosity and admiration.

I push wisps of hair away from my temple and look up at the cloudless blue sky. "I have to go home now. Good luck finding your treasure."

"Thank you."

I nod, my cheeks warming by the sincerity in his voice and wring the slingshot in my hands. "Well, it was nice to meet you!" With a single timid wave, I turn and trudge through the bushes, tucking the slingshot in my side pocket.

There's a spring in my step that has never been there before. It has been so long since I had spoken someone of honest bearing, I have forgotten just how kind man can be. Living in the woodlands, amicable exchanges tend to be a rarity. It's not the matter of every person having ill intentions, but the fear of never knowing what's inside a stranger mind once you stumble upon one, if it's generous or ill. Or if they will think nothing at all. Having nothing but my own thoughts as company, I've come to expect the latter more often than most.

I hope the boy's success fares greater than mine.

Hours later, when darkness falls over the wilderness and moonlight kisses families goodnight and welcomes beasts into their territory, I retreat to a wide tree branch that overlooks the horizon and sit with my back against the trunk. From this tremendous height, I won't have to worry about predators discovering me during the night. Not much rest is gained from this position, but I'm too afraid to risk making a bed out of the leaves below. Anyone or anything can find me in such a vulnerable spot. Up here, I'm no smaller than the currents of wind.

It feels like a normal life.

The wild was no different from a mother and father. Loving, like a mother's hands, the wind caressed; hard working as a father, the wild taught valuable lessons. And flawed like any human being, the wild unintentionally caused harm, never gave attention when you needed it. It could talk to you, but you couldn't talk to it in return. Growing up in the wild, those were the things that shaped me. It gave me life; a life I wasn't born into, but one that I had no choice but to live.

I used to fear approaching other human beings. In all my patchy clothing, grimy bare feet, dirt flecked tanned skinned, my appearance wasn't something most colonial families wanted within their homes, around their clean children. My desires weren't anything more than wanting a place to shelter myself from the harsh weather conditions. I'd do any task they'd give me; pulling weeds from the garden, carrying buckets of slop out to the pigs, helping out in the fields during the peak of harvest. My services around their farmstead or whatever else that needed to be done in favor of what they normally disposed of from their crops or a formidable horse stable was the mother load to a homeless child.

Most of the time, I'd be met with a door slam or a chuckle from the man of the house who would then tell me to go back to whatever hole I had dug myself out from. On rare occasions however, there would be a timid, precarious acceptance.

I remembered a family man who was struggling to grow his crops in the middle of spring and couldn't afford the means to provide for his wife and children of three. He compromised my plea of work in favor of catching a rabbit for his daughters, a pet they had been wanting for quite some time. If caught, caged, and brought to them, I would be allowed to sleep in the hay barn and fed whatever they could spare. What was considered ration to them was like a feast to me. My stomach nearly ached from the sudden intake of so much food.

I was never allowed inside their home.

So I widened my bargains from families to shopkeepers, bringing them whatever I could managed to catch in the wild lands. A dead pheasant that was valued for their feathers. Sometimes I'd be given coins for them that would pay for an apple for two in the markets. And some days, I'd leave empty handed.

I promised myself I would never die that way.

March 19th, 1770

Frontier

The first fall of snow is always the coldest. The soil becomes moist, easy to slip and injure one's self with while trekking through the woodlands, critters burrow deep within the earth away from mother nature's touch and waning the chance of a prize to trade.

I blink through the milky haze and shake pellets of snow from my hair, kneeling close to a wide tree trunk as the target of my survival scampers through the snowbank, whiskers twitching. It's long brown ears curl with the sounds of the wild, beady black eyes gleaming up to the stream several yards away. I silently ease around the bark, both hands gripping the trunk so I don't accidentally slip and slowly inch toward the furry rabbit. One step at a time. The bunny runs it's snowy paws over it's face, nose as pink as my drying lips and hops forward twice. I pause, taking a deep breath for nerves and gradually push my ankles forward...

Until the tip of my right shoe trips over the hem of my trousers and sends me falling face first into the snow, limbs spread like an eagle's wings. A pound of compacted ice gets lodged in my mouth and I cough it out, water dripping down my chin from body heat and soaks the front of my shirt. As I lift my head to rise from the messy expulsion, the chilly bunny prances furiously down the slope, having heard the fumble and gotten frightened. I scramble to my feet, brushing melted snow off my face with the back of my hand and dash after the helpless hare to the riverbed.

The blankets of snow is dense and tiresome to push my short legs through. The inside of my shoes soak with clumps of snow and wet the thin soles, nearly causing me to trip over myself again, but I pursue the furry varmint down to the creek. It schleps through the water and up over the bluff where the valley blends into the mainland. I lope over the remaining yards with shaky legs, breathing heavily and keep moving, no matter how much my aching feet tell me to stop and rest.

Through the clots of falling white flakes, a mansion comes into view.

Plates of chestnut wood peeks out from under heaps of snow, filtering down from the rusty gutters to land between the towering trees planted along the border. There is no decorations adorning the outside furnishing or wear against the walls. It doesn't appear that anyone lives inside, more or less suitable for sheltering inhabitants. Is this where the furry rabbit escapes his rank from the food chain? There has to be a hole underneath the house for me to crawl in through. I have to search. This rabbit has been the very few animals I've seen come out of it's nest for weeks.

Tip toeing up the slope, I track the bunny's prints to the left side of the house, circling the perimeter until the indents come to a stop. The fluff of a cotton white tail, speckled with strands of light brown fur is the only distinguishing feature that separates the cold mush that's falling from the sky and the fleeting target I mark for barter. It's crouched low, ears wiggling every now and then and rubs the grey flesh of it's paws over it's snout. I drop to one knee and wait; listening to the wind whistle past the barren tree branches. Shifting to the other leg, I amble closer, fingers flexing over the prospect of finally ensnaring game.

Inhaling sharply, I close the distance in two wide steps, then right as the rabbit lifts it's head-

I dive for it's long ears and catch the hare in my arms, rolling to my back as it thrashes in a furious attempt to escape. The rabbit squeals and cries, a mound of thick soft hairs in my hands as I stumble to my feet. The soft, dewy skin of my palm pinches when the bunny sinks it's square protruding teeth into the crease, drawing blood and pain bubbles all the way up to my neck so hot it forces me to drop the rabbit. It thumps onto my foot on it's way down, making me topple backwards and smack the base of my head against the house. I give a yelp of pain and cradle my bleeding hand close to my chest, watching dismally as the bunny scatters off into the wild, rustling the bushes as it goes.

I'll catch something today. I swear it, I think to myself as the wind whirls with the impending blizzard.

Footsteps storm from somewhere in the mansion. Furniture knocks together, making a rapid path all the way to the door until it swings open. Panic builds in my chest. Someone is in there.

And they heard me.

Glancing both ways, I make a split decision and run in the opposite direction where I came from, circling the house again in hopes to deter the mad landowner that's coming to investigate. I glance over my shoulder as I round the bend, shaking my head a bit when gusts of air blows wisps of loose hair and snowfall in my eyes. There is no shadow approaching from the rear or even the echoing crunch of boots in the snow. Maybe they ventured in the forest thinking that's where their trespasser fled. When I turn back around, my forehead comes in blunt contact with a wide chest. A flash of russet brown and foreign patterns before I'm crushed against the wall by my shoulders and an icy blade presses threateningly at my throat.

My breath comes out in short, shallow bursts as I tilt my chin up to look at the tall figure's face. A familiar face, framed in ebony locks. My fists that press against the white wood slacken. Those dark eyes... his focused expression.

The blade retracts an inch.

"You," we murmur at the same time. Surprise saturates the boy's tone. I know him.

I do.

The boy from the forest.

"You are the one," the boy says, his voice just as calming as the first time we met. He sheathes the blade into his sleeve and steps back to appraise me with what looks like a mixture of shock and excitement. "The one from the trees."

A happy childish smile breaks across my face. "You remembered!" I say, bouncing on my toes.

The corner of his lips twitch up the slightest, but it falters when he regards the droplets of blood that have spilled on my knit trousers. "Are you hurt?" He asks, tone taking on a worrisome edge.

"It's only a bite."

"A bite is not something to take lightly. You should get it checked out."

I shake my head. "No, please, I have to-"

"Connor-" A crisp, raspy voice catches me off guard and I jump slightly as footsteps wobble toward us. An elderly man, features halfway hidden by a broad trimmed brown hat. Grey shadow covers the most of his lower jaw. He walks with a wooden cane, bracing both hands at the top as he stops at the last step leading up to the front door. "What is the meaning of this?"

The boy glances furtively from the man back to me. "She... she is a friend."

When the elder man sets his gaze on me, I feel a rush of coldness prickling at my skin, although not from the snow. "And what business does she have trespassing on someone else's property?"

"I'm sorry," I tell the man. "I didn't know anyone lived here."

The man makes a low grunt. "Where are you from, child?"

I point silently to the woods.

"And your parents?"

I resist the response to also motion to the wild, but I know that won't make for much sense, so instead, I lift and drop my shoulders in a simple shrug.

"I see," The old man sighs, casting a side eye glare at the boy. "You're not the first to step on this land without permission. If luck continues to be persistent, you won't be the last."

The boy turns away and I think I see his cheeks darkening, but the thick tendrils of hair hide it from view.

The old man turns and moves back towards the house, stopping before he reaches the top and taps the bottom of his cane once one the pavement. "Well, come inside! If we're to carry on this conversation, let's do so where it's warm."

I look up at the boy and he just rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, that same flush painting his cheeks. He follows the landlord inside, waiting for me to catch up at the door then shuts it behind us. The inside of the manor is bigger than it looks from the outside. Dusty with old furniture and ornamentation that look like they haven't been used in years. A long staircase sits right at the beginning of the foyer, which sections off into two parts; down a narrow hall and a room that stores a desk and other trinkets. It's a very dreary home, if not comfortable in it's age.

"I suppose we can make up the guest bedroom for you," the elderly man says when stand beside the staircase. "It's not much and the bed has lost it's softness, but it should do for the night."

"I can't, sir."

"Pardon?"

"I'm sorry.. but I think it's best for me to go back to the woods. I have made my home there."

The old man studies my face apprehensively, as though he is trying to decide if the wilderness has fried my senses or if I was born without them completely. "If you're certain. It is your decision and I'm not the one to persuade you otherwise."

The boy stands with his arms folded, but they drop almost violently when he has hears the old man's compliance. His brows come together in what seems to be objection. "But Achilles-"

"Connor," the elderly man intercepts when the boy makes a motion to argue. "Let it be. If that's what she feels is best, we must respect it."

An argument stews in the boy's shadowy eyes, but he says nothing more. I can see the underside of his jaw flexing with a flash of defiance, but just as easily as it comes, it relaxes back into submission. He has a temper, it seems.

"Let's get you something to cover up those shoulders then," the old man says, bracing his palms atop of the cane. "This winter will be a long one. I'm afraid you won't last long if you don't keep warm." He waves the boy over to him, who waltz to his side without question and leans down so the man can speak quietly in his ear. The boy nods after a few seconds, then disappears around the corner, boots thudding into the next room.

I follow the master of the house up the stairs, taking two at a time as the man is slow due to his old age and disability.

"Tell me," he rasps when we reach the top of the staircase. "How is it that a young girl such as yourself managed to survive in the wild?"

I wring my fingers together, as though he knows all the bad I've done just by looking at my face. "I'm pretty good at running. And fast. I stay where animals can't hurt me, but it's scarier at night, so the only time I can hunt is during the day." The old man's expression doesn't change throughout this, so I continue on. "Sometimes when I'm real lucky, I can knock down two birds and take them in for trading. And sometimes... I have to ask for help and people will give me jobs. But not all of them are nice like you. I have to take what I can from people when they're not looking."

"I thought as much. You have the look of a scavenger," the elderly man remarks. He shuffles down the narrow hall, commotion coming down below from the boy. "And is that how you have come to meet Connor?"

"I wasn't very nice," I admit sheepishly. "I threw an acorn at him. He was making too much noise."

This makes the old man chuckle. "I don't doubt that."

He says nothing more as we come to a door at the far end of the hall. A stripped bed and brass trunk are the only furniture pieces inside. Even the windows are void of curtains. I take a step into the creaky room, floorboards squeaking under my shoes and watch as the elderly man hobbles over to the chest. He fiddles in his jacket pocket for a key, then turns it inside the latch and pops the lid open. The hinges groan from wear and I can see items and other memorabilia stored inside. He reaches in and pulls out a brown tailored coat. It appears to be around my size. The man holds it out for me, so I hurry to his side and loop my arms through the holes. It's weight is thickest at my shoulders, but I can feel the tiny goosebumps on my skin smooth in warmth. It will be most useful during cold nights.

I flatten the lapels with my hands and crane my neck around to see how it looks running down the back. The cuffs hang past my wrists, but I push them up as the elderly man nods in approval.

"That should do."

"Thank you," I tell him.

"You're most welcome. It's not often I get this sort of company. While the boy certainly keeps these old bones moving, it's refreshing to see such young faces."

I follow his lead back down the stairs. The boy, Connor, comes around the curve with a brown satchel in hand. Looking at his features, still so boyish, yet growing handsomely, I see that the name suits him very well.

"I know you will not accept residence, however, please take this parcel with you. It will keep you fed for many days should you find your hunts unfruitful," the man explains.

The satchel is extended to me and I gape at it with wide, reverential eyes. The thief in me wants to snatch it up right away while the other part is chary, wondering how much work it will take to pay them back for this. They must expect something out of it. They always do.

"I'll make it up to you. I promise."

"Nonsense," the man refuses. "The only repentance you can give me is that you knock on my door should you find yourself within the area again. I'm sure the boy here would be happy to see you again."

I blush at that and rub the side of my neck as Connor hands me the package, his own skin flushing a shade or two darker. When I reach to accept the thread bare bag, my fingertips brush over his lightly. I nearly jump back a mile at the contact, his skin warm like embers through his fingerless gloves and look away when my face grows hot. He escorts me to the door, keeping a reasonable space between our shoulders the entire time. Cold gushes of air blow my hair around my neck as we stand on the porch.

"Are you not afraid to live on your own?" Connor inquires.

"There's animals all over, so I'm not really by myself. It's only the big ones that scare me, but I know where to hide."

"That seems much to endure for someone so young-"

"Hey, you don't look that much older than me-" I blurt out, more out of sheer observation than offense. To someone else's eyes, the comment might have been very funny as he was over a foot taller than me.

"Sorry, I... I only meant-" Connor trails off, breaking eye contact in the manner that I have come to recognize as shyness. He takes a deep breath and starts over. "You are brave to do this on your own."

I blink at his words and squeeze the satchel in my hands. The emotion that had yet to comprehend as disbelief surges through me. I didn't know what I did was considered to be bravery - it only seemed a necessity. "I don't know what else to do," I murmur and look out at the white capped forest trees that are beckoning me back again. These people are different from other settlers I have come across during my times and I find myself experiencing a level of comfort with them that hasn't been presented before. Even with the colonials who can be called kind. "Maybe I can come visit you sometime."

Connor shifts his footing. It comes across as fidgety. "I would like that," he says earnestly.

I smile, the wind blowing tendrils of hair into my forehead, before skipping down the porch steps. My shoes make an audible crunch like gravel at the thick compacting snowfall. Halfway to the woodlands, I pause and face the house again, seeing the boy standing there watching me still. His eyes pierce me like cold lips pressed to my skin. "Goodbye, Connor!" I wave enthusiastically, happiness seeping into my tone before I turn and break into a light run all the way into the forest.

In one simple gesture, he brands himself into my life.

The first time I stole from someone, I was ten years old.

It was a hot summer's night and there were more doors closing than opening. The stars were shining bright and distant howling wolves could be heard from the faraway cliffs. To any other person, it was an evening meant for respite, but for me, it was a trigger to a feverish mode of survival. The first home I saw was no more than a hut; a simple four walled enclosure with a pointed wood roof. Smoke rose from the crooked chimney, a visible promise of warmth and safety inside, but there was not a single soul tending to the crops or skinning the animal hide that still hung from it's rope. That wasn't unusual considering the time of night, but it appeared abandoned, seducing me to sneak in closer.

The window overlooking the fields was open, allowing the candlelight to shine through and I could distinctly hear the cackling of firewood. The temptation was too strong for me, as was the hunger pains in my stomach. I slowly reached up for the ledge, gripped it tight and carefully pulled myself over the threshold. When I was halfway inside, I stopped to listen for movement.

There was none.

My heart was hammering in my chest. I never stepped foot inside a colonial house before and doing so without permission put the thought in my mind that it wasn't right, but the threat of starvation was the greater persuasion. I could already feel the heat from the fire and it warmed my spindly limbs as I knelt down, wary of the occupants of the hut. But there didn't seem to be any. The floorboards creaked when I began to tip toe over the the open kitchen, the lit candles casting shadows on the dark wooden walls. The tiny square dining table was empty and devoid of any decoration or evidence that someone was making use of it, but the small counter held a wicker basket filled to the brim with fruit. Beside it was a loaf of bread sliced in two.

I eased up from my crouch with hitched breath, grasping the edge of the counter with both hands, sights focused solely on the food morsel that was just inches away. There it was... all laid out and seemingly all for me. I reached for it.

Then the back door slammed open.

"What in God's name-"

The hut's owner, a tall thinly built man wearing a grey knit cap froze when he saw me standing there in the middle of his kitchen. His fingernails were caked with dirt, leading me to believe he was out somewhere in the back fields where he couldn't hear me and I couldn't see him. Rage overcame his features and he charged at me, yelling profanities and insults that I was too young to understand. I turned and sprinted straight for the door, relief nearly exploding in my chest when I discovered that it wasn't locked. The night air was cool against my cheeks as I ran into the brush, my bare feet making a thunk thunk thunk echo as the angry farmer gave chase, shouting slurs that I would continue to hear into my adult years.

The pitch of his voice died down the faster I ran and soon, I didn't hear him at all nor his enraged pursuit. Exhaustion swept over my body and I took to rest behind a tree, sinking down to a sitting position against the dirt and leaves. I didn't want to imagine what would have happened if he had caught me. He probably would have struck me or sent me away to the authorities. Somehow that idea seemed much more frightening than spending the rest of my life alone in the forest, starving until I see the last day of light.

When my breathing calmed to slow, steady intakes, I realized that I hadn't left the man's house unrewarded. Clutched in my right hand was the sliced roll of bread, partially crumbled by the tightness of my fist.

I took bites out of it throughout the night with a heavy heart.

New Spain

1767

Home was the sound of my mother's laugh. The feel of my father's hands as he steadied me onto his shoulders, the sting of scrapes on my bare knees from playing outdoors with my brother. It wasn't perfect, it wasn't always the happiest, but it was there. And to a child, that had to be enough. Except that it wasn't. Not in a city where it's people were losing everything they had to the waters, to the man who called himself an explorer yet who only sought to tear my people away from our rightful land of Tenochtitlan.

The number of dry lands were decreasing. With the dwindling chances of restarting anew and reclaiming our home back, the more frenzied the people became. The whole city felt like it had been made to implode, with the oppositions, the push to move us over to better ground and everything that came in between as an obstacle. Hope was beginning to feel like mirage and in it's place of reality, a desperate needy attempt to survive. No matter the cost. My parents wanted more for us and when they realized it wouldn't be there, under the rule of the Spanish, they came to choice. A choice that I sometimes wonder if it would have turned out the same if we had stayed.

I remembered it all.

The tone of my mother's voice stood out the most to me; low and urgent. She never took her arm out from around me as she helped me up into the carriage. We couldn't bring much along. Some of our most treasured things had to be left in the now empty spaces of our home. My favorite dolls, all painted different expressions, were still lying on my bedroom floor. I thought about them wistfully as the cart tutted along the roads, full with our people, some on their own and others with families that also desired to rebuild. My brother, fussy and unwilling to comply, was tucked in mother's lap. I was sitting opposite of the carriage with my father and being able to see my brother's face provided a means of comfort. Our positions allowed me to cheer him up and ease his crying with big smiles sent his way, something that greatly distracted me from the impending journey.

Then night fell. I slept in the crook of my father's arm after so much time, the jostling of the wagon's wheels over the rocky path lulling me to a deeper slumber. It didn't feel much different from home. Crickets chirped everywhere, wind knocked softly through the trees, and the hum of your breathing seemed to sync in time with the rest of nature. Things I had always heard outside the window when I slept at night. Then someone screamed.

I awoke with a jump, the black sky darkening our surroundings, making everything appear nonexistent except for the oil lantern the carriage driver held as he held onto the reigns. The horse whinnied as the cart was forcefully brought to a stop and some of our people were grabbed by arms poking out from the blackness. Men with long guns were circling around the carriage, trapping us, demanding for things we didn't have or not enough of. My father shifted me protectively over to mother, who then hid me and my brother under both arms as the men aimed their weapons at us, eyes cold and lifeless. Our people spoke with them, our language falling from their lips like fresh tears. But the men didn't understand them. It only seemed to make them angrier.

My mother's cool hand pressed my head deeply into her bosom, drowning the shouts of the enraged roadside robbers and the pleas of our desperate people. She kept her eyes trained on the group of men and their weapons as she slowly started to inch toward the adjacent side of the cart where it opened out into the woodlands, where we could easily climb off without being seen. She made me go first, gesturing for me not to make a sound as I used the wheel's rungs as a ladder and stepped my way off onto the stony path. My little brother followed, his mousy mewls and chortles sounding nothing more than the vocal chords of a toddler. I knelt down, pulling my brother down with me and my child mind made note of the difference of our mother's eyes. They weren't how they should have been; they were wide and glassy instead of narrow and attentive.

Her hands stroked our hair, patted our faces as she whispered words of comfort, her own self unfurling with panic. Uncontrollable paranoia.

A gun fired off.

That was when she pushed us toward the trees, told us to run, to keeping running and never look back. I held my brother's hand as she directed us to the forest line and tugged him along, feeling my eyes grow warm with tears of fear and separation. My brother started to cry as well, except his was shrill and distinguishable. I recalled him not letting me pull him along with me as I tried to do what mother told us. He didn't want to go. He wanted to stay with mother. So did I. But I knew we couldn't.

He broke free from me no matter how hard I tried to hold onto him. His bare tiny feet left prints in the soil as he ran back to the carriage and I called out for him, shock overcoming me as I saw what was happening. The bodies, the bullet holes, blood pooling around them. Smoke swirling out of the robber's rifles as they sacked through the carriage. Cries from my people that were still clinging to life, their crumpled forms draped over dead ones, a flickering of rapidly fading life. Tears streaked down my cheeks when I spotted my father's body peeking out from the carriage's wheels, my mother thrown over his. A bloody spot at the back of her head.

My brother ran to them.

This was the part I regretted the most; the one thing that kept me awake most nights, why I could never forgive myself for what I did. Why I still haven't. I couldn't tell you why it happened this way, why I didn't will myself to move and save him from death's embrace. I suppose it was fear on my part, the shock of witnessing life being taken and a child's cowardice. Or maybe it was the voice of my mother, her arms holding me still, preventing me from endangering myself. Even if it meant having to turn my back on my family. To be alone.

All I know is that I did nothing.

As the blood of my people soaked the earth, the sky darkened overhead. The ear splitting wails from my brother followed me like a lullaby as I turned to flee toward the trees, their long limbs lush with leaves outstretched as if they were coming alive, welcoming me into their abyss where I'd be looked after forever. I heard nothing except the crunch of leaves beneath my feet, my ragged breathing and the snapping of branches as they scraped against my arms. Burning me, marking me as theirs. And theirs I'd always be.

Somewhere far away, the sobs of my little brother filled the night air. Then a gunshot.

All fell quiet. I kept on running.

-oOo-

Somewhere in foreign lands, I wake up with tear stained cheeks.

January 2nd, 1773

Frontier

The first week of winter is always the sparest.

The old man at the manor was right; the cold is the most dreadful in these parts of the land. Activity among the wild animals lessens and by that effect, so does trading. With each passing day, critters seldom leave their den and when they do, the window of opportunity is minuscule. And although my skills with the slingshot mildly progress, I can't say the same for it's withering condition. It's on the verge of falling apart between my fingers any day now, when I need it the most. It's a blessing that it has comes this far, a temporary means of living to help my eyes open and greet the eternal cloudless blue skies. One of the very few things that remain staunch in these seasons of change.

I find myself perched on the ever growing tree forest branches many hours of the chilly mornings, waiting for a suitable target to trot by so I have something of value to cook on a spitfire or make bargain with, but the only thing that seems to be keeping steady with is the blooming of my own limbs. My height increased to the point where I no longer have to stand on my tip toes and grip the edge of the counter for leverage just to see the merchant's face. Maybe that's why they all turned me away at first; a person so wild and frail looking as me couldn't possibly have anything of value to offer. Now they know they are wrong.

When it's cold out, I don't like to travel much. Curling myself into a ball beside a heated home, near the back entry where chances of detection are at their lowest, and listening to the wind whistle through the leafless branches is comforting enough. Sunlight fades quicker, leaving darkness around the forest for much longer. Given that I can't climb up to a safe tree branch because of their slipperiness, away from the dangers of nightlife, it makes me all the more scared and willing to stay put in a single warm space. But it's not always simple. My blood runs icy within minutes and there's the ever surfacing problem of food shortages, the faraway howls of animals marking the start of their hunt, leaving me to wonder if I will wake and find myself surrounded with hungry eyes.

On a warmer day like this where the cold tickles the tiny hairs on my arms but melts some of the snow piles blocking the roads, I skip down the brick paths with my hands dug in deep in the coat the nice old manor man gave me. It's pretty to take a walk when the sun is shiny and bright over the grey skyline, before it grows dark and starless. Instead of chilling my bones and potentially wasting a few resources of catching a small mammal, I take to my usual door-to-door knocks. No one has been answering, though, and I don't know if it's because of the weather or the fact that I don't look a child from a pioneer home.

At the end of a narrow stretch of cobblestone, a smokey rooftop comes into clarity. A barn with hay and a single brown horse in the stable is connected to the left side, a smaller shack in front of it that filled with tools. Shovels, hammers and other possessions that would fit a workman. Someone that often gets their hands dirty but not from farming. I smile at the idea of helping a man in his duties, wondering how much I could do in change for what he wishes to spare, but it falls when I spot two short figures playing around the porch.

Boys. Two young boys.

They're older than me, but not too old where I feel scared. One of them is barefoot despite the pebbles littering the dirt and crouches low on his haunches, poking a stick in the soil. The other has muddy marks along his pale neck and sits on the porch steps, bouncing a tiny red ball on the space next to him in the air with his left hand as he picks up round brown stones with his free one.

I approach them carefully, hands clasped low. Will they shoo me away? Laugh at me because I don't appear as washed as them despite the flecks of earth on them?

"Hi."

Their heads snap up. Two pairs of green eyes gape silently at me.

Neither of them return the greeting, their quiet rejection making my heart beat faster, but I swallow thickly and offer my name. The boy with the stick turns back to the dirt and pokes it a couple more times before drawing a circle in it. The other one holds the red ball tight in his palm and never takes his sight from me. He doesn't look afraid or angry, just curious. They don't speak a word.

I sigh at this, thinking I came up upon another shut door and turn halfway to the road-

"What's that there?" The boy on the porch steps asks at last, pointing at the slingshot tucked in the waistband of my pants.

His husky tone makes me pause and peer back over at him, his eyes gleaming with intrigue. "It's my slingshot," I say and take it out from it's holster, excitement thudding in my veins by his interaction. "Do... do you wanna see?"

The boy on the stairs stands up and walks over, making the other one wielding the stick also rise and follow at his brother's heels. Their hands both reach out in unison to inspect the slingshot, but the boy with the red ball - who I guess is the elder - snatches it with a glare to his brother and examines it in his palm. He toys with the leather strap, taps a finger against the wood base and even takes pretend aim at a faraway target.

"D'ya think Pa would get us one of these?"

The younger brother shakes his head firmly. "He's sleeping. You're not telling me to wake him."

"We don't need to wake him. Polly's got some wood dolls in her room. They should do just nice."

"Don't want a whupping," the younger brother insists with another head shake.

I smile, happy that the siblings are enjoying my creation, but that quickly dissipates when footsteps come thundering to the transparent screen door. A shadow falls over the porch. "Nathaniel. Elijah." The boys freeze. "What're you doin' out there? Who's that with you?" His voice becomes clearer as he swings the door open and steps into the clearing, hands planted on his hips.

He stares at me for what seems like a hundred years, eyes blank as they rake over my attire, the color of my skin before settling on my face. There's no anger filling his eyes, no curiosity like his sons, but there is some wariness.

"Now where'd you come from?" He inquires. "You lose your Ma and Pa?"

"Yes, sir."

"Need a hand finding them?"

"They're not here anymore."

He freezes, his eyes flashing with what looks like surprise and pity. "I see." He sucks in air and lets it out heavily, wiping his forehead with the back of his scarred hand before addressing his sons. "Why don't you boys go in and watch over your sister."

"But she's sleeping."

"You do as I say."

The two boys dare not to argue with that. They retreat inside the house with slumped shoulders, leaving the red ball and stick to rattle on the porch steps. The man waits until the door is completely closed before studying me once more, his gaze less rough and suspicious than it was before. I twist the slingshot uneasily in my hands, unsure of what he will say or do now.

"Guess you haven't been walking these mile long roads looking for chit chat. Well, if it's work you want, I suppose I got a few tasks to spare. Reward in tow, of course. We don't stand on ceremony. I reward my boys for doing a bit of work more than I should."

"Thank you, sir."

The man descends the steps and tours me over to his work shed, explaining that each morning at dawn he makes the long journey down the road to a mining site with other frontiersmen. Depending on the the condition of the cave and how many working hands they have available, he is either gone until early afternoon or just at sunset. That leaves his two boys to care for their baby sister and look over the house. But in his absence, upkeep around his property tends to get ignored. He fears that one day, he will return home to find his children missing or harmed and his things stolen.

"There's not much to start with, but the little things can make quite a mess if you let'em go for too long," he says as we stand in front of his shed. "Look, if you fix up the shack some, put the tools back on their hooks - carefully, they're sharp - I'll let you stay here for the night, give you something hot to eat." He stares steadily at me for a moment, as if seeing something in my eyes that my lips don't explain. "Don't suppose you'd try to... No. Course not. If you wanted to steal, you wouldn't have came up to the door."

I look at the hard, cracked ground and don't say a word.

He leaves shortly after that, trudging back inside his home where the soft whimpers of a toddler can be heard.

Frontiersmen, as I've come to know, are as resistant as the birth of nature and twice as suspicious of strange colors like me. Childish awe and apprehension surges through me as I stand out in the early winter air, wondering what it is I've done to bring myself to such a doorstep built with kindness. Since my first and only break in to that country home, the fear of falling into a vengeful stranger's hands frightens me so much, I vow to never set foot inside someone's home without permission again. But sometimes, when the nights are at their coldest, every candlelit hearth feels like an invitation. And that's when I really have to fight. Against my good self for wanting to walk away, for the bad intending to purloin.

It's all so tiring.

Heaving a sigh and tucking the slingshot back in my pants, I get to work on tidying up the man's shed; pushing tools against each other so they're stacked in a neat pile, hanging up wrenches and hammers on their respective hooks as high as my short arms can reach and carefully pulling axes and cleavers by their handles to an empty corner. By the time I'm finished the sun has set and icy cold air puffs out between my lips every time I exhale, like steam. I wait a few feet away from the front steps, my arms wrapped around myself as the man's footsteps come thumping out into the porch. An oil lamp has already been lit and hanging above the door.

The man seems genuinely taken aback when he surveys my work, adjusting the cap on his head with raised eyebrows, as though he were expecting me to make even more of a mess or run away with something all together. He nods almost to himself before entering his house once more and emerging with a hot tin plate in one hand. The smell of cooked meat makes me shut my eyes and breath in.

I sit in a small bundle on the last step as the man sits on his chair on the porch, tapping his foot every now and then as I eat, licking the pads of my fingers each time I take a bit of something. The man doesn't say a word and neither do I. If it weren't for his quiet company, I might have devoured this entire meal within minutes and took to the road before sunlight was really lost. But I take my time to savor the food, to chew with care and feel it slipping to fill my abandoned stomach. It takes a difficult thing to keep myself together like this, after hours of deprivation, but at the same time it's comforting to be with people. Even if they feel no inclination to speak to me. That might be better for the both of us.

When I'm finished, the man sets the plate aside and gestures for me to follow him to his horse stable.

"I would offer you a space beside my fire, but the boys..." He trails off, thick dark eyebrows knitting together. "They don't understand people like you. Thinking maybe it's my fault for not telling them about it early on, but it's too late now. I wouldn't want to scare them with putting a stranger beside their bed - not that I think you'd try something - and I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable." He clears his throat then and nods to the pile of loose hay in an empty stable, right beside the one that holds a large brown horse. It whinnies softly and swings it's thick tail. "Got some blankets for you in the house to make yourself real comfortable. We keep the oil burning till the early hours so you should be able to feel some of the heat."

I nod, wringing the slingshot in my dirt caked hands. "Thank you." It's not much to the naked eye, but for me, it's more I ever come to expect.

Hours later, I lay under the mounds of patchwork quilts the man lent to me, my head resting on a dry lump of hay and listen to the horse whinny and sway inside the stable next to me. The roof of the stable of short enough for me to see the night sky and all the stars that hang across it. They look like eyes, twinkling down at me, tucking me in firm, making sure I sleep tightly through the night and wake just as safely.

Mama, I think to myself as I close my eyes. She hung them for me.

-oOo-

A heavy weight falls on the side of my head, pulling me from slumber and my eyes flutter open to see the miner's figure kneeling over me. The same green knit cap is tight over his head, but he has a long sleeved shirt on now. His breath comes out in visible puffs from the cold morning.

"Thought you'd might want some breakfast," the man says after he rises to his full height. "Sun came up early today. I'm sure the boys would like to see you before you head off."

I sit up slowly and rub at my tight lidded eyes, marveling at how warm the blankets turned out to be and how restful my body feels. The clouds are puffy overhead, a greyish white, but beyond that lies the faint glow of the sun illuminating through the long and skinny leafless branches of the trees. I stand up, taking the quilt with me to wrap around my shoulders as I move over to sit on the porch steps. Footsteps and cutlery clatter from the inside the house, the hums and cackles of a toddler echoing through the screen door. The man comes out later with a warm plate and a tin of water, handing them to me wordlessly before returning inside the house where the cries of a baby girl seem to be following him.

I eat in pleasant silence. Every spoonful of mushed oats gets the blood pumping in my veins as the sun gets brighter, dissipating the clouds around it. The mark of a beautiful day, as I've come to think of it. A tick off a parchment to the season where I will see the flowers bloom again.

After many minutes, the man returns to the porch with his boys in tow. One of them takes the empty plate and tin from my lap so I can stand up and follow their father as he kneels down in the dirt. He draws a map using the wooden stick his youngest son played with the day before, both boys hovering over his shoulders and watching intently while he makes lines indicating their house and the connecting paths. "You go out the road, walk till you get to the T section, make a left and keep walking straight until you see a bridge back yonder. That takes you to the country road. Hour or two, give or take."

The man tells me that there is a nice homestead that has been growing slowly in population since the new year. He thinks I might have a chance, if I can make it there.

Something tells me I already have.

As I grew older, so did my bravery.

In between trading with merchants and finding work during the day among colonial folk, I took to purloining wherever I could. I didn't attempt to steal in the markets; there were far too many eyes around to bear witness and able bodies to catch me if I ran. But many frontiersmen often made their encampment among the forest lands, near safe travelling roads where they could find their way. I had the taste of earth of my lips, engraved on my skin, infused with my soul; I learned how to get around the most imposing of men and pushed myself to survive, no matter what I had to do.

But it was difficult as it was frightening. There were many instances of myself getting caught before I had the opportunity to grab more from their unguarded knapsack. Their footsteps, brash and furious, would follow me farther into the woods, but I would make my escape before they could catch up. Other time I had to back away quietly into the brush, in fear of dropping the tidy sum of supplies I had in my arms, the men surrounding the fiery embers remaining oblivious. It was a heated rush every time; from fear, guilt, and happiness alike that I would have the means to see another sunrise.

I have often wondered why I made it as far as I did. Despite the dangerous encounters with many frontiersmen, wild life and grey mornings where I woke up feeling so ill, I had thought it was time at last to reunite with my family. What was I all those years ago but a frail lost child, too young to understand who I was and the distance that separated myself from home. Sometimes I would get so tired of it all - the pick pocketing, begging, slamming of doors in my face, sneaking into farm stables in the late hours of night just to stay warm - it was fragments of time like those where pangs of seclusion hit the most. I would just keep to myself in the highest reach of a tree, where I knew I'd be safe and undisturbed.

But those moments never lasted too long. Not when the dawn came slowly, so beautifully, waking me up in the early hours and reminding me that there will be moments of rest. Only when I had rose to my feet and started living.

And much living I had done.

June 1st, 1773

Frontier

The many months of travel has led me to the most beautiful wilderness. The trees seem to reach past the sky here, branches skinnier the higher they go but still blooming with leaves. There are cliffs, ledges and rock formations to climb up on, study the land or make a safe zone where I can decide where to go from there. I hear birds singing all the time, as I sit by the stream, follow a small hare or lie on a soft pile of fallen leaves, gazing up at the towering tree lines above me; the blue sky cloudless and bright beyond it. Here, I feel something that hasn't had a name in my thoughts for some time.

I feel hope.

But it's not a simple journey, not like the way the kind frontiersman had drawn for me all those months ago. The trail is a hazardous, slippery slope into the bundles of vegetation making up most of the valley, bringing me to clearings that ring with startling familiarity, as if I have discovered this place before but only a tiny part of it. Even the direction I take feels like a dream, as though I'm walking in circles after circles. The pathway eventually connects me to the country side where the sun shines a little brighter, leaves feel crisper in the palm of my hand and the air tastes fresh.

The afternoon is spent with a challenge. After doing some exploring, I catch sight of a young red fox sniffing about the forest floor, nudging it's black nose against a pile of twigs. He appears unaware of my observation and I quietly take out my slingshot as quiet as I can, knowing very well that it won't do much damage. Unless I can somehow pierce a stone through it's eye but I've never attempted such a feat and I don't know if it's plausible. I track the fox's movements for several minutes, carefully choosing my steps and how I position myself among the greenery. After a moment, the fiery red mammal disappears behind a large dew bush, the branches rattling with it's presence.

The wind picks up then, swirling wisps of hair that's fallen out of my braid in my eyes. I reach up slowly to tuck it back, never looking away from the row of bushes in fear of losing my target, so I gradually begin to shuffle around a thick tree trunk for a better view. The angle it gives doesn't reveal anything new and for a moment, I fret that I have lost sight of the sly fox. Slowly I begin to back away... until my shoulders brush against someone's warm chest.

I spin around with a muted gasp. Deep, dark brown eyes briefly scan my features, framed by equally dark locks.

"Isabel?"

My entire face brightens and I tilt my chin up to gaze at the youthful, mature face. "Connor!" I say excitedly, bouncing on the balls of my feet. "You're here!"

"I was not expecting to see you again."

Something makes my chest crumble by his quiet remark. Have I really been away for that long? It feels like yesterday that I saw his reserved smile, felt the glowing contact of his fingertips on mine. It's strange that after all this time, it happens now that I see him again, when his presence - though never insignificant - dulls to the beat of a butterfly's wings in my mind. Is that why these woodlands seem so familiar, because I've unknowingly explored them before? It has to be if Connor is in the area.

"You look well," Connor adds at my musing silence.

I kick idly at the dirt. "Thank you. You look, uh... you look... tall?"

Connor's lips quirk up a little. "Maybe you are just... small."

I frown, looking down at my petite frame and realizing the top of my head still doesn't come up past his chin. "Guess I am," I say sheepishly, lifting my arms out at my sides and flopping them back down. A flock of birds fly overhead. Then an idea comes to me. "Hey, do you wanna help me with something?"

"Of course. What is it that you need of me?"

I lead him over to the clearing where I first saw the furry fox vanish into and point to a small opening of a faraway cave. "I saw a fox earlier, but I think it ran away in that den over there. I wanted to catch him so I would have something to take in, but..." I snap the leather band of my slingshot in lieu of explanation. "I don't have anything to stop it."

Connor nods, like he immediately knows what to do. "Have you not yet learned to wield a bow?"

"No. I wouldn't know where to start or how to get one."

"I could teach you one day." Connor shifts his footing after that. "If that is something you would like-"

"Yes!" I exclaim happily, almost pumping a fist into the air.

The corners of Connor's lips twitch up and the warmth of his smile touches his eyes. It's so comforting to see that again, be within his company, hear his kind words of encouragement. I sometimes forget those things exist. But as long as he's here, they'll never go away.

I follow after him as he quietly crunches through the opening of the cave. He still wears his earth colored tunics, so it's easy to keep track of his wide shoulders in the slack light of the den. It's far bigger than I anticipate, with levels seeming to go deep underground and I can even hear the faint trickle of water somewhere. I gaze all around me in wonder, having never ventured into such a place on my own before and every detail about it fascinates me. Connor moves through the paths of the cave like he carved them himself, easily stepping over large stones or jumping over gaps in the way.

After a while of investigating, we spot the fox lapping at a small stream created inside the cave. The animal seems oblivious to our presence and Connor takes the opportunity to unhook his long, thin bow from his back. He twirls the arrow stick it in his hand a few times before slinging it along with the string, lifting his arm and before I know it, the arrow is flying across the air toward the fox. The trickster animal hears the whipping of the weapon, as it's head cranes around to face it's impending death but it's speed is alarming. It darts out of the way in just the nick of time and races for the closest opening hole.

My breath catches in my throat.

Then there's a clang of metal.

I blink as Connor takes a uniquely shaped ax from his belt and hurdles it straight at the fox, the sharp edge sinking right into the fox's neck. The animal falls dead on it's side.

I practically go silent with awe, studying it's deceased form lying several feet away from us then back at Connor who stands there erectly, no hint of exhaustion to his features. He calmly strides over to the body, first retrieving his axe and hooking it onto his belt, before brandishing a smaller blade. He kneels low on his haunches, murmuring a short and soft word that I don't understand. Then blood flows.

I can't help but wince as Connor begins to cut into the animal's skin, blood coating the rocks beneath it, dulling by the licks of the water. Droplets of red also paint his fingertips but they also wash away as he picks up the separated pelt and animal meat. When we safely return back out to nature, I sling the knapsack Connor has put the fox remains in over my shoulders, huffing when the weight of it makes me sway.

I smile up at him, ready to thank him for everything he's done and part ways again, but then his big palm opens up to me. His knife lies inside it.

"For you," Connor tells me, eyes skirting down at the ground before locking with mine again.

"Me?" I repeat slowly, staring at the proffered object. "But... what about you?" I don't feel good about taking something of his.

"I have another," Connor insists, sounding alright with it. "This one will serve you well."

It seems as though the passing life of the fox lives on still through the razor sharp blade, humming faintly, like the buzzing of a bee. I accept it delicately, worrying that the roughest touch might break it. It's surprisingly light for it's image, the handle radiating with heat and slim enough for my fingers to fully wrap around. A boulder of gratitude drops on me and I clutch the gifted item close to my chest.

"Thank you, Connor."

He nods once, the same compassionate smile gracing his lips as we hold eye contact. I have no knowledge on what or why it was that brought me back to him, but I know it's a day I'll always be thankful for.

I have finally found a friend.

A/N: I've never been so nervous in posting something. I tried to make this as realistic and historically accurate as possible, so I hope it's believable within AC standards. I'm so happy Connor finally got the loving family he deserves, but this has been floating around in my head for awhile and I thought I'd get it out somehow.

Is it worth adding more to? If not, I can always leave it as a stand-alone.

Thanks for reading! Take care.