I can't begin to describe how thankful I am for the gracious words I've gotten in the reviews. This universe is really full of truly thoughtful, wonderful readers, and I can't express my gratitude enough. Anywho, I hope you enjoy this next chapter! It was so much fun to write!


Boston was nothing like the Valley. After only a day in the budding, colonial city, Ayden had learn that rather quickly. Standing in the small yard in front of the brick estate that was dubbed his new home, he couldn't help but notice how different it was to the Native lands he left behind. There were no mountains or hills to make up his playground, no rivers or streams to wade in, no forest dwellers to watch in marvel. But that didn't make it any less frightening - quite contrary, he was terrified even to stand in the fenced in yard. While his mother strictly instructed him not to travel beyond the picket fence, he didn't have to be reminded by her; he had no intentions on remaining outside longer than a mere few more minutes. Why did he even bother venturing outside the estate?

Glancing around the dainty yard, his eyes landed on a young yet sturdy oak tree on the edge of the yard, it's long limbs stretching over into the neighboring yard. Trees... yes, those were familiar.

Making his way over to it, he pulled and tugged at his fresh clothes his father presented him with earlier that morning when he arrived at the estate with his mother. Apparently his deerskin clothing wasn't accepted in Boston. Another change he'd have to get used to. But if it meant he would be granted the allowance to see his father, he would gladly swallow the annoyance. Sure, he'd miss his friends back in the village dearly, but he knew he was an outsider; something just didn't feel right. But he thrust such thoughts from his mind. Maybe he was right where he belonged.

Already barefoot, he shrugged off his jacket and jumped to the lowest limb, his hands instinctively wrapping around the branches and hoisting himself up. The tree was young - much younger than the looming trees in the Valley, and he was mindful to carefully shift his weight as he climbed up the tree. Moving further down a limb, he basked in the familiarity, ignoring the wear it put on his clothes. His parents seemed preoccupied by "adult discussions" - or so they called it - regarding something about a wedding and making arrangements for their new arrival to the estate. He wasn't sure what his mother meant when she told him he'd be attending schooling in Boston in a few months. Maybe they'd be too busy with their adult conversations to notice the wear on his new clothes.

"No! I told you! You have to run around with the axe up and smack your hand on your mouth like this!" The sound of a young boy grabbed Ayden's attention, who leaned over on the branch to the next yard.

"It's called a tomahawk," sounded a high-pitched voice from a girl. "This game is so stupid, Oliver."

"Shut it, Grace. Alls you have to do is pretend that Tommy - who's playing the Indian - is trying to kill you or kidnap you or something. Just run from him."

Craning his neck as far as he could, Ayden was only granted a paltry view of a small band of children where the voices drifted from. Three boys and one girls, all around his age or a tad bit older, stood in a semi-circle, toy weapons and dramatic clothing strew on the ground around them. One of the boy's wore what looked like a bathrobe with sticks and twigs shoved into the pockets and arms, and feathers coming out his hair. The other two boys wore clothing similar to that of other colonists. Looking cross and irate, the young girl had an oversized bonnet tied to her head, while the dress she wore hung off her small frame, obviously several sizes too big for her.

"And what happens when he catches me?" the girl, Grace, countered sharply.

The boy, Oliver, rolled his eyes and released a frustrated sigh. "Then me and Emmett fight Tommy! That's the whole point of this! Good grief... this is why we don't invite girls!"

Ayden would swear he thought the branch strong enough to hold his weight, but as he heard the frightening sound of wood cracking, his assumptions were far off. Scrambling to back up off the teetering limb, his efforts were in vein - the damage was done. A final crash sounding through the air, he grabbed the bark roughly as he felt himself freefall downwards. A shriek sounded, and he wasn't sure if it was from him or another. Despite being up so high, the ground came a lot faster than he thought it would, and with it, incredible pain and discomfort. The jolt of the impact shook his tattered body and muscles, his arms unable to remain wrapped around the branch, he was sent rolling away in a heap from the abused tree limb.

A distinctly female voice shrieked, the girl a mere few feet from Ayden. Just his luck he'd land in their yard. But his head pounded menacingly, his chest feeling as though it were on fire with every breath.

"Grace! Go get mother or father!"

Strangely, Ayden recalled the voice - Oliver. Slowly cracking his eyes open, his vision danced, but he was able to make out three faces peering down at his prone body, their eyes wide with astonishment.

"Whoa... look at his skin! It's like he's a negro but lighter skinned."

"It's an Indian, Emmett."

"No way, Tommy."

Despite his swimming vision, Ayden was granted a better view of the boys with his unexpected close quarters. Looking a few years older than them, Oliver had a mop of blonde hair and a pair of striking blue eyes; both attributes a harsh contrast to Ayden's black hair and dark brown eyes. But the other two boys appeared closer to his age, and though both had chestnut hair, the upkeep was significantly different. Emmett's hair was tied neatly back by a single ribbon, the groomed locks in place, while Tommy's hair hung loosely to his shoulders with the feathers in it, tangles evident in the hair.

"Are you ok?" Oliver asked, ignoring the bickering looks his two friends sent to each other. Gingerly helping Ayden to a sitting position, the boy glanced up at the tree. "That was a mighty high fall."

"I have had worse falls," Ayden replied, a noticeable painful twinge in his tone. He heard in the distance the sound of a door opening and slamming shut with quickness. Feeling Oliver's supportive hand on his shoulder, he sent the boy a grateful look. "Th-thank you."

"I'm Oliver Hudson. This is Emmett Blackwell and Tommy Hopkins. What's your name? I haven't seen you around here before."

Fully sitting up, Ayden winced incredibly at the painful pressure in his chest, no doubt bruising a few ribs in his face. Blinking back a wave of nausea as his eyes watered, he glanced at Tommy, taking in the awkward hold on the wooden, toy tomahawk that hung loosely in his grip. "You are holding that wrong."

The other boy blinked, darting his curious gaze down to his play weapon. "Huh?"

"Your tomahawk," Ayden began, ignoring the incredulous looks from the boys. "You get a better swing if you grip further down the handle."

Emmett's eyes widened to saucers, realization dawning on him. "Wait... you're a real Indian?!"

"Oliver! Boys! What's going on?"

The distinctively adult male voice drawing the band of boys' attention, Ayden instinctively felt his body tense at the unfamiliar voices that matched equally strange faces. A man and woman, both adorned in what was considered fashionable and affluent clothing for colonists, briskly trotted up to him, both their faces painted in a sheen look of concern mixed with panic. A few strides behind the couple was the young girl, Grace, her arms full of bandages and other sparse medical supplies. The oversized bonnet was no longer on her head, either by choice or finally succumbing to its difficulty to remain in place, allowing her long golden hair to cascade freely down her back. Despite the throbbing pains in his chest and head, Ayden couldn't rip his gaze from the blonde locks; after growing up in the village, he'd only heard tales of the different hues of hair color, especially the stark contrasting color of his own black hair.

"Mother! Father!" Oliver exclaimed in an excited yet panicked voice. "We were just playing and then he fell from the tree!"

The man surveyed the scene, his gaze darting between the snapped tree limb and the sitting, wounded boy, his mind briskly comprehending what occurred. "Good gracious, lad. Are you well?" But as he reached the boy's side, the man paused for a moment, taking in the tan skin and strangely familiar features. "You must be Haytham's boy."

Ayden nodded hesitantly. "Ayden Kenway."

Helping him to his feet, not missing the way the child placed a protecting hand on his rib cage, the man nodded. "Yes, your father told me you were arriving sometime today." The boy sent him a confused look. "Oh, my apologies. I'm Mister Eric Hudson - I work with your father." He glanced back at his wife, who eyed the boy in an examining fashion, no doubt taking inventory of any possible maladies. "My wife, Misses Martha Hudson. It seems you've already met two of my children, Oliver and Grace, and their friends."

"He's an Indian!" Tommy blurted out, darting his excited gaze over Ayden.

Mister Hudson frowned at his son's friend - the Blackwell family never did pride themselves with attuned etiquettes and decency. "That's quite enough, Thomas." Though in truth, he was just as curious as to the boy's Native heritage. With time, however, he assumed Haytham may divulge such minute and intimate details in one meeting or another, especially if the boy before him was to inherit the Order at some point in his lifetime. "Now, let's get you back to your parents. Looks like you might have bruised a few ribs."

Ayden shrugged, feeling incredibly uncomfortable with the attention. "I am fine, actually. A little sore but not bad."

"Can you stay and play with us?" Oliver boldly asked, ignoring the lecturing glare from his mother. "I mean, if you're ok and all."

The Native boy paused, his eyes lingering to the toy weapons and tomahawk. He'd played with children around his age back in the village, their games of pretend and make believe tales consuming their time. But colonial children... that was a different breed entirely. And while his parents hadn't instructed him to forge friendships and meet the other children, he naturally assumed he should've ventured in the territory.

"That's a fine offer, Oliver, but Ayden should get back to his parents. Maychance he feels better come the morrow, he may visit perhaps more planned," Misses Hudson butted in, her guiding hand on the Indian boy's shoulder sealing his fate, ignoring the frowning faces of the children. A mother to four children and a fifth on the way, her maternal instincts were as sharp as the hidden blade she knew her husband kept on him, and she didn't doubt her new neighbor would appreciate their son being returned promptly. Falling into step beside Mister Hudson, the young Native child between them, she didn't miss the audible wheezing from the boy. "I fancy you've traveled quite far these past few days, hm?"

Mister Hudson spared a curious glance down at the boy as they rounded the fence.

"Yes, ma'am," Ayden replied politely, the hand on his aching ribs not moving.

Silently the trio made their way around the Hudson estate, coming up to the immaculately groomed Kenway yard. Never had Mister Hudson assumed to spot a child - least of all Haytham's - on the esteemed Grand Master's property. The luxurious and stately manor had always seemed so bachelor-like, as though the priceless antiquities and possessions inside were far to fragile share a roof with a rowdy child. But he was wrong, though he was sure there was significantly more to the story of the young Native's presence than merely face value.

Placing a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder as they walked up the brick steps to the front door, Mister Hudson slammed the door knocker a few times. As expected, it didn't take long for the thick wooden door to be pulled back, revealing a bemused and surprised Haytham. Grinning tightly at the Grand Master, he watched his fearless and devoted leader snap his eyes to his silent son.

"Eric. Misses Hudson," Haytham respectfully addressed them, tipping his head ever so slightly at the woman, though his examining gaze never left the silent child. His newly tailored jacket was gone, his once pressed shirt untucked and soiled with patches of smeared dirt. Immediately noticing the twinges of pain that'd cross over his son's face with every labored breath, his small hand protectively resting on his chest, the Grand Master resisted the urge to sigh. The boy was only in Boston for a mere few hours and he was already finding trouble in merely the yard. "What happened?"

Ayden swallowed the lump in his throat, his father's scrutinizing face eliciting potential worries. "Ikhsata's ken aka:ratsi."

"English, if you wouldn't mind."

"I fell," the boy replied plainly. The Grand Master lifted a questioning brow. "From a tree in the yard... the branch snapped."

Undecided whether to berate the child for his apparent disregard for his safety or tarnishing his new clothes, Haytham found himself at a sudden loss for how he intended to reprimand the child even if he wanted to. While the reliance on a few back handed slaps was customary in the art of child rearing, the Grand Master recalled his loathing of the disciplinary method from his own youth; though neither of his parents rarely resorted to such. Typically it was his nurse maids that'd deliver the punishment outside of his father's bellowing, disappointed voice, while his mother favored her crying spells in a hopeful means to guilt him into submission. Both methods worked like a charm.

Eyeing the Indian child before him, Haytham wasn't sure it would work on Ayden. He felt fairly confident he could deliver a demeaning spiel that'd make his late father proud, but he didn't know if the boy would even be receptive to a lecture. Maybe disciplining in the village was harsher, more barbaric; maybe they relied on the physical reprimands.

"It looks like he might have hurt some ribs in the fall," Misses Hudson said, pulling Haytham from his musings. Her soft, tender gaze eyed the small boy. "Probably would do him some good to have a bit of rest and wrap his chest. A cup of tea wouldn't hurt any either."

"I suppose," Haytham replied somberly. "At any worth, I truly apologize for my son's disruption. I pray he didn't damage anything else, other than his ribs, that is."

Eric chuckled, his hand dropping from the boy's shoulder, and began moving towards the cobblestone steps, his wife at his side. "Only a downed branch. Though he did give the children quite a fright. Poor Grace was out of her wits - she thought the lad was dead!"

The levity from his fellow Templar and neighbor made Haytham grin, imagining the Hudson children running around with wild assumptions. After sending formal pleasantries of thanks to the couple, making some preliminary plans to rendezvous with Eric later in the week to discuss the new tea shipment that was expected, Haytham slowly shut the door after they left. His securing hand never left the boy's small shoulder beneath his grasp and he silently led the child up the stairs.

Ayden didn't say anything as he softly padded down the second story corridor, his short legs taking significantly longer strides to match the pace of his father's taller stature. His chest felt tight with a throbbing ache, as his lungs struggled to suck in the necessary air despite his bruised ribs detesting the action. But he tried to shove any evidence of his malady from his features; for whatever reason, he wanted to showcase himself as strong and confident before the elder Kenway.

Reaching his father's study at the end of the hall, he silently followed the older man in. Spending the first four years of his young life tucked away in the valley, he'd only heard stories of the white men's world, of their stone villages and looming houses. But never in the extravagant stories had he heard about men keeping "studies" or "dens". When he first toured his new home, his father struggled to describe the purpose of the secluded room, and eventually resorted to simply saying it was his "private room" to conduct his work; work that Ayden was still clueless about.

He remained silent as his father gestured for him to sit at one of the oak chairs situated around a table, the surface littered with parchment and scattered maps. Ayden silently complied, not taking his eyes off his father as he grabbed a basket from inside one of the drawers in the large desk. "Take off your shirt. I need to see your chest."

Complying with his father's order, Ayden slowly worked the small buttons on his shirt and slowly shrugged it off his shoulders, wincing at the strain the movement put on his abused ribs. "I am sorry, father. I did not think the branch would break."

Kneeling in front of his son, Haytham placed the basket filled with sparse medical supplies - the stash of bandages he relied on when returning from an ill-planned work related meeting - on the tabletop. The boy watched his every move like a wounded animal, his eyes shining with a hint of a feral being. Haytham glanced over the child, taking in the already bruising regions on his naked torso, the injury showing its colorful signs on his tanned skin.

"I assume your mother taught you how to climb trees," the elder man said lightly as he gently pushed away the small hand stationed on the injured ribs. "She always preferred traveling through the canopies than more... conventional methods."

Ayden reluctantly nodded, finally breaking eye contact uneasily. "She does not like when I climb. She is afraid I will fall and get hurt."

Haytham paused, and lifted a sarcastic brow at his son. "I see you listen to her rather well."

If he was so concerned about the large digits that pressed into his hurting side, the boy would've sheepishly looked away, maybe even had a flush spread on his face. Instead he merely swallowed the bile that threatened to rise up in his throat, his stomach flipping at the dull pain while his lungs hungered for more air. But he was no stranger to falling from high perches, much to his mother's detesting. But when he'd grudgingly stumbled back into the village following a poorly planned landing, typically relying on his Native friends for support, he was damned to the grueling lectures from his mother and the dreadful added chores that'd serve as a punishment.

Relieved when the fingers dropped from his wound, Ayden watched his father pull out a roll of white cloth bandages. "Are you going to punish me?"

"Should I punish you?" Haytham asked as he unraveled the bandages and wrapped them around the child's small torso. "I'd imagine a few bruised ribs would serve as punishment enough. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Um... yes." The boy winced as the bandages were pulled taunt. "I will not do it again."

Eyeing his handiwork, feeling fairly certain the boy nursed a hurt pride more than his bruised chest, Haytham nodded solemnly.. "I would hope not. Boston is not like your woods or village, Ayden. These trees are newer - some aren't built for the weight of a child." He paused, taking in the doused flame in the child's gaze. "But I'm sure you've noticed that already. You'll get used to it with time."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, why don't you clean yourself up a bit? Supper will be served soon enough." The boy offering a small nod, Haytham moved towards the doorway. The sweet aroma of the sugared apple pork from the kitchen below enticed his senses. Sending one last look at his young son, not missing the desolate and lost look in his eyes, the Grand Master sent him a grin that he hoped would instill some sort of easing to his worry. "Best to put on your jacket. We wouldn't want your mother's wrath, hm? Heavens knows neither of us want that."

Adyen grinned at the unspoken promise as the stately Englishman left the study, leaving him to his vices and thoughts. Perhaps keeping the truth from his mother and sidestepping the droning lectures she tended to deliver wouldn't be so hard, especially with his father on his side. Though he was tender in years, Ayden wasn't daft, and he knew immediately his father's attempt to sway his affection with his fraternizing words. But he'd let the man have his play, and Ayden would reap the benefits of escaping his mother's heated glares.

It was a win-win.

Standing up from the stiff, wooden chair, Ayden glanced around himself, taking in the utter disarray of the study, a room that was supposedly dubbed "off limits" to him. Not wanting to get on his father's bad side so early in their budding relationship, the boy was already tiptoeing towards the door. The parchment looked rubbish anyways, the writings hasty and nearly not legible. But his father work hardly sounded interesting, at least in the present time, as Ayden has numerous other changes in his life that required his attention.


The crash of thunder shook the house. Bolting up in bed, the new, stiff sheets crumbling to his waist, Ayden blinked at the blinding darkness in his bedroom. The clashing storm rolled over the estate, the cruel winds slamming into the double paned window, but he was no stranger to foul weather. What he was new too, however, was being forced to endure the callous elements in solitude. It was only hours ago that his parents tucked him into his bed, the plush mattress and soft linens a stark contrast to the worn bed linens he was accustomed too back in the village. His mother had warned him it would take time to get used to the changes in his life, though over the course of a mere day, he'd already changed so much. He adopted a different name, got his first taste of colonial children, new clothes, a new bed, a new house, a new parent.

His once darkened room unexpectedly flashed with light from the strike of lightning outside of window. Only a mere second later did the expecting crash of thunder vibrate the foundations of the house, the glass windows shaking in their wooden frames. But Ayden's more sensible and logical thoughts were shoved from his mind. Throwing the blankets back violently, his bare feet were already running before they hit the ground.

The door to his bedroom was opened with a swiftness, thrusting him into an equally darkened hallway. The sounds of the ominous rumble overhead was enough to encourage his small legs to race down the narrow corridor, his light footfalls only making a soft pitter patter on the plush rug. Reaching the end of the corridor, he flung closed door open and raced into the darkened master bedroom, throwing himself on the grand bed on the opposite side of the room.

As expected, the once slumbering inhabitants were roused from their sleep.

"Ayden?" His father's fatigue laced voice sounded, though his body didn't seem to harbor the same lingering sleep. Ripped from his comforting sleep, his attuned instincts were tossed into overdrive, his trained hand drawing a sharpened dagger from beneath his pillow. But the crash of brilliant strike of lightning provided him with just enough illumination to dart his examining eyes over his bedroom, quickly taking inventory of anything that was out of place.

But everything was as it should've been. That is, save for the boy nestled between him and Ziio.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton!" Ziio exclaimed while she sat up, her freeflowing ebony hair cascading down her front, a stark contrast to her white laced nightgown. She ignored the movement from her future husband beside her, her attention captured by her son's fretfulness, her body consumed with a mixture of warming maternal sentiments and the fierce warrior instincts of her people. It was the tender emotions that drew her hand up to the boy's tear-stained cheek, her digits grazing over the trails of wetness that evidenced his duress. But her body was coiled up as though ready to attack while her eyes darted around herself, unknowing that Haytham had already done that moments before. "What is wrong?"

Though her words were spoken in English, the boy's were not. A bang of thunder and flash of lighting casting his face in a striking brilliance and shaking his wavering courage all the more, he opened his mouth and spewed furious sentences in his Native tongue. Though the occasionally sob interrupted his alarmed exclamations, it did little to allow Haytham to understand him. Ill-equipped with deciphering the foreign language, he was forced to idly sit and watch his afflicted son without a means to understand whatever the problem was.

Blinking in a momentary stupor, Ziio drowned herself in Ayden's worrisome words, and offered a heart-felt yet strong response in same language to him.

Snapping his eyes between Ziio and Ayden, hoping to learning something from their body language that would make up for his lack of knowledge for their language, Haytham was at a lose. Whatever the woman had said somehow soothed his suffering wits in the slightest; though his lower lip still quivered, the pools of tears had somehow dried up.

"Ayden," the colonist began, earning him a bemused and slightly edgy look from the boy. "What ails you? Is there something wrong with your room?"

Momentarily glancing at his mother's blank face, as though searching for approval to answer, Ayden didn't gain anything; only a blank yet strong look met his gaze. He was on his own. But yet, this was his home now; he was no longer a Native but a colonist. Ayden instead of Ratonhnhaké:ton. No longer forced to watch the other boys cling to their fathers words of wisdom, he was finally granted the blessing of having his father, regardless of the obvious sacrifices that had to be made for their conjoining.

A bolt of lightning crashed across the sky just as understanding dawned him, grabbing hold of his attention from the fearful elements.

Blinking for a bit, the boy ran his examining gaze over his mother, taking in her plain hair and strange clothing. The lace finish on the salvages of the neckline brushed against her sun-kissed skin, the elegant clothing feature losing its grace on her more rustic characteristics. Never had he thought he'd see the likes of his mother - of her strong, proud mind and body - squeezed into the bizarre clothing of the colonists. Constricted and covering, the clothing seemed to suffocate her pride and will, as well as conceal her tan skin that marked her true heritage.

"No, everything is fine," Ayden replied back, mindful to mentally switch his speech to English. But his father looked unconvinced. "I-I am not used to sleeping alone. Back in the village we were in long houses, and I had my cousins close by."

"I see," Haytham uneasily replied, his mind racking the potential routes the conversation could take, or he could lead it. To be fair, he was tempted to point out that before a few hours ago, he had the luxury of sleeping through the night unperturbed, but he was quick to hold his tongue. The boy's acquisition to his newfound hectic Colonial lifestyle would undoubtedly be a paramount concern on Ziio's mind when considering her agreement to the living situation as a success, as well as his own. Though he only met the boy a mere week ago, he couldn't help his gaze from lingering to the boy's distinguishable Kenway jawline or nose that evidenced his paternal connection with the child. "The storm should pass soon enough. If it would suit you, you can spend the night in here."

Ayden blinked. "Sleep in here? But I thought I am to sleep in my own...own..." he paused for a moment, thinking about the English word. "Bedroom."

"Normally, yes. But I see no qualms with making a small exception for your first night here," Haytham replied lightly, adding in a small grin he hoped the boy would see through the darkness.

Ziio didn't look particularly pleased, her chocolate eyes flashing with a hardened glint. "Haytham..."

But the Grand Master quickly lifted a hand, stilling her argument on her tongue. "For one night, Ziio. Besides, I would rather salvage what I can of the late hour than gamble him only returning a few hours later."

The woman didn't seem thoroughly convinced, her hardened face skeptically eyeing their son. "I do not want him thinking it is ok to argue these rules. He needs to get used to the changes."

Already rolling on his back and inching towards the edge of the bed to allow ample room for the child to rest between them, Haytham silently couldn't agree more. The entire notion of allowing the child to reside in their personal space sounded wretched, but he couldn't jeopardize the boy not assimilating well, lest he wanted his future wife and son to retreat back to the savage village they were from. "And he will... tomorrow night. Now go to sleep."

A few moments of silence passed, the only background noise coming from the occasional crash of lightning and the ruthless wind that slammed against the side of the house, threatening to break the double panes of glass in the windows. Laying his head against the smooth pillow, Haytham felt himself begin to drift away, his body feeling as thought it were sinking into the plush mattress and soft linens. And just as the tendrils of sleep were about to lull him into oblivion a little voice interrupted their plight.

"Kwah tokén:'en sén:ta'wh."

Haytham curiously glanced over at his son.

"That means 'good night'."


Ayden fidgeted in his clean clothes, standing in in the parlor room of his new house. Dressed in similar colonial attire he had on the day before, though his dirtied shirt was replaced with a crisp one, he was already beginning to loath the tightness of the fitted clothing. Sure, the cloth fabric was significantly lighter than the leather hides the villagers used in their attire, but the colonists had a bizarre preference to layer their clothing. The day was not cold; a comfortable spring time morning, the air was light and breezy, and Ayden found no reason for the added bulk of his jacket.

Perhaps the colonists had far too much resources; their need to dwindle their supplies on useless clothing items the only explanation. He also thought back on his first formal colonial supper the day before, after he'd fallen from the tree. Never had he seen such an incredible spread of food, nor had he experienced such flavorful spices and exuberant tastes. Unlike in his village, corn was not the dominate flavor in the foods.

Shifting his weight from one foot to another, at least reveling in his barefooted state that he was used to from his time in the village, Ayden attempted to crane his neck as voices floated from the foyer one room over. His father had begged him to remain presentable for a greater majority of the day, even going so far as to insist the house servant, Marilyn, assist in scrubbing him until the tan-hued skin could only be attributed to his Indian blood. Subconsciously, the boy scratched at his forearms, the soap residue feeling icky on his skin. But whatever meeting his father had scheduled - something along the sorts of meeting the men he worked with - sounded pressing. the elder Kenway turning to extremes to ensure his son was in his best state.

The voices drawing closer, Ayden narrowed his gaze at a revolting familiar voice that mixed with his father's.

"It was rather unexpected, I'll tell you that. But I'm more than elated at the prospect of having an heir and son," Haytham said as he walked into the foyer, his eyes turning from the men beside him to land on the boy in question. Grand Master wasn't sure what type of reaction he was expecting, but watching the boy uneasily take a few steps back, his hands flying up in front of him as though to ward off a potential attack, Haytham was quick to address him. "Ayden! 'TIs quite fine. These are the men that I work with - I imagine you'll be seeing them rather often."

"Haytham!"

The Grand Master craned his neck away from the uneasy boy at the yelling voice on the opposite side of the house, who refused to move his stare away from one of the Templars that filed into the room. "Ah, Ziio. One second!"

"I need you now!"

Ever the impatient woman. Sighing heavily, he sent what he hoped was a look of comfort to the visibly shaken child. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Be at peace, boy. These men are friends."

His heart dropping to his stomach as his father bemusedly vacated the room, Ayden didn't stop backing up from the colonists - the Englishmen who assaulted and captured him days ago - until his back collided with the wall, the hard surface refuses to budge no matter how much he wished it would swallow him up. Backed into the corner, he was forced to watch helplessly as the four men slowly approached him, two of which stopped in the middle of the room while the remaining two crossed the generous gap with unnerving ease.

But his father said they worked with him... he said the were friends...

"Charles," one of the men close to Ayden began, his face contorted into a mixture of astonishment, dread, and utter surprise. "This cannot be. If Haytham finds out- "

"I know that, Johnson," Charles snapped back, his voice low like a wolf's growl. The Indian child glared back at him, his eyes not showcasing the hint of fear he had in the forests when they first met, or in the barn. And perhaps it was that distinct lack of alarm, the sheer notion that he was safe from the man's ill-will, that grated against Charles' nerves all the more. Grabbing the boy's small shoulder in one hand, he quickly shoved him back against the wall, his digits cruelly digging into the doughy skin beneath the layers of clothes.

But still, the Indian child's resolute and confident face didn't falter.

"Now you listen, you bastard of a child," Charles started, leaning closer to the boy. "What I said in that barn will not change - you may be dressed up in the finest clothes your father can afford, but you'll forever be tainted with your savage blood. But what do my words mean now, hm? Now that you're able to hide behind your father's false sense of security and promises of a prominent future."

Ayden merely glared back, refusing to acknowledge the throbbing in his shoulder that was sure to leave a bruise later.

"Your father lived five years without knowing your existence, you pathetic boy. You truly think he'll be devastated to learn of your mysterious disappearance should you open that bloody mouth of yours." Charles paused, a dark smirk dancing on his features. "Or better yet, if your mother disappears. Oh, what a tragic day it would be if she were sold to the slavers in the Carolinas. I hear they fancy strong-headed woman."

Gritting his teeth, Ayden squeezed his hands into fists at his sides. Apparently his father hadn't known his supposed friends kidnapped him. "I will kill you if you touch my mother."

"Well then, I suggest you keep your mouth shut about our first meeting. As far as your father is concerned, you've never seen us before, understood? Do not underestimate me, child. Besides, why would you want to ruin this comfortable new life that you have? Ruin your relationship with your father? I mean, should you tell him what happened, you would tarnish his work." Releasing the shoulder, Charles took a few steps back, though the boy still looked incredibly distraught. "I think we'll find that this little arrangement will work out best for all of us."

Ayden swallowed thickly, his unsure eyes darting around the men as his father boisterously returned. Loathing and confusion didn't begin to describe the troubled sensations that washed over the youth, but he kept them in check, pushed back from washing over on his expressions. If what Charles said was true, if his truthful words to his father would result in ruining the hopeful relationship he had with his father, what gain would he get? These men, though detestable and vile in their actions, were of his father's allies; his father had only known him for less than week, why would he believe him? But the sheer truth that his father kept such despicable company left an even deeper recess in Ayden's chest, his heart feeling heavy with despair.

He was silent during the introductions of his father's associates, barely offering more than a nod of acknowledgement, though he clung to the Englishman's names. Sticking to their story, each one feigned a look of interest when Haytham described the wretched conditions he found his son in, and it took much of the boy's willpower not to point fingers. Think... he needed to think.

And so when Haytham somehow tangented into discussing something about the contents of a book and some man by the name of 'Achilles', the conversation grabbing the attention of the Templars, Ayden quickly slipped away from the room, tip toeing up the staircase to his bedroom. It was only after he softly shut the door did his mind and body fly into overdrive.

His father worked with those revolting men, but didn't know he was taken by them? Of course he didn't know, did he? Ayden sat heavily on the bed, his abused chest feeling just as thick with burrowing emotions and turbulent thoughts, the darkness descending on his mind like a veil. Just what kind of work did his father engage in to justify capturing innocent Natives, or attempting to purchase their lands? He recalled his conversation with Charles in the barn, when he confirmed they were indeed the Englishman seeking to buy the lands.

His father was a monster if he supported the revolting practice.

Jumping from the bed in an instant, he wiped away the rivers of tears that coursed down his cheeks, evidencing the trying emotions that grabbed at his feeble and weakened mind. If he'd put his mother's health and safety in jeopardy by telling his father the truth, then he simply wouldn't be around anymore; he'd return to the quaint village where he belonged, away from the corrupted white men that acted only for their gain, no matter the expense.

Pulling the bureau drawers open, he shoved his newly tailored clothes to the side, not caring at ruining their pristine folds and pressing. His hands grabbed at the familiar leather-hide pants and vest, pulling them out of from the back of the drawer; he didn't think he'd need them anymore with his newfound lot in life. But life was fickle. The fates were strange.

And yet, just as he prepared to angrily rip the colonial clothes from his body, rid himself of any remnants to his English heritage, a soft knock on his door stilled his actions. But whoever the person was wasn't waiting for an invitation, and before Ayden could prepare a testy retort, the bedroom door hesitantly cracked open enough for a man to slip into the room.

The man - Thomas Hickey, if Ayden was remembering his name correctly - shut the door with such careful and uneasy tenacity that Ayden was robbed of the snide remarks he was going to unleash. But the colonist looked just as unsure of his words as he stood blinking down at the boy for a few moments, taking in his angry tears and the Native clothes in his grasp.

Opening and closing his mouth a few times, his mind searching for the correct words, Hickey mentally kicked himself for even attempting to talk to the boy; hated himself for allowing his sentiment to follow the noticeably distraught child from the foyer. His famed reputation of snarky criticisms and greedy features was so much easier to maintain, so less trying on his nerves. Keeping his Templar brothers at an arms distance helped incredibly, allowed him to wallow in his own murky past and equally uncertain future in solitude. But he felt owing to the child, as though his involvement enticed him to ensure his wellbeing.

"No one really likes Charlie," Hickey blurted out. The child blinked, his hands twisting the clothes with uncertainty. "I mean, we respect 'im 'an all, but thas it."

"I do not remember you saying anything when he captured me in the forests," Ayden countered.

That one hurt. But it was true. "I got a job too, ya know. Ya know the consequence of wot would've happened had I stood up to Charlie? There ain't no tribe lookin' out for my hide." Hickey paused, and leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest as his thoughts turned more sinister. "I need to ask ya a favor."

Ayden considered the man, remembering the first time he saw him in the forest days ago. He was quiet then, standing in the back of the group and only made a comment about him being 'smart for a savage'; the child recognized his strange accent immediately. But he was associated with Charles in someway, and that connection making Ayden weary of him. "What kind of favor?"

The boy was rightfully hesitant, Hickey mused. But he wouldn't gain any ground with intimidation or anger, the resolute brightness in the youth's gaze seeming unending. Pushing himself off the wall, Hickey ignored the small jump of surprise from the boy, and knelt before him, mindful to get to the child's eye level. "Look, 'm not gonna threaten 'ya like Charlie. Something tells me that ain't gonna do much. But I can't tell ya how important it is that ya don't tell your father 'bout what happened."

"Maybe you should have thought of this before you kidnapped me."

Hickey chuckled darkly. That tone - he was definitely Haytham's son. "It ain't your dad that 'm worried 'bout. Ya see..." he paused for a moment, wetting his lips and handpicking his words with precision. "After you was captured, it was me that told your dad where you was. Problem is... good ole Charlie ain't know that."

The gears turning in his head, comprehension dawned on Ayden. "You are afraid of Charles."

"Like I said, I don't got a tribe lookin' out for me well-bein'. You tell your dad wot happened and he's gonna start askin' questions. The whole story would get out. Far as your dad knows, I only knew where you was at from some rumors. Didn't say I knew who you was at all."

Ayden glanced down at the leather clothes in his small hands, the man's hopeful gaze making him feel uncomfortable. "It does not matter. I am going back to the valley."

Hickey lifted a brow at this. "Your dad know 'bout this?"

"No. But if he works with Charles and... and..." the child paused, his mind attempting to find the right words in English. If only the Templar spoke his Mohawk tongue, the conversation would go so much easier. "I cannot stay here if he is friends with that man."

Slowly nodding in understanding as he pushed himself up to his full height, Hickey glanced around the small confines of the bedroom. Tastefully decorated in muted tones of periwinkle blue and whites, it didn't look as though a boy of his tender age inhabited it. There were no toys, no mess of a child; but the boy called the bedroom his own for less than two days, and by the looks of it, wouldn't have the chance to litter the area with any personal effects. Glancing down at the lad, Hickey silently considered Ayden, taking in his hurt-twinged eyes and distraught features that looked so incredibly out of place on a child of his young years.

Running away. That was precisely what the boy was doing, Hickey mused. Perhaps the Indians weren't so different from the more civilized societies, despite Charles' insistence of their lowly stature. The hint of a small grin tempted to tug on the Irishman's mouth as he instinctively recalled his own brushes of running away in his youth, when he'd haughtily tell his sisters and mother he was destined for more and would escape their suffocating presences. He'd never tell his father - the drunken bastard probably wouldn't have cared an inch or, worse so, taken his brazen tongue as a sign of insubordination.

And it was drawing on those memories from his youth that Hickey grinned down at the boy, recalling his late mother's strange response when he was tried the runaway card.

"So thas all you gonna take then?" Hickey pointed at the Indian clothes. "Here. Lemme get a bag for ya. Ya gonna need more supplies."

Ayden blinked in a momentary stupor as he watched the Irishman open the small closet door and pull a small sack from the upper shelving. "Supplies?"

Hickey tossed the bag on the bed. "Aye, supplies. Your valley is 'bout sixteen hours on horseback from Boston. You can probably double that with ya short legs. So... ya looking over a day of travelin'."

The child furrowed his brows. "Then I will get a horse."

"From where? Boston?"

"I will find one!" the boy snapped impatiently.

The Templar nodded, feigning a look of contemplation. "A'right well then ya need a bit 'o money anyways, to pay for food and a horse."

"Money... where do I get that?"

Hickey shrugged as he sat down on the bed, the soft comforter shifting at his added weight. "Hell, thas a question I've been tryin' to answer for years." He chuckled softly to himself, though considering the dismal look on the boy's face, the humor was lost on him. "So lets see 'ere... ya gonna take them clothes and wot else?"

Ayden blinked, glancing down again at the Native attire in his hands. "Um... I do not have anything else."

"Well, thas not gonna tide well for ya. Ain't got no money, no horse, no food... Ya sure ya even know how to get back to your village?"

The truth smacked into Ayden like a harsh rocky surface, his desolate and grim situation settling harshly in his already trounced mind. Wallowing in his defeat, the child dramatically dropped the clothes to the ground and trudged over to his bed, plopping himself beside Hickey. Though a boy not even five years, he looked seasons older with his head propped into his small hands elevated by his elbows resting on his bent knees. "But I cannot stay here. My father is friends with Charles!"

"I ain't gonna convince ya to stay. Don't mean no lick of difference to me," the Irishman replied brashly, earning him a pair of inquisitive eyes to snap to him. "But I can tell ya this: I've known your dad 'bout as long as ya been alive. 'E's a bit too self righteous and proper for my cup 'o tea, but he's a good man. And Charlie... he's too caught up in his bloody future in the colonies to care. William... 'e's like me - don't buy into the fairy tales of the Order." He paused, snorting a bit at the irony. "You'd like 'im - I think he prefers the company of your kind over his own these days. And then there's Benjamin... I ain't know much 'bout him. Kinda keeps to himself, that bloke."

Ayden wet his lips, his young mind trying to wrap around the English words. "And what about you?"

Hickey lifted a brow. "Wot 'bout me? 'M a simple man. I ain't looking for much - I go where there's money to be had and whoever has the deepest coin purse."

"Is that why you told my father where I was?"

The Irishman paused instantly, the answer to the youth's question so easy and straight forward, yet he couldn't force the truth to spew out of his mouth. No - that was the earnest answer; as fate would have it, he'd earned nothing other than another secret to toss into his ever growing closet of hidden truths, to be tucked away into the depths of his identify and covered with his perfected snide demeanor. A role he delivered with unsurpassed flawlessness, his impeccable maintenance of his demeanor went unquestioned by his brothers. But for the child before him... he was granted a miniscule chance to offer a paltry insight to his true nature, his true identity.

But he let the chance slip by, maybe due to his own questioning of his true being.

Shrugging, Hickey stood from the bed. "Somethin' like that. So about ya leaving... need any help tossin' ya things out the window for an escape?"

Ayden glanced down at his small feet, a frown dancing on his features. "I am not going to leave. I will stay." He blinked for a few moments, his small chest rising and falling at his damning decision. "And I will not tell my father."

Reaching the bedroom door, the Irishman glanced over the boy, taking in his downcast eyes and frowning face. After only knowing Haytham for a handful of years, he passed the Grand Master off a man married to his work, to his precious Order; never had he assumed the man capable of opening his seasoned and hardened heart to the likes of a woman and raise a child. The colonies were lurking with danger and incredible uncertainty, the mixture a vile environment to raise a family in. And as he eyed the boy sitting so innocently on the bed, his short legs dangling off the side of the bed, Hickey was at a marvel for his leader's new found family member... his newly discovered son - the heir to their Order.