"One person's craziness is another person's reality."
Tim Burton


The Mohawk warrior fainted in the perspective of his allies. His beloved, his children, and his closest friend took him aside from the alleyway where they found him to rest somewhere where the bluecoats were not occupying. The open area was only temporary for this is where the rebels would be out in the open before enemies would appear. Three more natives brought back filtered water as well as the severed heads of Washington's men. This startled the children at first as if they've never seen bloodied heads. The three native men all had similar faces, checking in for the status of their situation. They all suddenly came towards Kanen'tó:kon in a dash to embrace him.

"(Father, you are well!)" They rambled on as the others stared a bit stupefied. Kanen'tó:kon quickly backed out of their hold to shush them.

"We cannot draw attention to ourselves, my sons," he looked to his comrades, "Is Adams on his way?"

"Yes," one said.

"However, we cannot find mother here," the second replied, "She must be in New York, I fear."

"But father, who are they?" the third one asked just as Ratonhnhaké:ton woke. The novice gasped as she knelt herself by his side. Her children did the same as he sat up, clutching his head. It was complete pandemonium as he recalled. He finally got his hands on Benjamin Franklin, but then the man started spewing nonsense as if he was under some sort of hypnotism. Suddenly, Washington appeared and images of his mother as well. He wasn't too sure if his mind was creating these images, Washington was toying with his mind or…he wasn't exactly what happened. He couldn't even put it into words when his allies asked. Blythe wrinkled her face, wondering if his sanity was finally deteriorating.

As his vision finally settled, he saw three familiar young men looking at him innocently. The Mohawk raised a brow. They certainly looked familiar. The novice rolled her eyes as he jerked his head, puzzled.

"Dude, even I figured it out," she threw her hands in the air, "It's Karontara:ken, Onerahtase'ko:wa, and Ken'tarakonha:ka—Kateri's boys." He wished she didn't say their names so nonchalantly for this world were different. It seemed that none of their allies remembered them. His people even questioned who his wife was at some point and did not know that he was even married. He shook her shoulder to cease her banter.

"What? At least I remembered their names."

"And you are…?" one of them asked.

"She is my wife," he answered for her and she pouted, "and these are my children. Kanen'tó:kon, what happened?"

"We escaped, my friend. Your woman was bleeding heavily while you went after Franklin. It was then that my sons appeared and we found you in the alleyway. Tell me: did you kill him?"

"I had him…I had Franklin! Then Washington…I do not know." The entire scene was a bit boggling to recall. It was hard to make sense of it. Moses could see that nothing was making sense to his father anymore simply because it won't. If he's learned anything from his mother, it was that some dimensions are more dangerous than others. It was here that it would drive his father mad—and as it seemed—things were to befall his mother as well. However the case, they could not stay out in the open like this. Tsipporah and Kanen'tó:kon brought the Mohawk to his feet as another man approached them.

"Young man, do you need a doctor?" the novice froze, recalling that when she was young, she faintly heard this voice when her consciousness was barely held up when she lost a lot of blood during the Incident on King's Street. Ratonhnhaké:ton softly gasped.

"Samuel Adams!"

"Ah! Do I know you?" his question brought about some memories that this man he respected during his training days probably didn't retain.

"I…I know of you, sir." The novice sniggered at how he still called him 'sir'. Those were the days. Adams explained that times were hard and even now the rebels are starting to be pushed back. Every day was a struggle. However, it was not safe to speak out in the open like this—they all had to go someplace private. Ratonhnhaké:ton himself would know, now that after seeing a bit more of Washington's strength does he figure why men fear him and are paranoid of him. The group quickly receded to an abandoned warehouse area where there were both British and battered Americans as well. Tsipporah never thought she would see such a sight. Suppose under such circumstances the British would side with the Patriots.

The children took their time to settle in the safe-house the rebels settled into. Blythe wasn't too impressed with it, though, for it was too small to be considered a base. She took off her shoes very boyishly, rubbing her blistered feet as if it were mere mosquito bites. She barely lifted her eyes as her father spoke to the other rebels. There was no need to speak to him. Like the other warriors, he would eventually become a monster or worse. The anxiety of the thought set her on edge. Her brother knelt beside her, peering at her wrinkled face.

"You are mad at father," he concluded and she glared at him in response.

"What's it to you?" she spat.

"I do not think you realize father and mother take up on dangerous tasks so that we can live another day, Blythe—especially father. Mother told me that when he set out to defeat a man of dark hair and pale skin—a man named Charles Lee—he would not take her with him, even though they have been many places and killed many men. On personal excursions, he would not take her with him."

"Yet he takes me hunting," she argued, "I do not understand why he would rather have me hide than to help him. Even now, he drinks a vile drink that takes a piece of him with every drop. It is not bravery, Moses, it's piteous." Her brother cocked a brow at her words. Since when do we pity soldiers? Soldiers would think of anything but pity. He fixed himself so that his legs were crossed, folding his hands.

"Father has killed many men so that the people of the colonies would be free, he has killed a dangerous group of men so that mother and his people would remain safe, and even now, he kills men and saved us from becoming Washington's instruments of destruction—going so far as to gaining power that will drive him mad. He knows this, but as long as we are safe, he is satisfied. I think he deserves more than your pity, dear sister."

Blythe only sucked her teeth as her brother spoke to her; trying to reason with her more or less. Nothing would convince her otherwise. Her father had already done so many dangerous things even before she was born. Of course she appreciated all that he had done, but to lose him in any of it would cause her a great sorrow. Moses didn't seem to mind it at all. It must be a guy thing for he never once complained of his father doing anything dangerous. Her mother was quite different. She would not tell him to no go unless she sensed a bad omen within the given situation like she did now. As the men spoke around the table, she kept fiddling with her thumbs. Back and forth, the men would say how staying in this area would be a danger to them all and the only solution would be to track down Benjamin Franklin. That's when Sam Adams inquired of Ratonhnhaké:ton's assistance that was quickly given as soon as Franklin was called by name. Samuel proposed that in order to gain information, the native warrior must venture to the tavern where the guards would settle for drinks. It would be dangerous, but they would have some information at least. Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded to this and went on his way. The novice took her primitive bone-saw, following behind.

"Be good, kids," she said as she looked over her shoulder, but was stopped by her beloved. At first, she made a soft grunt, knowing what this would be.

"I think it would be safer for you to stay here and watch the children," Ratonhnhaké:ton proposed.

"You're talking to the woman who rip out the hearts of men and sank ships using your blood," she sputtered, "You worry about the wrong people, bro."

"I am not your 'bro'—I am your husband. And there are many bluecoats about the streets. I do not want you to be mixed up in unnecessary fighting. Washington, especially, is out for your blood—your power to be precise, as well as the children."

"Huh..." was all that she could muster, "You drinking weird tea, Washington's evil, people who should be dead are alive... this place sort of sounds like Alice in Wonderland a little. I just hope that tea isn't as dangerous as Blythe claims it to be."

"I suppose she has been worrying you," he chuckled, "Stay here."

As he left through the doors, she sneered, leaning on her weapon like a cane. The little one didn't want this. She bit her lip, thinking her father might get into trouble for drinking the tea this much. The worst possible scenario could take form if her mother were to listen to him so obediently like this, allowing him to injure his mind obliviously. Blythe picked herself off of the ground and went to her mother's side. Moses wrinkled his nose, already knowing what she was up to.

"Mother..." she muttered, pulling her mother's sleeve.

"What's up?" she acknowledged her call, "What's wrong, babe?"

"Papa cannot drink anymore of that drink; it'll drive him mad. Grandmother Ziio said so."

"Blythe..."

"Please, go after him, mother—please..."


The streets of Boston were nothing but broken spirits and starving civilians along with the constant patrol of bluecoats at every corner. It took some serious stealth to avoid most of them. They were alert, paranoid of who may stir up some trouble. upon closer inspection, one could see the fatigue written on their faces, but would protest against closing them to rest due to constant insecurities. The men were afraid of their own sovereign, no doubt. The Mohawk was only glad that his partner was not here to look about with him. The layout of the land was a mess. It was still a mystery as to why and how this came to be. He took in a breath of relief that his wife finally came to. Tsipporah... She was always to difficult to put up with, but only so that he would be on the right path. If that were the case, then he should not regret the past. However, with their misadventures in mind, he was constantly reminded of why he wasn't so fond of her until the Boston Massacre. He just so happened to pass on the very street where his perspective of her was altered dramatically. It was here, by a hay-bale that elite soldiers of the British had him nearly killed... and she saved him. He was grateful to be sure, but the look in her eyes that day were—for once—readable with concern and resolution. For once, he was face to face with a kindred spirit. He knew for that was the expression he wore when he tried to save his mother. It only drove him to train even harder.

...

Connor took his observer away from the eyes of the public, sneaking away to the State House to find Achilles. When he finally had the location in his sights, he saw no carriage present; not even the old man either. And the entire way, he pleaded with his comrade to stay awake for they will get home soon. It would not happen. They backed their way into the shadows of the alley, feeling a sense of abandonment in this dire situation. Could it be that his partner would die here without the proper aid? No... he had to help her somehow. The Goth kept moaning in pain, wrinkling her brows and sucking her teeth at an unnerving volume as she was placed against the wall, sitting up. The young native ripped his sleeve quickly to wrap it around her injured leg. It was such misfortune that she decided to wear her... 'jeans' today. He went into the hole of the ripped fabric was to get to the severed flesh, ripping open the pants' sleeve easily like paper. Tsipporah gasped softly, feeling the cold air hit into her open wound and started whining.

"What are you doing? You have to hide..."

"I will not leave you here to bleed to death," he applied some pressure to her leg to stop the stubborn bleeding. Her actions were rather reckless. "Why did throw yourself before me? Why did you protect me...?" The Goth's eyes fluttered as he spoke. She probably was not in the right mind to speak at all. She seemed to be blacking out badly. Her chest rose and fell a tad too hastily as if she were to pass out from the blood loss. Connor took her by the shoulders. "Answer me, damn you!" he hissed.

"God..." she muttered, "Heroes don't die this early in the game... I just bought you some time. Besides, you have people waiting for you to come home—friends and family that's waiting for you." She coughed halfway, exhausted. "I don't have any real friends like you do. I'm not even that close to my family... and people need you—they don't need me..."

"Do not say that, Tsipporah. You are needed."

"Why?" her eyes started to tear up, "You always have to protect me!"

"And you have protected me," he countered, "I will not let you die so easily from a scratch like this."

"Then I've served my purpose—"

"No you have not," he answered smartly as his eyes bore into hers, "The Brotherhood may never find any use in you, but I need you."

The Goth felt frozen in her spot as a strange heat rose in her chest. Never in her life did anyone ever told her that she was needed, especially from someone who wouldn't let just anyone touch him. She resisted the urge to cry or at least tried. Her mind felt fuzzy, so she thought that this conversation wouldn't even compute into her memory. He kept telling her to stay awake, but she'd rather sleep than let him see her cry. She had to obey him; she vowed to, yet her heart started to sink in more and more. No one's ever told her that they needed her. She could understand him, but her? Connor saw the confusion in her eyes as well as the tears that brewed. His partner seemed different now, more vulnerable. It somehow made him want to embrace her—to take her in his arms strongly and reassure her that they will make it out alive. This he would do. He would not let her efforts be in vain. His partner chuckled softly, weakly punching his arm.

"Thanks, but..." she paused, "I don't think my head's so straight that I'll remember any of this conversation even if I do live through this, tree-hugger. I doubt it, though. I'm blacking out..."

"No," he took her in his arms in a bridal style, "We will both get home alive."

He quickly got to his feet, taking the alleyway's routes to escape the eyes of the English soldiers. As he weaved through the shadows, a spark of anger rose in his chest that the old man may have abandoned them both to escape the chaos the Templars had started. His friend's injury only made it all the more dire, but also pushed him more to fleeing and returning home more quickly. It was difficult, though, for there were soldiers everywhere. Not to mention the cautious civilians at this hour, scarred by the sudden massacre. The Goth softly breathed onto his neck as he held her, her eyes fluttering.

"I-I told you..." she sassed weakly, "It's better to leave me behi—"

"Tsipporah, I will hear no more of this," he raised his voice to her and opened her eyes a little like she misheard him.

"Connor, you're raising notoriety here—"

"Then shut your mouth until we leave Boston." She then clapped her mouth shut, wrinkling her brow. Connor kept walking ahead until he was near the docks, holding a stubborn grip on his friend for dear life. Friend... Since when did he think of her as a friend? He took a moment to look back at her face to be certain that she wasn't going pale or dying. He shook her a little to see if she was still awake. Her pulse was still steady... for now. His hand brushed a small patch of snow that must have fallen on her face when they fled. "Tsipporah... stay awake. I still need you..."

"Over here!" Connor heard a man's voice commanding him, so he cautiously went towards him. It was a middle-aged man in a navy coat. He didn't seem British nor hostile. "You're Achilles' boy. Connor, was it? I saw what happened at the Town House. A fine mess that. And who is this? Ms. Martel, I take it?"

"Who are you?" he held his observer tighter to his chest.

"Samuel Adams, at your service," he answered, "Achilles asked me to get you out of Boston."

"Explain."

"The whole city's looking for you..." he nodded to the wanted posters being put up and announcers calling out about a native starting the shooting on King's Street. This was bad. If his observer was awake enough, she'd give him an earful. He then turned to Sam on what he should do, which was plainly simple: to take down the posters and bribe the ones responsible for spreading the news. Connor thought this to be dishonest, but what choice did he have? His companion needed medical attention, so his options were getting narrowed by the second. Sam saw that his hold on the girl was getting pretty anxious. The man sighed.

"The more I carry you about the city," the boy mumbled to the teen, "the colder you seem to get..."

"Perhaps we should send her off first, eh?" he waved to someone in the shadows, "Surry, you mind taking a look at this young woman. She needs medical attention. Connor, this is Surry. She's very skilled in handling serious injuries. Your friend here will be safe, but we have some extensions of the city for you to see under these circumstances."

The young man's eyes nearly lit up as if he's learned the secret of raising one from the dead. He nodded gladly, handing over the novice to the negro woman who held a kind face. She pulled off her coat to cover the young girl in her arms, backing away into the shadows once more.

"Don't you worry now, Connor," she smiled, "Yo' friend is in good hands. She'll be back at the man'r 'fore you know it."

Even as she said this, strolling away carefully until she was some distance away into a horse and carriage, he oddly felt a bit empty. Sure his partner was safe, but he would have to go at this alone to see what to do to lower his notoriety. It somewhat bothered him that that irritating, skull-riddled young woman wouldn't be riding out this whole excursion with him. A part of him started to feel a bit lonely as he went his way, ripping at the wanted posters. Her words of complaints of making himself stick out like a sore thumb echoed in his head. Somehow, through this little venture, he started to go back on how they first came to the manor, staying at the stables to rest. She was grateful for every meal he brought, every time he wrote something correctly, and even gave a rare, natural smile when she would touch him just for fun. He hated that every time... just then, when he held her fragile body, he felt a strong desire to keep her close—to protect her still. She probably felt the same for she did not push him away. In fact, no matter how she would keep a wall around her, she would never resort to pushing him away. That girl must have made up her mind to give her life for his sake. Connor smiled to himself, sensing that he would have a newfound respect for this strange girl.

...

"How is she?" the native boy demanded to know. Surry shushed him for the young girl was sleeping on minced herbs and potions. It took longer than expected to get back to the manor. He had returned the next morning, running up the stairs to Tsipporah's room to see if she was alright. To his relief, she was sleeping rather soundly (and by soundly, she was snoring loudly). His eyes kept their gaze on her intently as if she was going to keel over any minute now. His keen senses could smell the scent of blood from the air with hints of metal behind it, causing a lump to grow in his throat. The novice must have suffered through the night perhaps. Surry could see the worry in his face and smiled, clapping her hands together.

"Now listen here, child, she'll be awake fo' you know it," she reassured, "Now Achilles is coming back from his walk. You need to get back ta trainin' and I need to make Adams some breakfast. That man'll starve."

The woman left the room, eventually leaving the manor as well when the boy heard the door open and close downstairs. Connor walked closer to the teen's side as her snores started to quiet down. Despite her boisterous sleeping, he started to notice something different about her. Was her face always this unblemished; this aglow? There was a strange calmness in it that brought about a mysterious tremor in his chest. His lips unconsciously parted when brushed a lock of hair away from her face. Looking at this girl now, he realized that she looked better without the strange, dark shadows she would powder around her eyes. And she was a bit more slender than she was then when they first met. The native boy shook his head as these thoughts came to pass. No. This girl was insufferable... but she put herself in harm's way for him to live another day. He cut away from his thoughts when he felt the bed rustle.

"...Connor...? Man, what happened last night...?" Tsipporah croaked, rubbing her eyes. The apprentice stopped her before she let herself sit up. Her sudden movement caused some pain to channel from her leg to the rest of her body, sucking her teeth in response. "FUCK! Ugh... Yep. I remember now."

"Do not move so hastily," he warned, "Surry tended to your wounds and left to return to Samuel Adams. He helped us escape Boston."

"Samuel Adams?! As in one of the Sons of Liberty? Ah, man..." she pouted, plopping her head back in the pillow, darting her eyes about to see that she was in fact back at the manor in her room. Her lips sputtered, trying to think back on what may have happened after she felt dizzy losing blood. A flinch passed her body, recalling on bits and pieces. "Did I say something or do something when I blacked out."

"You claimed that my life was worth saving more than yours," he said bluntly, "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, well, I thought I said something embarrassing, haha..."

"Like what?" he actually seemed interested in what she would say.

"Like some cheesy bullshit like: 'your forest scent appeases me and your warm embrace makes me feel safe' or something like that."

"Do you really feel that way, though?" The Goth immediately stuffed her head into her pillow like her life depended on it. Maybe letting her die of blood loss was a better way to go. She was sure that all the blood she could have lost was going to her head. "This entire time I believed that you and the old man were against me—that you would help me train, but did not care nonetheless. Now I see; I understand now that my well-being does matter to you and for that I am grateful." She wanted to cry into the pillow now, but wasn't sure if it'd be out of joy or hysteria. His words sounded so sincere, so caring. Her pride wouldn't let her throw her arms around him. Suddenly, the cushion was pulled away so that she was staring Connor in the face. It confused her for a moment why he looked so mesmerized.

"You look much better without that tribal paint."

"It's called 'eyeliner'."

"Well, your face is in no need of it; it is better off naked." The Goth snorted when he said 'naked' so innocently.

"Thank you, Connor, but I wear it as a preference. You're not the first one to tell me this."

"But you are already beautiful without it. Why wear it?" The teen stared at him with big eyes and they boy barely flinched. Did he just call her beautiful? Her heart skipped a beat, trying to compute his words and expression. He didn't seem to be teasing her either—he really meant every word. She immediately flipped herself on her stomach so her face was in the mattress. The boy sighed, shaking her shoulders. "Tsipporah, look at me."

Before she could answer, the door opened downstairs. It sounded like Achilles walking in by the thudding of his cane along with footsteps. A fierce anger grew on Connor's face thinking of him. If not for the old man's leave, going back to the manor wouldn't be such a hassle. He stood up from the bedside and went for the door. The teen got on her forearms, finally looking to him. She could tell that he was about to tell off the old man; blame the whole thing on him for leaving them both in the city with little choices left to them.

"Don't give him an earful, bro. It was just part of training. He didn't abandon us—"

"Endangering your life is not part of training. You could have bled to death or worse! And you defend him for that?" he slammed the bedroom door as he left, making the teen jump a little. Swallowing a lump in her throat, she somewhat felt that her actions that night may have triggered some new attachment. Connor tread down the stairs with purpose, wanting to voice his anger to his mentor, but that girl...! Why would she defend the old man for? He did not get her out of Boston, stopped the bleeding, carried her away from enemies' eyes. She was abrasive, reckless, but too forgiving. It wouldn't change his mind about talking down his mentor, though.


Ratonhnhaké:ton had no trouble finding the tavern, but if he kept standing idly by, then he'd be in an inevitable brawl. He looked about the bluecoats who relaxed with ale in their hand, spewing prejudice and racist comments that were anything but subtle. When a man called out that he was taking any players to play a board game, the native spared no moment for he had to blend in quickly. Thoughas per usualthe warrior silenced the man when he tried to have a friendly exchange. Well, he was in the middle of an eavesdrop. The bluecoats that sat near them practically gave him information with the way they were saying it proudly:

"Jimminy! Ol' Franklin's sending me out with another message!"

"Oh, you're in for it."

"Here's the worst of itthe message is for Putnam!"

"Christ! You're a dead mackerel!"

"Right. With either of those two, there's always some reason to end up flogged!"

"Franklin will give you the lash, and then Putnam will try to outdo him!"

"Something big is up. Only one ale for me. I have to get this to Putnam's lieutenant, or it's the whip. Or maybe worse!"

The messenger got up and left after downing a single ale. Once he got to the door, he bumped into another figure that caused his face to sour and laugh. More foul names escaped his lips in a mumble as the other walked in. The native man wanted to face palm for this woman would rouse suspicion. He quickly rose from his seat, knowing full well that he had to follow that messenger and steal the letter that he carried. Without pause, he made his way through the door, grabbing the woman that nearly blew his cover. Outside, he waited until the coast was clear to put her up against the wall in a manner that was spiked with anger.

"What are you doing here?" he growled. The novice smiled coyly.

"Blythe is worried about you."

"So you left the children alone and followed me here? What if the bluecoats found you?"

"Pfft..." she sassed, "Calm down, boss. Their cousins are watching them—they'll be fine. Their cousins... they're like twenty. God, I feel old—"

"Enough," he released his grip on her and walked ahead, "I need to catch up to the messenger. I must carefully steal the message from his pocket."

"Ok, babe. I'll be on the roof."

"This task is simple. You must return to the children at the safe-house."

"Do you seriously think our kids are afraid of some dudes with guns?" Again, she was being so stubborn to follow orders. It was no different from their training days and the days of the revolution. She would fight him as much as she would fight alongside him. It irritated him to no end. The Mohawk shrugged his shoulders in annoyance before getting threateningly close to her—which allowed her to see the fire in his eyes. It was then that she understood as she anxiously backed away into the alleyway. "Yep. Back to kids. Taking my short cut back. See ya later, hon. Love ya."

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head and turned back to the task at hand. It took some time to pursue the messenger to steal the message successfully, but it was done. He opened the letter to read its contents:

"General Putnam,

There appears to be a misunderstanding regarding our respective positions and authorities.

A personal meeting is called for: at the docks, tomorrow, ten at night. The usual sentinels will secure our safety.

Yours,
Ben. Franklin."

He folded the letter back and carefully placed it back with the messenger, whom he found again via Eagle Vision. Tsipporah got as far as she could to avoid the range of his sixth sense. She ventured on the rooftops, watching him tread to the docks like the predator he is. The novice noticed how his footing was much faster than before. He'd be at one block then the next in a nanosecond. Must be that weird Jesus-Juice-Willow-Tea her daughter told her about. She trusted his skills to get his target, but his mercy on them was stifling. The air about him this time seemed different, though. He looked as if he was really out for blood. It raised some concerns. What if he was going mad and wasn't aware of it? These new abilities of the spirit animals were helpful, yet bit away at his life force should he abuse it. She trusted him... but not the tea. The Mohawk finally settled at the docks where there were ships under construction and stray bluecoats about. Stealthily, he made his way into one of the incomplete ships to watch for more enemies. Even more so—Benjamin Franklin. Tsipporah wasn't entirely certain of what he was up to, but he was waiting intently. She laid on her back on a rooftop, closing her eyes. If something was supposed to happen, then she'll wake right up. It was still eight in the morning, so what's to happen?

"Oh yeah," she chuckled to herself, "This is Colonial America. Bullshit will always happen."


Her brother wasn't at all happy that Blythe had her mother involved in their father's business. She knew very well that this is what gets them fighting each other in the first place. The last thing they needed was two dangerous people going at each other. Despite all this, she slept in the corner soundly; rather snoring loudly for a little girl. Karontara:ken approached quietly with an blanket of animal fur, placing over his young cousin's shivering body. Once she felt the presence of its warmth, she snuggled into and snored a little lower. Moses huffed angrily to the air. Father would be livid knowing that mother went after him. Way to go, Blythe. Way to go.

"You seem angry, brother," Onerahtase'ko:wa pointed to the young boy, "Are you worried for your father?"

"I'm afraid it's more complicated than that..."

"Family is always complicated, is it not?" Ken'tarakonha:ka joined in, "If it is about your mother pursuing your father, then he has every right to be bothered as do you."

"Just like mother..." Moses whispered and looked to his cousins with a smirk, "Mother would be furious should she find that I would speak ill of her, but... like mother, like daughter. Blythe would always worry about father's well being as she does for mine. They do not understand that we are capable as males. Unlike my sister here, I look before I leap." The brothers laughed in unison in understanding.

"If anything like our mother, she worries just as she breathes—constantly," Karontara:ken adjusted his tomahawk, "She does not fear anything, but they cannot help it and neither can we. Women are equals. They are just as fearsome. Your sister may believe that you are strong and will support you until you realize what you are capable of. Do not push her away just because she worries. These are hard times. We all must find our strengths."

It was then that Moses started to feel the fatigue get to him as a yawn escaped his mouth, covering it with his hands. His cousins looked at each other and smiled. They looked back to their own father who was speaking some plans with Samuel Adams and other redcoats. Ken'tarakonha:ka removed his winter shawl and placed it on the little one's shoulders who was fighting the sleep his body was receiving.

"Rest, brother," Karontara:ken, "Soon, you shall find your strength."


Hey, people! Sorry I died from wondering how many words I should put into this chapter. Had a writer's block. :'(

At least the Redemption chapter got me pumped, so I'm going halfway through the next chapter! So... the cute triplets that Kateri had? Now all grown up. Makes some characters feel a bit old, huh? Well, I got some bad news: you will cry the next episode.

See you next chapter! :D