Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I'm going to be writing a series of one-shots about Fem!Ratonhnhaké:ton.

If you have any requests, put them in the comments of this chapter, since it's easier for me to find them.

I got a couple of rules though:

1. No incest
2. No pedophilia
3. No A/B/O
4. No shipping
5. Respect for the requests of others

This work is still in progress, since I have some problems:

1. Ratonhnhaké:ton is a boy's name in the Mohawk language. The prefix "ra-" is a male prefix for many boys names. I need to know if I can use a female prefix, if I can find one. The one's I found were "(i)e-" or the neutral "ka-". If you have any ideas, put them in the comments.
2. I will use the name "Connor" since traveling as a man has certain advantages, but Haytham would want his daughter to have a "proper" name. If you have any ideas, put them in the comments.
3. I want Jennifer Scott and Shay Cormac involved. How would you think they would react to Haytham having an Assassin daughter? If you have any ideas, put them in the comments.
4. I want to explore alternative universes: Growing up with Haytham, Ziio never dies, Tyranny of King Washington, Avatar AU, Modern AU, GoT/ASoIaF AU, etc. If you have any ideas, put them in the comments.

Wish me luck!

Chapter Text

His daughter had the habit of rising with the sun, and that was one of the few traits that Haytham could not find much fault in. He could rely on her to take the watch, and when he woke up, he could expect a good meal of fish or game, no matter how reluctant she was about it. On the frontier, his daughter was the only ally Haytham had, and she had proven to be a useful one.

But when he was roused that morning, he found the remnants of a fire, and his daughter, clutching her stomach and whimpering.

Haytham convinced himself that it was curiosity that prompted him to rouse her. Perhaps his daughter was having a nightmare and was having trouble waking up, or she was injured and needed medical assistance. He could not explain what spirit had seized him and tried to wake the girl, but he placed his hand on her shoulder and lightly shook her.

His curiosity was piqued when he saw the red flower blooming on her white robe.

"Connor?" He rarely addressed as such; he would not stoop so low as to call his daughter a man's name, but the spirit that had taken his mind had also taken his senses. He shook her again, only more desperately this time. "Connor?!"

She groaned, eyes opening slightly before squeezing tightly with a pitched whimper, and she curled up, even tighter. The red stain began to spread, and she was muttering incoherently under her breath.

Haytham was in a panic, trying to find the source of the blood and hoping to staunch its flow. He tried to roll her over, only for her to bat as his hands weakly. "Connor, you're bleeding! You need to see a doctor." He grasped her arm, trying to roll her over. She refused, whimpering. "For God's sake, you're acting like a child!" He tried in vain to pull her up.

She mumbled something under her breath. "I'm not I-ing."

Haytham paused, "What?"

"I'm not... bee... ing."

Haytham rolled his eyes. "If you have something to say, speak up!"

"I'M NOT BLEEDING," her shrill reply sent Haytham jumping back. Just as quickly as she snapped at him, she curled back into herself.

"Well, then," Haytham was done trying to reason with her. "Forgive me if I see my daughter covered in blood and assume the worst, but please explain to me: what are you doing, if not 'bleeding'?"

His daughter groaned, rubbing her hands over her sides. She murmured, "It's my course."

Haytham froze.

He never considered himself a truly religious man, or a believer of ghosts or the unexplainable. But at that moment, he had wished God or some other divine or hellish being had struck him down.

Instead, he unclasped his cloak and threw it onto her.

She looked at the cloak draped on her body, then looked at him with the most pitiful expression he ever saw. "Father?"

"There was a creek nearby," he pulled some rags from his satchel and threw them at her. "You can wash up there, and be quick about it. I would like that part of my outfit back soon."

Soon she returned, cloak in hand, hair dripping and coat lightly damp, and they both set off without a word.

After another weary day of running around, having her father endlessly bark orders at her, and obeying such orders, they once again returned to the woods. After she had found a clearing and gathered the proper wood for a fire, Haytham was instructed to contribute at the bare minimum, either by finding food or water. But that hope was soon dashed to pieces.

Katonhnhaké:ton would not lie, she did not mind the fact that she was responsible for her and Haytham's care on the frontier. She grew up in the forest, and her adventures taught her all the necessary skills. If her father was left to care for them, she was sure that she would be poisoned, buried, or eaten. She couldn't understand how her mother would ever relate to this man, unless it was her saving him from his blundering.

Time and time again, she had to correct his actions before he got himself killed.

"Those berries are poisonous," she pointed at the cluster of red jewels that her father was reaching for.

"Those plants are not edible," if she remembered correctly, those fruits would take months to fully ripen.

"That water isn't safe to drink," Haytham stood up, shaking his hands dry and glaring at his daughter.

"Well, then," he waved at her. "What do you propose we do? Go without food or water?"

Katonhnhaké:ton slung off her bow. "Follow me," she ducked into the shrubbery, pushing away the spindly branches and letting them swing back at her father. She would not admit it, but it gave her some satisfaction, listening to him curse and spit and sputter about when he was met with a face full of leaves.

There was a river, in which during the summer season, the salmon would leapt out and into the mouths of bears and wolves and any other animal that was looking for an easy meal. Katonhnhaké:ton knew a secluded spot where the bears and wolves wouldn't bother with them, instead focusing on their catch. She also knew that, when firing at fish, aim just below them, and the arrow would strike true.

She fished out an arrow, with a fat white fish fluttering back and forth on it. "There," she presented it to her father, who gave a reluctant nod.

She lit a fire, while her father held the flipping fish at arm's length. After she had spitted it and roasted it, she gave her father. Haytham appreciated the gesture enough to ask her to bring another one.

She obliged, grumbling as she did. She returned, soaked to her hips with three fish in hand.

By sunset, they returned to the river, and at Haytham's request, she silently pointed to the river. When Haytham realized that she wasn't moving, he grumbled and griped, trying and failing to provoke her, and finally decided to set his hat, cloak and coat on the dry rocks and stepped into the water.

Katonhnhaké:ton stood on the river bank, trying to suppress her laughs when an especially swollen salmon leapt up and slapped her father across the face. Haytham's method of fishing was amusing, reaching into the water to grab at the fish and restoring to his blades when it failed. There was a large one that her father had gotten a fairly good grip on, only for it to slip out of his fingers when a small pebble knocked against his shoulder. He yelped, releasing the fish to to rub at the place of impact, only to fall into the brook as the fish weaved between his legs.

She couldn't hold it in anymore. She snorted, laughed, choked, coughed desperately, then laughed some more. She only stopped when her father threw some water at her.

"If you are done," he scowled as she gasped and rubbed at her face. "I would like to have some supper tonight."

Katonhnhaké:ton sighed.

She stood on the little ledge in the river, a long line of wet stones that the fish jumped over. She stood there, hands stretched out, pulling the fish out of the air as they leapt out. It took Haytham a good number of tries, but he finally caught a large salmon, before promptly letting it slip from his fingers. He improved eventually, but they decided they need a more efficient method of catching dinner: Katonhnhaké:ton would herd the fish to the shore, and Haytham would catch them. This strategy eventually devolved into them splashing each other, trying to knock the other into the water, and laughing at the failed attempts at the other before returning with a vengeance.

Any bear or wolf that stumbled into the scene would have given them a second glance, before wisely averting their gaze and deciding to head upstream with their cubs and pups, leaving the other parent and child to continue with their activities.

As the sun fell, and Haytham rested by the shore, wringing the water from his coat and cloak, he watched as his daughter comb her loose locks with her fingers downstream. She had just spent her day frolicking in the river without a care in the world, and for a moment he felt the wall between them abrade, and he saw her. He still had hope that she would see reason, but for the moment, their truce would suffice.

After Katonhnhaké:ton had dried and plaited her hair, she and Haytham returned to the clearing. After she had lit the fire, Haytham, in a rare moment of generosity, volunteered to take the first watch while she slept. She initially protested, before her father bluntly told her that she was no condition to take the first watch and that if he had any intent to kill, he would have already acted on it and still could, so she had nothing to be worried about.

She glared at him, unimpressed with his rhetoric.

Haytham's expression shifted to match his daughter's, before it shifted once more to one of exasperation. "I promise you, Connor," as much as he loathed to call her by that name, it seemed to bring her to her senses. "No harm will come to you tonight," she continued to stare at him, to which he added on, "unless some bears decide that the fish weren't a filling meal, you have nothing to worry about."

Perhaps it was fire, dancing across her face and distorting the shape of her mouth, but Haytham swore she smiled at him. "Bears don't travel in groups."

"No," Haytham's brow crooked slightly. "Wolves, then?"

"They don't normally attack humans," she laid her head on the crook of her arm, bringing her knees up to her chest. As her eyes fluttered shut, something heavy fell upon her head, and a rough thumb rubbed against her brow.

Haytham saw his daughter's face grow lax and breathing steep into a slow rhythm. Absently, he noted how her nose wrinkled and wiggled about with every breathe, a habit that he longed for in another. She looked so much like Ziio, with her dark hair and dusky skin, and the way she slept and laughed brought sharp pangs to his chest. She looked more like himself when she was raging and frowning, scowling or just staring. There was a certain aspect to it that reminded Haytham of himself, which bother amused and disturbed him.

Out of curiosity, he ran a thumb over her brow. She twitched, brow furrowing and lips shining, before making a queer motion similar to a mouse's sneeze and settling down. Emboldened by his first venture, Haytham decided to move closer to her, resting his hand on the girl's head. The girl curled into herself, cheeks rosy and lips parting to let out a little, faint breathe.

Haytham smiled, barely able to restrain himself from laughing outright and disturbing the air of intimacy that they shared. He knew it would not last, but he was content with what they had.

The fire began to fade, prompting Haytham to take a branch from the pile his daughter assembled and add it to the pyre. The first pile he gathered was promptly kicked apart when his daughter had politely informed him of his incompetencies and gathered a new one, and instructed him to care for the fire. He grumbled, ran his mouth, made some rather expressive gestures, but she was obstinate, and Haytham was far too weary to care.

A maddening spirit possessed him, and he lightly pulled the girl towards him. She gave a light huff, resting her head on his lap and burrowing her nose into her folded arms.

Haytham decided to be merciful, opting to forget this little anecdote and kindly not speak of this again.

Chapter Text

The gown that her father found for her was beautiful and simple. It was made of pale blue linen, and could be pinned at the front to a decorative stomacher. The two leather shoes came with ornate brass buckles. Her father also instructed her to wear a shift and stays, a bodice that had to be laced up, under the gown. It was extravagant and outdated, built for a noblewoman's pannier, not a bum roll of a farmer's daughter. Without proper support, the petticoats had pooled at her feet, dragging at the floor if she did not clench her skirts up.

She was always curious about what the women at the Homestead wore. She saw their slashed gowns and laced bodices, and the many, many skirts laid underneath. They looked so simple, but came in many pieces. Some days they wore strange short coats over them, other times they didn't.

When she ran her hand over the stays, and immediately pulled away. The coarse material, which was smooth at a glance, chaffed her fingers. It felt very much like those sacks that would hold root vegetables. Now she understood why the women wore a shift under it all. The stays had to be laced tightly, which worried her. What if something slipped, or was squeezed out. When she voiced these concerns to Haytham, he simply handed her a large kerchief and told her to fasten it around her neck. She asked about breeches, at which her father told her that she wouldn't need them. The realization didn't dawn on her until after he shut the door.

Her face instantly flushed. She had never not worn pants. Without them, she felt... exposed for a lack of better word. The stockings and garters didn't help either. They only reminded her of what she was lacking.

The shift, stays, stockings, and petticoats all weighed on her, but what truly vexed her was the pins. When she first tried to pin her dress and stomacher, she pricked her fingers. She was glad that the stays were thick enough to protect her body from the pins.

There was banging on the door, and a call: "We're going to be late!" was followed by a stream of heavy thumps.

Haytham was not used to being questioned, ignored, or kept waiting, and his daughter had seen fit to rectify that. He had been waiting for a good hour, and she continued to test his patience.

"We're going to be late!" He pounded on the door just to emphasize his point. That fact that his austere daughter, an Assassin that had escaped every chain and burden laid upon her, was struggling to put on a dress was more than shocking.

He lost his patience and barged in the room.

She was plaiting her hair with a red ribbon, pinning the braids on the back of her head. When he entered the room, she turned around, fixing him with a fierce glare.

"What's all the fuss about? It fits nicely," he picked at the kerchief, folding it over her neck and securing it with a pin. "As I thought it would."

"How am I supposed to fight?" His daughter took her Hidden Blades from her bag. "Everyone will see them."

The sleeves stopped at the elbow, drooping into large laced bells. Her Hidden Blades would be easy to spot, and a Mohawk lady armed to the teeth would draw more than unnecessary attention.

Haytham picked out a dagger from his pocket. "Take this," he handed it to his daughter. "Keep it in your pocket." She took it, flipped it over with a critical look, and slipped it into her pocket between the folds of her petticoats.

Haytham gave his daughter a quick look over, and nodded. "Turn around," his daughter gave him a put-upon look and a sigh, but complied.

She had an angry look to her, with black eyes and a flat chest. She looked like the boy she insisted to be. She had an awkward gait, stiffly spinning with her elbows pinned to her side. Her nose was a bit big for her face and her lips were a bit thin, but there was something about her that caught the eye. Her swarthy skin and coal-coloured hair went well together, and her face was well sculpted.

She was undeniably Ziio's daughter.

She picked at her gown a look of distaste. "I don't like this."

"Nonsense," he grasped her shoulders, pushing them back. "You look fine. Here," he picked up a white cap and tied it around her head. "Now," he extended an elbow, waving at the door with his other arm. "Shall we?"

She pushed past him, face red and fists balled in her skirts. She hurried out of the inn, petticoats fanning out behind her. Haytham presumed that she would make for the stables, coaxing out the horses and impatiently waiting for him. He could almost hear the tapping of her toe.

He hid his smirk. His daughter was an excellent rider, even he had to admit that much, but she never learned how to ride sidesaddle, and she would be even more vexed to learn how to mount the horse. Had she expected to ride like a man, with no breeches to hide her shame?

He nearly burst out in laughter. His daughter's naivety never ceased to amuse him.

Katonhnhaké:ton was sure that Lady Luck was testing her patience. It was just her fortune to be lectured by her father on how to properly ride a horse. It was a rather extensive lesson, and more often than not, she fell into the dirt, accompanied by her father's complaints about her dress and him brushing her down. Eventually, with Haytham's unwanted but necessary aid, Katonhnhaké:ton had finally learned how to ride with both of her legs on one side of the horse. One of her knees rested on the back of the horse, and her other leg fell to the side. The anxious look on her face must have been concerning, since her father rode behind her, keeping her in his line of sight.

Once Haytham was sure that she was secure, he decided to share some information.

A wealthy farmer had called the men to help with the barn raising, and opted to entertain them afterward. Once the sun had set and the paint had dried, the able-bodied men erected tables and benches, then rushed out to escort the women. The young daughters wore their best, smiling cloyingly at the other men and making small talk with their escorts.

The patron was an amicable farmer with fields of gold and green that stretched farther than the eye can see. He was at the door, greeting the guests with all the charm that the Dutch country had to offer. His round face was flushed with joy, filled with good humor and content, occasionally asking for a light for his pipe. His gestures of hospitality were brief, but expressive, with a shake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a roaring laugh, and an invitation to "help themselves."

Katonhnhaké:ton stepped into the room, and was hit with the heavy air of artificial scents and an itinerant orchestra. The women wore brightly-colored frocks, which flew above the ankles when they spun across the room. The men had dressed as well, not as well as her father, but the clear they wore on their faces made up for the worn breeches and coats. Not one soul was idle, either clattering around the room in a fanciful frenzy or polishing off plates of fruit pies and smoked ham.

At the far end of the room, where a flock of men gathered, there, they gossiped and shared drawn-out stories about the days gone past and the glory of the war. Occasionally, a Dutch lass would happen to draw near and lure one of them to the other end of the barn, prompting his friends to shout jokes with ribald humor.

She looked about the room, her head giving sharp turns that threatened to knock the cap off her head. "Where is our target?"

Her father gave her a sharp look, "What?"

Katonhnhaké:ton returned it with a fierce glare. She leaned in and whispered, "I thought we were here to kill someone."

"Yes, well," amusement glinted in his eyes. "I might have exaggerated that."

She paused. "What." It wasn't a question.

"I have a contact here," a young girl drew near him, eyes flashing and her stomacher pulled a bit too low. Haytham politely excused her. "He has information on the target."

She glowered at him. "Then this is a waste of time. We should find him and leave."

Haytham gave her a queer look. "Why the rush? We ought to enjoy ourselves," she glared at him, at which he huffed. "Really, what other choice do you have? Are you going to run out and hunt him like a dog?" The look on her face must have been enough to confirm his theory, as he scoffed.

Perhaps her father's words had some truth. Without the Order or Brotherhood, she and Haytham could find some peace, and have the relationship that a father and daughter should.

Katonhnhaké:ton had seen how some men and their daughters spent their Sunday evenings: little girls laughing as their father's spun them around the room, sneaking them candied peels and treats kept hidden in their pockets. It was quaint, if a bit confusing. She could see the appeal, enjoying childish fun and good humor, but she never had the luxury of enjoying it with her own father. From what she had seen, Haytham was a cold well of endless witticisms, ready to douse her at her latest imagined slight. What affection or attention he gave her was reluctant at best, and it always left her gritting her teeth. Whatever hope she had was long faded.

Katonhnhaké:ton instead turned towards the feast. She had not eaten since she left the tavern, and she would not lie if she had said that she was curious about what the Dutchmen had to offer. She was not disappointed. There were a variety of cakes and pastries, dusted with sugar or garnished with something called treacle. There was a small bowl of candied fruits, flowers and peel, and a small assortment of fruit preserves. There were some familiar sights: smoked beef and ham, roast chickens, broiled fish fresh from the rivers, apple and pumpkin pies, and small jars of milk and thick cream set beside a steaming teapot.

Katonhnhaké:ton took some sweets, nibbling on a crumbling piece of cruller before a rough pair of fingers were snapped in front of her face.

"You there!" It was an old farmer, with rough hands and a look of shadowed fury. He had a crooked frame due to years of hard labor, and his fiery gaze was directed at her. "Fetch some drinks, you idle girl!"

Katonhnhaké:ton was shocked, but she tried to maintain her composure. She would not compromise her mission for temper, nor was she eager to prove her father right about how foolish he believed her to be.

She opened her mouth, only for their host to arrive.

"Pardon me," the host stood before them, taking a generous puff from his pipe. His eyes rolled over the scene before him, before dilating with joy. "Ah, Master van Ripper! How generous of you to come by! Pray, tell — are you enjoying yourself?"

The man, Mr. van Ripper, threw a look of contempt upon the kind man. "I break my back for your family, and this," he made a rapid, obscene gesture at the girl, "is the reward for my service? I expected a man of your stature to have better control over his household."

The Patron's eyes now turned to her, and his mouth split into a smile, rolling his eyes and showing two rows of stained ivory from ear to ear. "Master van Ripper, if I may be so bold, you must be mistaken! This girl is not a member of my household."

Van Ripper, red-faced and heaving heavily, began a shrill tirade — about the injustice and God's wrath, about the indolence and stupidity of the slaves, and how a van Ripper would not dare suffer such an insult! — at which Katonhnhaké:ton saw her least-wanted hero enter the room.

"Pardon me, gentlemen," Haytham stood there, tall, broad-shouldered, hands clasped behind his back and a smile hiding ill intent directed at the fierce farmer. It was obvious that he had heard what had happened, and he was displeased with how the events were proceeding. Perhaps it was some regular insulting his daughter that prompted him to act, or perhaps he was tired of watching her blunder about with no grace.

"Ah, Master Kenway!" The host doddered over, clasping a strong hand on her father's elbow. "I had hoped to see you!" Her father grinned, in all good heart and cheer. Katonhnhaké:ton had to admit, she was envious how a stranger would draw a true smile from this unyielding Templar while all she drew out were scoffs and passing glances.

"Baltus," Haytham returned the kind gesture. "It's good to see you again. Tell me, how is your daughter?"

Baltus laughed, his great paunch shaking as his face went red with joy. "Wonderful! Kitty is such a delight!" His eyes dilated and his hands shook with excitement at the mention of his child. "She's barely seven years old, and she has the voice of a bird! How blessed I am!" At that remark, the man's face adopted a superficial appearance of indignation, "Haytham, dear boy, when will you find yourself a good wife? You're not getting any younger, and children don't come by easily in this war!"

Speak of the devil , the irony was not lost on either Haytham or Katonhnhaké:ton, and his smile said it all. She opened her mouth, only for her father to get out the first word.

"Well then," Haytham placed his hand on her shoulder, "allow me to introduce my daughter." At his expectant look, she straightened her back and lowered her head.

Baltus was practically brimming with merriment. "Dear God! I see it now! She has your look. Tell me, who is her mother?"

"Dead," Katonhnhaké:ton spoke before her father could spew any lies or manipulations. "Murdered."

The farmer softened for a moment, the look of understanding grief directed at the poor girl. "I-I'm sorry to hear that." She nodded listlessly, keeping her gaze away from her father.

Van Ripper, who had been uncharacteristically quiet for a blessed period of time, decided to make his place known. "Why would you bring this girl here? She has no manners! No respect! No morals!"

Before Haytham could retort, Katonhnhaké:ton spoke out. Father or no, she would not have a Templar speak her thoughts.

"What my father does is none of your concern," the farmer drew back, face red and eyes wide. "You have no right to lecture him," he opened his mouth to respond, only for her to continue. "If I have offended you, then I am sorry." He let out a grunt before she started again. "But you had no right to treat me that way. You have no right to order me about as a servant. If you really are the hard worker that you say you are, then you can easily pour your own drinks. You do not need me to pander to you!" He tried to interject, only to be bombarded with verbal jabs straight to the face. "As a man, you cannot tell me how to behave! How do you know how a woman should behave? What do you know about manners? You cannot expect me to respect you! When you clearly do not respect me!

Her chest was heaving, straining against her dress. Her face was inflamed, her faint freckles becoming more clear against her red skin; her hands were clenched, and her throat was sore, parched from her tirade. The look on her face was enough to keep the farmer subdued, as his mouth repeatedly opened and closed before he mumbled something petulantly before sulking away.

Baltus burst out in laughter. "Haytham, my friend! She truly is your daughter!" His laughter rang throughout the room, drawing the gaze of every guest in the barn. "Please, my dear! I must have your name!"

"Katonhnhaké:ton," his face shifted, not unpleasantly but shocked and a bit confounded. "But I have an English name," she added at the sight of his face. "It's Co—"

"Cordelia!" Haytham interjected. "Cordelia Kenway."

Baltus nodded approvingly. "A good name for a good daughter," he waved at the room. "Please, my dear! Enjoy yourself! If you need anything, don't be afraid to ask!" He lit his pipe, tipped his hat, and sauntered off.

Once their Patron was keeping another father entertained, Haytham turned his attention towards his daughter. "By the gods, girl. What were you thinking?"

"What are you talking about?"

Haytham was fuming. "Making a scene like that! Honestly! Your naivety never ceases to amaze me," he pressed a hand to his head, as if he was the one van Ripper had slighted.

She threw him an incredulous look. Haytham had shown no care for her well-being, so why interfere now? And why accuse her of causing trouble? "How is this my fault? He came to me, ordering me about!" It occurred to her that her father didn't know that this would happen.

It must have shown on her face, since Haytham didn't bother continuing with his tirade. He pressed a hand to his head and sighed. "Yes, well," his tone was almost apologetic. "Perhaps I was..."

"Wrong?" Haytham glared at his daughter. Her lips didn't twitch, but her eyes were filled with mirth.

"Mistaken," he gave the room a quick glance. "I had not expected that to happen." The look of morose on his daughter's face seemed to match her feelings of disappointment, not too different from his own.

"But there is still time. You ought to enjoy yourself," taking a brave venture, he placed his hand on his daughter's shoulder and drew her closer. There, on her cheek, he saw a streak of sugar powder. "Seeing as you have already drawn everyone's attention," his thumb brushed off the dust, prompting her to draw back and pat her face with her fingers. "Perhaps a young man might ask you to dance.

She gave him a blank look. "I never dance."

"No? You never learned?" She shook her head, but didn't avert her gaze. He respected that about her. "Then allow me," her eyes went wide, and she instantly pulled back. "Oh, come now." A smirk crossed his face. "What kind of father would I be if I didn't teach you how to dance?"

She gave him a look of reproach. They had no delusions about the nature of their relationship and where it would go. But still, she was his daughter, and he was her father. Like he said, she was young and there was still a chance.

As if reading her thoughts, Haytham extended his hand with a smirk. "Shall we, then?" She glared at his arm before reluctantly taking it.

Chapter Text

It wasn't terrible, just confusing. You had to step in certain places, and you could only move when your partner or the music permitted it. Then there were the twirls, when the heightened music swelled, the man would spin the girl and she would be pulled back just as quick, and they would continue as before. 

Katonhnhaké:ton would admit to one thing: her father was a much better dancer than other men, clattering around the room, limbs swinging back and forth with no apparent rhythm, while smiling as if they were blessed by some divine being for the tiring act of existing. Haytham spun her around, smirking everything she clung to him as her toes barely scraped the floor. She glared at him and planted her heel firmly on his toe, smiling at his grimace.

"Excuse me," Katonhnhaké:ton was pulled out of her reverie by a well-dressed solider. "May I have the honor of your presence?," he bowed, a coquettish smirk on his lips, as though he had already secured what he had been after.

Haytham was about to refute his assumptions when Katonhnhaké:ton accepted his hand. If she was eager to escape her father, it did not show on her face, but her eyes were gleaming with the faintest amusement when she glanced at her father's face. She only gave him a mocking smile before returning her attention to her current favorite.

His name, Doffue Martling, was rather fitting. He was a blue-bearded, deep-chested, broad-shouldered man with a wide mouth and a pair of sinewy arms. His skin was weathered, perhaps form the spray of the sea air, and his hands were rough and cold. His manner of speech was worthy of his name; all he spoke about his part in the war, how he was a valiant warrior who worked tirelessly for the cause, never resting even for a moment.

Katonhnhaké:ton never spoke during their dance, and if it bothered him, he did not show it. She wagered that he preferred women that way.

Fortunately, the next man who asked to be graced with her presence was far more accommodating. He was young, mouse-like in disposition with the face as plain as those bread loaves that the baker set out to cool. He was timid, stumbling over his compliments and any attempts to start a conversation, and his paling face made it clear that he knew how much of a fool he was. She found him rather endearing, loving him as a girl would love a lost kitten on the street, and she was almost sad to see him leave.

Another one was a charming, albeit somewhat ridiculous young man who made a grand show of his adventures, with every story just slightly embellished with every retelling. A quivering worm with too-long-fingers became a brawny ruffian who had hands that could snap a neck with one quick jerking motion. A withered farmer's daughter was now a beautiful lady, no doubt the product of noble breeding. His stories were nothing but nonsense, but his hands never strayed from where they were supposed to be and he was fairly considerate of how much of a novice she was.

She had spent much of the night dancing with the other men, some more tolerable than others, before the music had died down and the orchestra had retired. Once the dance was over, the men crowded to the corner, by the window, while the girls flocked to the other end. Haytham pulled a distinguished-looking gentleman to the side, leaving his daughter stranded by the door. On a better night, she would have joined someone for conversation, but the women were frivolous and the men were discussing antiquated things that bore no interest.

She was left stranded, nibbling on a biscuit and drifting too close to the womenfolk, absentmindedly listening to their conversation while watching the younger men conduct a game of nine-pins. Another thing she noticed about the white women: they talked about other women and little girls as if they had no ears or tongues.

The subject of interest was Miss Cordelia Kenway.

"I think she acted as fast as a girl could today."

"Oh, no! Jane, don't be unkind. She's just high spirited. I thought her most charming."

"Well, then you must be blind."

"Hush, they'll hear you!"

"Well, you saw how she was carrying on with any man she could get a hold of. I never saw the like!" That woman made no attempt to lower her voice. "And you know Marty belongs to me—"

"Oh, really?" Whatever Doffue Martling's intended had answered, it was lost in a sea of giggles and compliments on how happy the girl would be.

Suddenly, Katonhnhaké:ton was struck with the urge to knock over a bench, or a table, just make a commotion and have the tasteless hens known that she was right there.

"Excuse me," the girls gasped, hands flying to their lips. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Oh, not at all." It was the girl that said she was charming. "Join us, please."

There was no space on the benches, so she ruffled her skirts and sat on the floor, knees up to her chest. She look up at the smiling white faces, feeling oddly out of place.

"Cordelia, was it?" She nodded reluctantly. "What a lovely dress. Where ever did you get it?"

"It was a gift," Katonhnhaké:ton picked at the petticoats. "From my father."

"Well, I simply can't take my eyes off it," the girl held out her hand, and introduced herself as Judith. She was a sweet girl, one that was cursed with those that brought her into the world. Her father was an idle man, and her mother a shrew, but she was as soft-spoken and well-mannered as any good girl should be. She passively lamented that her father was missing, but she would soon be married, and she would set off for a better life on the frontier.

Jane turned away, whispering to her companion, who giggled. "I take it your husband isn't here?" Jane's companion batted at a loose curl on her shoulder.

"I have no husband." The minute those words left her lips, Katonhnhaké:ton was flooded with instant regret. Jane and her friend giggled behind her fingers, while Judith gave her a look of something akin to pity.

"Well, you surely have an intended." Her silence spoke for her. Jane gasped, eyes glittering with mock tears. "Oh, you poor thing."

"Excuse me," she picked up her skirts and scurried off, trying to block out the snickering, the smirks and the roving eyes.

She had apparently knocked into something hard, sturdy, something that was supporting something else, both of which fell on her and pushed her to the dirt floor.

Apparently, his daughter had upheaved the table, which ended up with her sprawled on the floor, covered in the leftover cakes and peels from the feast and once again, the center of much unwanted attention. The revel then gradually broke up. Old farmers gathered their wives, sons and daughters back into their wagons and were heard rattling on the road and over the hills. Some younger ladies had neglected to leave with their fathers, instead joining their escorts for a ride throughout town. By then, Haytham had already gathered what he needed, but he was still annoyed at his daughter's antics. The only good thing that came from this experience, as far as he was concerned, was that his daughter had now received a proper name.

By the time they reached the stables, his daughter looked at him. "That went well," Haytham glared at her for her smart remark.

"While I'm glad you've developed a sense of humor," his eyes fixed her in a scrutinizing glare. "I would like to know what exactly happened back there."

She bristled at the implications.  Why was her father so quick to blame her for any misfortune? "I didn't do anything!" Her declaration only made his glare intensify. "They were—"

"Why do I even bother," Haytham turned away, hand pressed to his head, muttering and waving his hands about. "Obviously you were not ready for this."

Katonhnhaké:ton gave him a wide-eyed look, mouth dropping open. "You were the one who—"

"And once again, I was mistaken!" He turned to face her once more, fists clenched and mouth set in a firm line. "It seems that everywhere you go, you cause a scene," at that thought, a rueful grin crossed his lips. "I wasn't aware that that was how you Assassins blend into the crowd."

Katonhnhaké:ton turned away, face flushed and teeth dug firm into her lip. The truce was the only reason Haytham was alive, otherwise he would be choking on his teeth.

Haytham gave her a quick glance over. "Look at you," she did. There was some dirt and crumbs staining the outer petticoats, but they were mostly out of her line of vision.

Haytham must have sensed her apathy, as he sighed and pulled her over. He roughly batted at her skirts, trying to shake the dirt off and grumbled when it refused to comply. Once he cleaned her front the best he could manage, he focused his attention on her back. He propped his foot on an upturned bucket, and pushed her over his knee.

Katonhnhaké:ton gasped, trying to pull away. "What are you doing?" Her wiggling forced him to place a hand between her shoulders and push her downwards. Her father batted at the back of her skirts, trying to beat out the stains in the linen. She squeaked, then tried to still her squirming and cries. She had no where to put her hands, so she only gasped her father's knee. She was suffering more from shock than actual pain, but there was something degrading about this. It made her feel small, owned and dominated, and it scared her.

Haytham ignored his daughter's whining and continued his work, striking at the area from just below the bum roll to the back of her knees. His daughter landed on the dirt, which resulted in her skirt being coated in a fairly thick layer of grime and gravel. The pebbles fell off just fine, but the dirt and other unsavory things soaked into the linen, prompting him to strike hit harder. What remained was a slight stain that would have to be washed out later.

Shame. It was a rather expensive garment.

Perhaps some part of Haytham recognized the situation for what it must have looked like to an outsider. If some poor, unsuspecting farmer had stumbled across this scene, he would have brushed it off as the proper response. His daughter was short, enough to barely reach pass his shoulder, and she could have easily been mistaken for a younger age, and other fathers would have been less forgiving. But he would be lying if he said he enjoyed carrying out the task. His daughter was tense, fingers digging hard into his knee, giving muddled cries — which steadily grew louder when his strikes grew in intensity — and Haytham could hear the distinct sound of light wheezing.

Haytham did not know what prompted his next movement — whether it was an odd curiosity or some odd sentiment for his only child. Whilst he struck at the back of her thighs, the hand that was supposed to brace his daughter started running along her back in what Haytham hoped was a comforting gesture. He heard a muffled gasp before some tension was eased from her shoulders.

"There," he gave his daughter one last firm pat before letting her up.

She pulled away, face red and hands fisted in her skirts. As she headed towards the stalls, she heard a light snort from her blind-spot.

It was Jane and Judith. Their eyes said everything.

"Are you still mad at me?" He was met with silence, at which he scoffed at. "Well, you can hardly blame me for what I did. What do you think would have happened if I introduced you with a man's name?" He was met once again with her petulant silence. Well, if she wanted to act like a child, then he would treat her as one.

Katonhnhaké:ton watched the children ran about them, pointing and smiling, rolling their eyes about and finding amusement at every glance. A boy collided with the floor, only to stand laughing and take off, even faster than before. A girl was running with them, skirts flaring up, revealing bits of her legs as she tumbled into the dirt with her companions

Something stirred in her chest. She took off, letting her father's shouts slide off of her like water on a duck's back. She seemed to bounce with excitement, as any minute, she could fall off her mount and tumble to the dust. The wind pulled at her hair, threatening to loosen her braids and steal her cap. She might have laughed, only for Haytham to catch up to her. She got the first word, asking for news on the target.

Haytham complied.

It was a man who had claimed to take a neutral position in the war, but was running back and forth for those who were willing to fill his purse. He was currently in possession of a manuscript that held certain records and letters that would have caused a riot if they happened to fall in the wrong hands. Apparently, her father wanted to collect it before such misunderstandings could take place.

Due to her efforts, Haytham lacked the reliable contacts that he had grown accustomed to. Reluctantly, he gave a rather demanding request that his daughter would find a method to track down their target.

For once, Katonhnhaké:ton decided that she would comply with her father's wishes.

Chapter Text

Ziio was dead.

Washington and his men had burned the village and its inhabitants, accusing them of collaborating with the enemy.

Ziio was dead.

There were survivors: some hunters, a few women and children, enough of the elderly to count on your hands, and the Clan Mother.

Ziio's mother.

Ziio was dead.

When he arrived with Johnson, offering aid where they could, they were met with cold stares and wary, but fleeting, glances. It was to be expected. Johnson was the one who did much of the talking, translating when Haytham's curiosity overtook him.

"Are you too good to speak to us yourself?"

Haytham was admittedly taken aback. This was bringing back some... unfortunate memories.

"Enough," the Clan Mother appeared. "You are looking for Kanieti:io." Stoop-shouldered and using a staff to walk, she still, somehow, cut a proud figure. "She is dead."

Ziio was dead.

"You take the news well."

Her voice was neutral, but Haytham could feel an undercurrent of judgement.

"I have lost those dear to me before," he said quietly, not quite capable of caring what she thought, "Weeping has done nothing to bring them back."

She nodded faintly. For a moment, there was a moment of understanding, which passed as soon as it came. Grief and the natural empathy for a stranger who understands grief, but Haytham had lost a lover. She had lost her daughter. No parent should have to lose a child.

The Clan Mother sighed, waving him in. "Now follow me."

Haytham expected something about The First Civilization site, perhaps a slap to the face for entering a sacred place. Perhaps he expected it to relate to Ziio, a slap to the face and a lecture for what happened to her daughter. A sharp blow to the face would have been preferable to being alone with his thoughts.

What he didn't expect was to be lead into the longhouse, to the back, where a small mountain of blankets was shaking violently. The Clan Mother said something in Mohawk, rousing a small, soot-stained face from the furs.

It was a child. She could have been easily mistaken for a boy, but Haytham was not so easily fooled.

She stared at him Ziio's eyes, set above a nose and mouth that he often saw in the mirror.

"This is Katonhnhaké:ton"

A child. Ziio never told him she was with child. Perhaps she did not know. Perhaps she did not think he would not be a good father. Perhaps he wouldn't be, losing his father at a young age and Birch was no substitute, but he would be damned if he didn't try.

Haytham knelt before the little girl, hat in hand. "No one's gong to hurt you, little one." He set his hand on the girl's head, pulled her in, and stood up.

The girl's gasps grew louder, more desperate, and her fingers dug into his shoulders. Without his cloak or coat, he was sure he would be wincing at the nails piercing his flesh. She buried her face in her shoulder, sobs tapering off into grief exhaustion.

When he returned, Johnson gave him a strange look, but nodded.

Hickey had almost fallen out of his chair, while Johnson and Pitcairn did their best not to stare at him, and Charles at her. If Church had any opinion on this matter, he did not show it on his face. No one knew what to make of Master Kenway suddenly having a child, yet, there the girl was, at the corner, sitting on a stool, back to the wall, in a tawny dress with her braids hidden haphazardly under a bonnet and nose hurried in a book on her lap.

The girl lightly kicked at the leg of the stool, but a light cough drew her from her book.

She looked up to six pairs of expectant eyes, one making a flitting motion to the table. She closed the book, set it on the stool before taking her place by her father, half standing, half clinging to his cloak. She gave them some quick glances before ducking behind the Grand Master again.

Johnson was the first to recover. "Hello, Katonhnhaké:ton." He smiled warmly. He went on to speak in the Mohawk language, to which the girl's mouth was slightly hanging and her brows furrowed. Quickly regaining herself, she whispered back, which then earned a laugh from William.

"You know my language?" The girl looked up, eyes shining.

"Aye, I've spent most of my years studying the Kanien'keha language." William winked. "Your name is a good one, Katonhnhaké:ton, a beautiful meaning, but unfortunately, it gives away the fact you are native nonetheless. You are going to need a new name, an adopted one. What do you say, sir?"

William is right. Despite their lack of prejudice, other men would not be as kind. Haytham was suddenly seized with a blindly fury: the idea of his daughter being seen as a half-breed, the idea that she had to change her name in order to be accepted only brought more fuel to his fire.

"I agree with William." Charles nodded approvingly. "I don't think many people will be able to pronounce it right. With all due respect, not all are gifted with the Mohawk language like Master Johnson."

The men threw about options: Elizabeth, Jane, Mary, Catherine, Lydia; which lead to Charlotte, Caroline, Margaret, which delved into an argument.

His daughter pushed herself against him, then looked up, impassive and patient. There was a pause, then at last, a name came to him.

Katonhnhaké:ton, known as Tessa Kenway for convenience, was never one who stayed still for long, something her father often lamented about. He left her alone for a second to speak to his men, and would return to find her bonnet resting where she once sat. After an extensive search, and a monumental amount of anxiety, he found her hiding in the alley, playing with a stray cat or dog that had taken a liking to her. It was worse in when he left her in care of Johnson, Pitcairn or God forbid, Hickey. He would return and find a panicked Templar, a dissembled house, and a missing girl, only to hear a faint sneeze and find her sleeping under the bed, nose twitching similarly to that of a rabbit's.

There was a reason he kept the leading strings on her gowns.

Johnson said it was a phase, and Pitcairn assured him that it would pass soon, but Haytham grew more dismissive of these condolences in the later years. If Tessa truly was Ziio's daughter, this would not let up.

She was brilliant, able to stand her own against him at a game of chess. She had a lovely voice, not that different from a songbird or a choir boy. She took to climbing walls just as much as she did for trees. She was light-footed, sharp-tongued, and rosy-cheeked.

Haytham decided to ask Johnson to teach him the Kanien'keha language, and learning his daughter's birth name would be a good start. It took many sleepless nights of Tessa repeating the name, and bursting into a fit of giggles when her father failed once again. For that moment, Ziio was right there, laughing before him.

After another failed attempt, the poor man was at his wit's end, found a paper and quill, and wrote down the phonetic spelling to study. After another round of sleepless nights spent reciting it with Johnson, he was met with a stunned look and a warm embrace from his progeny.

Her tutors said she was a good learner, she took to sums and letters just as good as she did archery and fishing, but it was always followed by a dismayed sniff and complaint. She was a chore to deal with. Her body stayed still, but the head wandered about, and would only return with the sharp tap of birch on wood.

She preferred to dress as a boy, which did not bother Haytham, she would need to move freely, but he would often find her in breeches, on top of a tree, taunting the poor man burdened with the mission to coax her down. Exasperated, Haytham would walk up and call for her to come down.

"I won't say it twice!"

"No," she laughed. "Because you would have to say it five times!" Her eyes lit up and she giggled. "Or more!" Hickey had the audacity to snort at that, as if he wasn't near tears a few moments past.

"Gatah-- Ga-- Tessa! " This was before Haytham had learned to say her name. "Come down or I'll..."

If anything, her laughs grew in intensity. "Or what, father?" She waved a free arm. "You will climb up and drag me home?"

"Don't test my patience, young lady!" Haytham was at the end of the tether, the girl kept pulling. "There are still rocks down here. And I can throw them." He would not have, but it was tempting. The temptation only grew as they continued their exchange, back and forth, trading barbs until Katonhnhaké:ton decided that her father's face had gone red enough and slipped to the floor with the grace of a cat.

The nightmare only ended during the summer months, when she would learn what was required of the next Clan Mother. Haytham physically stopped himself from sighing in relief, only to miss his daughter's laugh after only a few days. Even Pitcairn admitted that it was never boring when she was running about.

Then she would return, and he would be reminded of why he sent her away for the summers.