Break out the champagne and confetti; this story marks my inaugural venture in to the AC universe! Anywho, this story is set in the AC:3 timeline, though it is most definitely an AU. Thanks for reading!

"I could snap your neck, you know. A little more pressure and POP! The sad little flame of your life extinguished."

Releasing a strangled cough, the vice grips on his delicate wind pipe restricting his precious air supply, Ratonhnhaké:ton fruitlessly clawed at the thick wrists near his throat. It was useless. At the tender age of four years old, he couldn't muster the strength to over power the grown Colonialist even if he wasn't slammed against the trunk of the tree. With his eyes closed, he wasn't sure where the other three Englishmen were - the men that first plucked him from his hiding spot in his game with his friends - though he assumed they were close by.

"You are a nothing. A speck of dust. You and all your ilk. Living in the dirt like animals, oblivious to the true ways of the world."

His assailant's voice was dangerously low, reminding Ratonhnhaké:ton of an alpha wolf defending his pack's den. But unlike the natural and melodic sound of a wolf's growl, the Colonialist's voice stood in contrast to the normally serene forest. A place of densely packed foliage and looming trees that was his playground with his friends had somehow transformed to the ominous darkness.

"The wiser among you recognize the shape of the future. They throw themselves at our feet and beg mercy."

"Charles..." Sounded an accented voice, the unspoken warning in the tone.

But the assailant - Charles - didn't seem to take heed. Instead he squeezed the delicate neck beneath his grasp, making the withering child cough and sputter more. "But not you, it seems. No... You cling desperately to your ways. Too ignorant to know your folly. But I am not unkind."

Just as a shroud of darkness threatened to overcome him, Ratonhnhaké:ton fell to the leafy ground, the hand around his neck suddenly gone. His robbed lungs hungrily begged for more air than his abused throat could gather, forcing him into a mixture of gasps and coughs. Despite the bruises on his neck and throbbing pain, the child relished in the burning anger that blossomed and grew in his chest. Just as he moved to turn his head up and demand to know his assailant's name - in hope that one day he would get his bitter sweet revenge on the man - a pair of rough hands grabbed him around his small arms and hauled him roughly to his feet.

Glancing up reluctantly, Ratonhnhaké:ton met Charles' steel, cold glare. The snide smirk on his face made a barrage of goosebumps rise on the child's arms. "If the boy won't reason with us, we may as well use him to our advantage."

One of the Colonialist, a tall, stately man with hardset chocolate eyes and a matching beard and goatee, swallowed uneasily. "Charles... he is but a child. Let him be."

"A child to that savage village, William," Charles replied testily. His grip on the boy tightening ruthlessly, he dragged him closer towards the horses that were tied to a nearby tree, their impatient shifts rustling the leaves. "If he won't tell us where his village is, then we'll use him as leverage to make them come to us."

"Let me go!" Ratonhnhaké:ton called out, twisting and turning in the calloused grips. But his efforts were fruitless, the digits pressed harder into his skin, sure to leave a bruise in their wake. He had no choice but to be dragged along.

The man - William - stood in their paths to the horses, causing Charles to come to a sudden halt with the boy. "And you presume kidnapping one of their own will tide well in our favor, Charles? Have you gone mad?"

"I've tire of trying to deal with these people civilly. They refuse to accept our negotiations. If they choose to act like the savages they are, then so be it! I will treat them as such!"

"By holding a child ransom? All the work that I've done in talks with the Iroquois will be wasted!"

Charles released a disdainful chuckle. "The same talks that were suppose to get the purchase of the land?"

"And you think forcing their hand with this ploy will work? Once word spreads to the surrounding tribes, our relations with the Iroquois will be soiled beyond repair."

The boy began to thrash, though Charles hastily subdued his attempts with pulling him closer to him. "He must be worth something to the Elders, or someone in that village. If push comes to shove, we simply dispose of the boy and cover our tracks."

"You mean put the blame on someone else."

"Since when did you grow a knack for morality and fairness?" Charles shot back.

"Since I don't want to be on the barrel end of Kenway's pistol when he catches wind of this. You know how he feels about us being in these lands."

Charles paused in brief thought, his mind briskly chewing on his counterpart's words. William was right in that respect; Haytham would surely be displeased with the capture and ransoming of a Native child. For one reason or another, their leader - Grand Master of their Order - had a bizarre fondness of the Kanatahséton, his incessant orders to remain off their lands a constant annoyance for Charles.

But he was done be placid and diplomatic with the savages. They had their time; their window of opportunity for civil negotiations was graciously kept open for the past four years. And yet the stubborn fools refused to relent. "Kenway is not to hear of this, am I understood?"

One of the other men, this one dressed in regal English attire and wore a drawn back gray wig, lifted an unimpressed brow. "Keeping a secret from Kenway is almost as feasible as talking sense into these savages."

"Only the four of us know of this plan, Church," Charles replied through gritted teeth. "I pray that if he does learn of it, we will truly know the strength of our loyalty to one another... as well as the weakness."

A heavy, profound silence fell over the group of men, the only interruption coming from the boy that still pulled at the ironclad grips on him. But with the deafening silence came a mix of understanding and the development of an unspoken truce.

"Fine," William replied, a slight twinge of reluctance lingering in his voice that made Charles frown with doubt. Quickly pulling a dagger from his belt, he wordlessly and without warning grabbed the boy's arm, dragging the sharp edge of the blade across the sun-kissed skin.

Ratonhnhaké:ton gave a yelp of surprise and pain, his short limbs thrashing about even more fervently than before. But with the added hands from William, his efforts were for naught. The Colonialist roughly squeezed the fresh wound, the once clean cut spilt over with crimson liquid that generously poured out.

Charles lifted a brow. "And you accuse me of tainting the relations?"

"If you plan to stage a ransom of sorts, you best do it right," William replied tensely. Turning the bloodied arm sideways, the boy's wide, tear-filled eyes watching in fear, the Colonialist allowed the blood to drip to the plants below. "We'll need to leave a trail - some evidence that he's been taken."

"Will that not lead them directly to us?"

"I have no doubt that they'll track us through the forest, but by that point, we'll be long gone. I assume we're bringing him to Boston?"

"To be frank, I haven't thought that far ahead, but yes, I suppose Boston is the logical choice. Though we'd have a more trying time keeping a Mohawk child concealed from Kenway."

"One of my associates on the outskirts of the city could hold him," Benjamin Church replied. "He has a few unused slave quarters that would work out fine."

William nodded, watching the Native boy's blood saturate the foliage below, the once vibrant green color washed away with the crimson liquid. "They'll lose our tracks once we get closer to Boston, but they'll know he was taken and likely alive."

"Then let's be rid of this place," Charles said. Hastily grabbing his pistol from his belt holster, he spared the child a quick look over, relishing the sudden change of bravado. The once testy and brave boy was reduced to fearful tears, the trails of glistening moisture on his cheeks a stark contrast to his brazen attitude only moments before. An offspring to the fierce Natives he may be, but he was still just a lowly child.

Feeling the stare, the child looked up, his scared gaze meeting Charles' heated one.

Along with the evident fear and alarm, the boy's orbs still swirled with unreserved anger and hatred, the emotions making Charles frown deeply. But beyond the hatred and fear, the Englishman couldn't seem to shake off the peculiar familiarity from the child; as though he'd been on the receiving end of the rageful glare one to many times before.

Not that it mattered - the boy was nothing more than a bargaining chip; a pawn to finally turn the tables in their favor.

Lifting the pistol, Charles whipped it across the back of Ratonhnhaké:ton's head, using perhaps more force than called for. As expected the boy suddenly went limp as unconsciousness overtook him.

Burning the midnight oil. The phrase had never held so much truth to it

Glancing up from the letters speaking of recent activity that suggested the survival of an Assassin, Haytham glared at the dying flame in the glass lamp that rested on his desk. The grease that kept the flame alive was already dwindling, the wick nearly depleted. When the Grand Master questioned the validity of the late hour on his pocket watch, he couldn't negate the evidence of his late night work; the damned oil lamp never could lie about that. If he intended on pouring himself over more of the reports from his associates and contacts he'd need to remedy his dying source of light, lest he wanted to work in the darkness.

Or he could finally succumb to the annoying prodding of fatigue that refused to go away.

Releasing an irked sigh, Haytham leaned back in his chair. If the reports were right and there was a lone Assassin stirring up trouble amongst their ranks, he'd surely have his work cut out for him. The man, who supposedly went by the name of Derek Walkins, was an Englishman who apparently had already booked passage to return to London in a week's time. That only offered a small opportunity to track down the Assassin... and an even smaller allowance for mistakes. Running a hand over his tired features, his digits scratched by the stubble on his face, Haytham shook his head dejectedly. He'd have to send word to the Templar Order in London; but even that letter would arrive a mere few days before Walkins would.

If everything panned out the way he planned, Walkins wouldn't even be alive the day his boat would sail.

A sudden knock on his front door interrupting his thoughts, Haytham furrowed his brows; who would be hailing him at this hour? He'd already debriefed with Charles, William, Hickey, and Benjamin regarding their failed attempts at negotiating with the Natives for purchase of the lands around the precursor site - a failure he was well prepared for. After four years of failing to convince the prideful tribe to sell their land, he wasn't holding his breath anymore for their relent.

Standing up from his desk, Haytham approached his window and glanced down at the front stoop. From his position on the second floor of his dwelling, he was only able to see a cloaked figure standing silently before his closed front door. Significantly shorter than any enemy or ally he'd come across, he briskly racked his brain for a possibility, his efforts coming back empty handed. Wonderful... an unchecked and unaccounted for visitor... just what he needed with the Assassin mess.

Grabbing the oil lamp from the desk in one hand, he pulled his pistol out with his other and made his way out of his study. Emerging into a long, narrow and darkened corridor he spared a few glances at the closed doors that lined the hall; doors that led to two unused bedrooms and his master bedroom at the end of the hall. The floor was covered in dark, mahogany hardwood, though he was mindful to walk in the ornate long rug that ran down the center of the hall, using the plush shag to absorb his boot steps. Walking down the tall stairs, his eyes fastened on the side windows next to the front door, he strained to see a glimpse of his visitor; but it was useless, the person not visible from his angle.

Pausing before the door, he placed the oil lamp on a small chestnut table against the wall. If the visitor did prove to be problematic, he'd need his hands clear and ready for combat. Unlatching the locks on the thick door, Haytham gingerly turned the knob and slowly pulled it back, the pistol prepared to fire and his hidden blade ready to be unleashed.

But the moment his gaze met his visitor's darkened face, he immediately shoved the pistol back into its holding place, silently fearful to accidently trigger the fatal weapon. "Ziio! What-what a pleasant-"

"I must speak with you," the Native woman interrupted tensely. Though the tan leather hide that made up her cloak concealed much of her face, Haytham still caught her shining eyes... eyes that caught and captivated his attention. She released an impatient sigh, apparently taking notice to his awe-struck demeanor. "It is important, Haytham."

"Hm? Oh yes, of course. Come in."

Pushing the door open, he invited her into the foyer of his residence, which she hastily entered. Quite possibly the only woman who managed to tether his heart was finally back before his eyes, and after their parting five years ago, he didn't expect to gaze into her mesmerizing eyes again. Their relationship had seemed so perfect then, when they first met; love had washed over him at the most unexpected time and place. And he assumed that she shared similar feelings for him. But everything came crashing down when she expressed her disinterest in his devotion to his precious Order, his time being spent with his 'brothers' becoming increasingly noticeable.

Caught up in his anger and frustration, he so stupidly let her walk away and out of his life.

"Come. Sit down," he directed, leading her through the foyer into the connected parlor room. Similar to the rest of the immaculate estate, an flawless rug with oriental markings rested in the middle of the room, while three sofas were boxed in around a coffee table in the center. Though Haytham enjoyed taking his tea in the quaint room, the sincere lack of use was seen in the pristine fabrics on the sofas; living as a bachelor had its finer points. Though he was alone, he relished in the finer luxuries that his wealth could afford. A large mirror hung on one of the floral wallpapered walls, while exquisite and select oil paintings decorated the other walls. A hearth constructed of polished stone made up the fireplace, though no warming fire burned in it's mouth.

Despite the welcoming ambiance of the parlor and the gracious sofas available, neither one of them sat.

"Something has happened," Ziio stated somberly as she slowly lowered her hood, revealing her face. Though she was every bit the breathtaking beauty as before, her features looked significantly more haggard and tired, dark angry circles beneath her eyes giving away her sincere lack of sleep. Her long hair was braided, though lacked the normal feathers that Haytham had come to expect. "I need your... I need your help."

Haytham blinked. If she didn't make the situation seem so ominous he would've said a witty comment. "You look exhausted, Ziio. What's wrong? Perhaps you should sit down."

"No!" She recoiled from his hand that attempted to touch hers in hopes of convincing her. Still every bit the stubborn and prideful woman, she stood obstinately still. "I will not rest until I find him!"

"Find who? Tell me what's happening."

"My... my son has been stolen... captured, kidnapped, whatever it is you English call it. He went missing two days ago in the woods where he plays."

A million questions began circulating in Haytham's head, each one fighting for dominance to make out it his mouth. A man of realism and logic, however, he gave precedence to his head over his heart, allowing the more mindful questions to spurt out first. His throughs of passion could wait. Maybe it was an inkling of betrayal and jealousy that tugged at his heart, that Ziio had found another lover after him, bearing this new man a child, while he still struggled in silence at mending a broken heart. "How do you know he's been kidnapped? You of all people should know the danger that calls those forests home."

"Ratonhnhaké:ton knows how to escape a bear's clutch but the Colonialist he is weak against," the woman replied. "We found his blood in the forests and followed the trail. There were horses."

"And where did this trail bring you? I assume you didn't find the boy, considering you're standing before me."

"It brought me to Boston," she shot back, disdain and anger laced in her harsh words, then turned her gaze downcast in an attempt to hide the pain in her eyes. "Once in the city, I could not track him any longer. The trail was covered with all of the activity. Asking around was useless - no one has seen a Native child."

Haytham sighed and ran a hand over the nape of his neck. He was suppose to be tracking an Assassin, not a child. "Ziio, what are you asking of me?"

The woman snapped her eyes up, uncaring about the naked emotion that danced in her gaze, that showed her incredible vulnerability; the gaze that gnawed at his heart. "Help me find him. Please, Haytham, you know this city better than any in my village."

"Ziio..."

"Please," she repeated more fervently. "The Elders have forbid the others to search deeper in this city. They fear the Colonialists. I do not. But I need your help. You have more contacts than I do."

"I don't know if I can... Ziio, I am very busy right now. I could refer the matter to the consulate. They may open a full- "

"No! I want you to search! I do not trust the consulate or your lying justice system. I trust you!"

Again, the aged pain in his heart tugged ruthlessly, his emotions screaming at him to throw himself head first for the woman's needs. But the Order could not be ignored... his obligation to his duties could not be ignored. He had but a week's time to find and kill a rogue Assassin; time was not a luxury he could afford. "I give you my word I will contact someone I trust to investigate your son's capture." Turning around from the woman, no longer able to be on the receiving end of her beseeching and pleading stare, he instead forced himself to feign interest in the closest painting near him. The frame was a polished gold, though the worn edges showed need for maintenance. He made a mental note to ask his head servant, Joyce, to tend to the paintings; he assumed the others were in a similar disarray.

"Our."

Haytham blinked and glanced over his shoulder. "Hm?"

If Ziio looked as lost and defeated as she felt, she longed to shrink away from the stately, proud man before her. But she couldn't... Ratonhnhaké:ton needed her. Releasing a shaky breath, she leaned against one of the sofa's in fear that her emotional and physical fatigue would finally take its toll on her. This was her final plan, her last resort. "Our. You said my son... but that is not true. He is our son."

The room felt tense, the area seeming as though there was no air left. Though after a few seconds, Haytham realized that it only felt that way because he'd stopped breathing it. A son. No, that wasn't possible; she wasn't with a child when she stormed out that wretched day. "How old is he?" he immediately asked, turning back to the woman.

"He has seen four winters."

Fours year old. That would mean... "You were carrying a child when you left."

It wasn't a question but a statement; and judging by the coldness in his stare, Ziio assumed he wasn't pleased with the information. "Yes, I was. I was early in my pregnancy, but I knew of his existence."

"And you left anyways?" Haytham countered, a crisp edge leaking from his voice as he took a step closer to her. "You are sure that I sired him?"

Ziio could take Haytham's angry stare but his accusation felt like a slap to her face. "You are the only man I have been with," she replied heatedly, then paused for a moment. "He... he looks like you. You will not question my faithfulness once you see him."

"Not only did you leave me without so much an explanation, but you also robbed me of raising my own son. And now you expect me to abandon my work because you simply can't watch a child?"

The woman chuckled sardonically. "Your precious Order. I had almost forgotten about it. Perhaps if you were not so distracted by your work you have seen why I left!" He opened his mouth to undoubtedly voice his opposition on the matter, but she didn't allow him to. Quickly closing the gap between them, she pointed a finger at him. "And do not lecture me on raising a child when you were nowhere to be seen."

It was Haytham's turn to laugh darkly. "Oh, well that's fresh. Penalize me for not helping raise him when I wasn't even given the chance!"

"You are more full of yourself than I thought if you think you could have done better."

"Well, he wouldn't have gotten kidnapped, that's for sure. Who let's a four year old gallivant about the forest alone?!"

"The Elders were right! I was stupid and blinded by desperation to think that you would even consider helping me!" Spinning around angrily, she made her way through the parlor, towards the front door.

The disheartening scene was not novel for Haytham; no, he'd been in the situation before, five years ago when she left him that afternoon. Driven by his obstinate pride, he sat and watched her leave, his last glance of her only her back. Though at the time his heart was pleading with him to run to her, call out to her, beg her to stay, his bloody pride had won out. And oh the damage that pride had caused... he lost the love that won his heart and never met the son that he fathered.

A man of pride he may be, but he was not foolish. And he rarely made the same mistake twice.

"Ziio. Wait."

Her feet turning to lead, something inside of her made her stop in her trek, made her anger dissipate long enough to listen to reason. She heard rustling and footsteps behind her for a split second before Haytham appeared in front of her, standing between herself and the front door. "I am done talking to you."

"Then for once, just listen," he replied softly, the anger from only moments before gone. "This is... rather big news for me. I never thought I'd see you again, least alone hear that I have a son. I just wished that you would have told me sooner... that such a situation did not have to occur for me to learn of his existence."

She shook her head tiredly. "And if I had told you, what would you have done?"

He paused. What would he have done? "Been there for you both. Raised him as my son. Ziio, you kept my child from me."

"Please, I have been through much in the past few days... please do not make yourself a victim. Your work has and always will be your child."

"I will find him," Haytham blurted out, a strong wave of undying strength in his words that even caught the woman's attention. "Give me a few days... but I promise you that if he still breaths, I will find him."

Ziio ran her gaze over the Englishman's driven eyes and beautifully chiseled face; features that her young son seemed to inherit from his father. Though she'd never admit it, she found solace and security in his presence, his physical and mental strength unending. Such was the reason she didn't hesitate in making her way to his estate when she lost the trail of her captured son. "Fine," she replied in a taunt voice, her eyes quickly breaking from his. "I will return to the village to wait... just in case he does find his way back to us on his own."

"What's his name?"

"Ratonhnhaké:ton."

Haytham blinked. "You couldn't give him a name easily spoken by all?"

The corner's of the woman's mouth slowly turned into a small grin. "It is a fitting name among my people."

"Don't forget that he's still English."

Ziio chose to ignore his statement; a pointed fact that she'd been ignoring for four years. "You pronounce it Ra-doon-ha-gay-doon," she said slowly. Considering the blank look in the man's face, she doubted he'd understand it. "Show him the pendant that you called an artifact so many years ago. He will recognize it from the markings around our village. That will gain his trust." She paused for a brief moment, contemplating how much information she wished to disclose. "You may also give him your name. He knows the name of his father, and that he is English."

At this, Haytham lifted a brow. "What else does he know of me?"

"Not much," she snapped back, recognizing the hint of prying interest in her past lover's tone. "If his skin was not so much lighter than the rest of the children, I would not have even told him that. But he deserved an explanation." She stopped there, not quite comfortable enough to disclose that the child had pressed for more information about his father on more occasions than she cared to admit.

"Where am I bring him after I find him?"

"To the village. Do you remember where it is?"

"I recall where the precursor site was. Does that suffice?"

She hesitated for a moment. It was no secret that she shuddered at the thought of allowing the Colonialist near the sacred grounds that her people watched over for centuries, at least without her accompanying him. But she highly doubted he would capitalize on bringing harm to the site if he was following through with his promise to deliver their child. "Yes, I suppose that is fine. Just... be careful. Ratonhnhaké:ton will be hesitant to go near the sacred grounds. I've forbid him to play near them. You may have to convince him."

"Will he not show me where the village is?"

Ziio hardly noticed a small smile spread on her strong front as memories of her child surfaced to her mind. "He has inherited more than your looks, but also your stubbornness. Do not take offense if he will not tell you where the village is."

"I'll do what I can," Haytham replied, his mind going through his list of contacts for a good lead. Strangely he couldn't quite come up with a decent contact that would know where to find a kidnapped Native child. Walking Ziio to the door, he politely pulled it open and watched her slide out into the night, her hood already drawn up. "Do you know of anyone that wishes to harm the boy?"

"He has never left the Valley."

"Does anyone know of his relation with me? That I fathered him?"

The woman narrowed her eyes. "Do you think someone is trying to get to you through him?"

Haytham's mind immediately thought of the unaccounted Assassin; was the timing of the Assassin's uncovering and his son's capture purely coincidental, or was there a larger plan at play? "Until I get a more definite lead, I'm not ruling anything out. Now who else knows of our relationship?"

She shook her head. "Not many. Only the Elders but they would not tell others that would bring harm to Ratonhnhaké:ton."

He wasn't one to let any rock go unturned, especially where an Assassin was concerned. Extremely resources and conniving, the sworn enemies of the Templars, the Assassins Order, could surely be responsible for his son's disappearance. The thought alone of one those revolting individual's bringing harm to his offspring - despite the fact that he'd never met the child - carried a whole new hatred for the their Order.

"Haytham, should I be worried?" Ziio asked, her shielded eyes full of concern and unbridled trust; both emotions making the man savor his newfound affinity with the woman. Perhaps their life together was being given a second chance.

Laying a heavy hand on the short woman's shoulder, Haytham shook his head. "I promise you... I will find him."