The forests of Kanièn:keh were oddly silent this night. Located in the far north-eastern corner of New York, closer to Canada than to Boston, the woods were usually teeming with deer, rabbits, even wolves straying from their territory in Diamond Basin. But tonight, apart from the pouring rain and the occasional roll of thunder, there was nothing.

It was not a long ride north from Valley Forge, but Connor did not speak. He pushed his horse alarmingly fast, crossing the uneven terrain, winding through the trees. The moon gave us no light.

I had never seen him this angry.

We were nearing the first markers at the edge of the territory when I saw them. Torch light flickering between the trees.

Washington's men, I realised - sent to carry out his evil deeds. The messengers of doom.

I matched my horse's pace with Connor's and reached for his reins, pulling him up short. His first reaction was to snatch his hand away, but I pulled again, hard enough to yank the horse's head. He glared at me, and opened his mouth to snap, but I silenced him with a hand, and pointed to the messengers.

They were ahead of us on both sides, scattered through the forest, and were creeping steadily closer to the village. We could not go onward together if we wanted to see the village still standing come the morning.

I unhooked my feet from the stirrups and slid off my horse, landing in the mud with a squelch. Shoving the reins at Connor, I whispered, "Give me your bow."

He slid the bow off his saddle and handed it over, along with the quiver of arrows. We met eyes; even in the darkness, I could see his strained expression, the desperation to reach his village.

So I slapped his horse's rump and sent him on his way, pulling my horse alongside his own, and was swiftly alone in the dark forest. Wolves and bears could not touch me. I would not be afraid.

And I wasn't afraid, I realised, as I crept through the wet undergrowth, arrow nocked. I cared not one whit for the hidden dangers of the forest - the anger in my veins burned hotter than any torch light ahead of me.

Though I did not know the frontier as Connor did, I knew these forests better than the messengers did, and reached the first one without so much as a snapped twig or too-heavy breath.

The arrow skewered his neck, and he fell without a sound. I didn't even try to remove the arrow - that would waste precious moments - and continued toward the next Patriot soldier. He was crouched, musket in hand, and was picking his way through the mud and using a glass lantern to light the way.

His mistake. The light made him an easy target; I loosed another arrow, which embedded itself in his back. He stumbled forward a few steps with a breathless gasp of pain - and when I shot him again, he dropped to the wet ground, and mud splashed up. He did not rise again.

The lantern fell and the glass smashed. I froze at the sharp sound, and listened. There was nothing but silence in the forest. No messengers coming my way. I stamped out the flame and gathered up the broken glass as best I could.

I had to walk a while before I found more of Washington's messengers - this time there were two of them, side by side. We were somewhere west of Kanatahséton, and the trees had thinned out considerably, no longer closely packed but scattered, linked by thickets of bearberry, dogwood, and witch hazel. The men were picking their way warily across the uneven ground, and even with the lantern light they slipped in the mud, using each other for balance.

They were muttering to one another. I dropped to my knees and began to crawl, ignoring the mud oozing between my fingers and seeping through my breeches.

Somewhere behind me, in the distance, an owl called. The man holding the lantern swung around and stared into the darkness, holding the light before him. I froze and shrank into the bushes.

The man took a furtive step forward - closer to me. "I don't like this," he muttered to the other. "Sending us to do his dirty work for him. Those Indians know this forest better than anyone. They're out there - I know it."

"Will you shut up," said the other, aggressive to hide his unease. "Complaining won't get the job done."

"I'm telling you, that owl call wasn't an owl," the one with the lantern insisted. "It's them Indians communicating."

I inched forward, just out of range of the unsteady lamplight as the man swung the lantern around, one hand uneasily on the flintlock at his hip. The other one sighed loudly. "I'm telling you, there's nothing out ther–"

Branches snapped overhead. Feathered wings beat against the night sky.

The man with the lantern fired a blind shot into the darkness, staggering backward with fright. He struck nothing. The sharp sound bounced off the trees and echoed back to us like building thunder.

"Shit!" cried the second man. "What was that for?"

"There's something out there," the first repeated, and his voice trembled.

The owl called again, further away. Then, nothing. I listened to them curse at one another for a few moments, and once they were sure there was nothing creeping out of the darkness, they continued toward the innocent village. Hot anger gathered in my hands, prickling my fingers like fire.

They did not hear me crawling after them, gaining ground in spite of the mud that tried to suck me into the earth. Three metres away. Two. One.

The man with the lantern shrieked when I grabbed his leg and pulled him to the ground. His companion whirled around and swung the blade of his bayonet; I rolled aside and avoided the shining blade by a hair's breadth, pulling the screaming man along with me. He was too shocked to fight back, and I drove my knee between his legs to ensure it.

The bayonet swung for my face and I leapt back, palming two of the bigger shards of broken glass, each about the length of my palm. Then I was on my feet, lashing out with both hands - I missed with my left, but not with my right.

I felt the glass slash across the man's arm, deep enough to cut. He retaliated with a swift blow to my chest with the butt of the rifle, driving all of the breath from me and forcing me back. My feet slipped in the mud and I fell hard, winded and aching. But I could not gather my breath, for in the light of the fallen lantern, he was looking over me, and the point of the bayonet blade was under my chin.

"This one's not an Indian," he said.

My fingers dug into the mud and found something. I spat a mouthful of dirt onto his boots and looped one leg around his, pulling his foot out from under him. He stood no chance against the slippery mud. I raised the rock I had found in the mud, and brought it down on his head.

The other man was still rolling on his back, whimpering in pain. I pulled myself to my feet and shook my hands out, but my attempts to clean myself of mud were futile.

"Please," the man whined up at me. "Don't kill me."

"I won't," I said, and I kept my word. A swift kick to the head rendered him unconscious, and he would wake with a headache, but he would have his life - if the forest didn't take him first.

The pain in my ribs took my breath away, but I pressed onward, staggering through the mud and the tumbling bushes. I fell to my knees only once.

By the time I reached the village, Connor was long gone. The horses were outside the disguised entrance, tethered under the shelter of a towering tree. I did not pause to check on them; I ran into the quiet village and skidded  to a stop once I was inside.

Most of the villagers were outside their longhouses, in spite of the late hour. I recognised some - mostly women or elders, and the Clan Mother was among them, but there were no men. Children peered around closed doorways, and a singular fire burned at the heart of the village.

Taking a handkerchief, wet from rain, out of my pocket, I did my best to clean my hands and face of mud before approaching Connor's grandmother. "Oiá:ner," I said. "What has happened here?"

The old woman fixed me with a weary look. "Cassandra," she said, and in her darkness she looked twice her years. "It has been a long time."

"Where is everyone?" I pressed. "Where is Ratonhnhaké:ton?"

"I fear Ratonhnhaké:ton has betrayed us," she said grimly. "My people live on a land in constant danger of being sold from under our feet. The man they call Charles Lee stands for us - he promises to preserve us. He took many of our men this night, to push back those that would take our land."

My heart dropped in my chest. "Impossible."

"And yet it is so." Oiá:ner shook her grey head, long braids limp in the rain. "Ratonhnhaké:ton has always wanted us to take a stand, and rise from our place as the peaceful keepers of the eastern door. Yet now he stands in our opposition." Her eyes, beady as an owl, bored into me. "Some say he has been seduced by the white man. Some say you have corrupted his mind."

I realised, then, with the growing sense of doom as a deer in a wolf's territory, that I was not welcome here. Perhaps I never was. The peace and joy I had seen before in Kanatahséton had been an illusion; I had seen what I wanted to see, and nothing more.

These were Connor's people - but after so many years apart, they had moved on. They were not his anymore.

I did not know just when the people of the village began staring at me, but I felt the prickle of their hostile eyes under my skin, and when I glanced around, I found them all watching me with narrowed eyes.

I took a step back, feeling the blood roaring in my ears. I could not tell them about Washington's plan now - every word against him would stand in favour of Charles Lee, and feed their support of him.

Connor was silent as a ghost as he entered the village. In the moonless night, he was pale - in a way I had never seen before. Dark blood splattered his face, his right hand. But most frightening of all was the look in his eyes - unfocused, looking at me without seeing me.

He was alone. I did not know what alarmed me most: that fact, or that the remaining people in the village were looking at him in much the same manner as they were looking at me. Guarded. Hostile. Alien.

Even his grandmother was stiff and wary. "Ratonhnhaké:ton. Where is Kanen'tó:kon?"

Connor blinked, like he was trying to remember. "He is dead."

He sounded so hollow. Connor had always been a man of great depth and passion - I had never heard his voice like this before.

"I killed him," he said, fixing those distant eyes first on Oiá:ner, then on me. "He is dead."

The old woman looked at him long and hard, and her eyes became mournful. "Ratonhnhaké:ton," she said, and her voice was strangely full of pity. "You must leave this village - and I do not think that you should return."

Those cloudy eyes focused, became sharp. "What?"

"You have made yourself a kinslayer," said Oiá:ner gravely. "By our clan law you are a criminal. A taker of the sacred life given us by the spirits. Banishment is our custom, for we do not place ourselves as givers and takers of life. Go - you are no longer welcome here."

All was silent, save for the rain. Slowly, all eyes turned to Connor - to us.

The fire of battle was still in Connor's blood. "All I have done," he said, voice raising, "I did for the good of this village. You cannot exile me from my home."

"It is your home no longer," said Oiá:ner. "You ensured that when you drove your blade through Kanen'tó:kon's neck. The exiled one has chosen his place among the white men - so go."

Around us, the people shifted - forming a band that blocked us off from the rest of the empty village, herding us toward the exit. In that moment, I understood why Oiá:ner was speaking in English, and not in Kanien'kéha - she wanted me to hear these words too. Connor was no longer welcome here, and neither was I.

Connor raised his chin defiantly, and his eyes blazed with fire. But instead of fighting back, he clenched his jaw shut, and when he blinked, I could see the fight drain out of him. He was Ratonhnhaké:ton the warrior no longer.

Without another word to his grandmother, or the rest of his kin, he turned his back on the village and walked out. I hurried after him, watching him warily - and anxiety gnawed at me when he did not look back, even at me, as we reached the horses.

He pulled his hood up, casting his bloody face into shadow, and mounted his horse. We did not speak for a long time as we wove through the forest, dejected and miserable.

Connor sat straight and rigid, pushing the horse too hard, leading us somewhere south. I tried to match pace with him, tried to glimpse his face, but he turned away from me each time, or urged his horse ahead of me.

Finally, I tired of the silence. "We need to get out of this rain."

"Charles Lee rides for Monmouth," he said like he had not heard me, "to reveal the Patriot plans to the Loyalists. The crown will win, and my people will never be safe."

"We will deal with it," I said, trying to soothe, "but we need to get out of this rain."

He turned his face up to the sky, then, like he had only just noticed that the rain was still pouring down between the trees. "Lexington is the closest tavern."

And that was that. We rode southwest for Lexington, hardly speaking. The summer night was unusually warm, but the rain made me cold. I did not remember ever feeling as helpless and wretched as I did then.

Time passed in a blur that I did not notice until we were hitching up the horses in the shelter of a stable, and when they were safely untacked, we opened the tavern door. Inside the Buckman Tavern was warm and dry and such a welcome sight that I could have sobbed. We both dripped water all over the wooden floors, and the keeper eyed us warily - a Native American and a colonial girl arriving at a tavern in the middle of the night could spell nothing but scandal - but accepted our money nevertheless.

We were too exhausted even to eat. Once we locked the door to the bedroom behind us, we set to ridding ourselves of our soaked outer layers.

Or, I did. Upon hearing nothing from Connor, I looked over my shoulder and found him still standing by the door, looking down at his hands. In the warm light of the room, the blood on his hands was dark red, the stain on his sleeve brighter. Water dripped from him, creating a small puddle beneath him, but he did not seem to notice. The distant, hollow look had returned to his eyes. I did not know him anymore.

"Connor?" I said softly.

"I killed him." Those strong, gentle hands clenched. "I ..."

I reached for him then, taking both of those hands in my own. He was so cold. He was trembling. "Come," I said. "You need to take your jacket off."

His eyes fixed on me, like he was seeing me for the first time. What a muddy wretch I was. But whatever words he did or did not have to say, he swallowed them, and allowed me to lead him deeper into the room.

Once I had managed to help him remove his coat, I hung it up to dry while he sat on the edge of the bed. And when I looked back, I knew: he was not Ratonhnhaké:ton the warrior anymore. He was the broken boy he worked so hard to hide, to build walls around and section off. Despair and sorrow bubbled to the surface all at once, and neither of us knew how to make it better.

"I killed him," he said again, in that hollow voice that felt like a stab between my ribs. "Kanen'tó:kon. He died believing I had betrayed him."

I crossed the room, caring not for my still-wet clothes and muddy breeches, and knelt in front of him, placing careful hands on his knees. "He was deceived," I said quietly.

He did not hear me. "My people think me a traitor. A murderer." A humourless laugh escaped him, and that is when I heard the strain in his voice, the fight to keep his emotions at bay. "I have made myself a kinslayer. I– I killed my longest friend with my own hands. I felt his blood, I felt his life leave him." A tear fell from his cheek. "My own people sentenced me to exile. My own family."

His voice broke on the last word, and so did my heart. I pulled him down in a hug, holding him close, closing my eyes as his arms wrapped tightly around me. He was shaking, and he was so cold.

I laid a gentle hand on the back of his head. "It's not your fault."

"I did it," he said, and I heard the pain in his voice, the tears that were forcing their way out. "I killed him and I can never return. Everything is gone."

"Even so," I murmured. "It's not your fault."

Perhaps that is what broke him. Perhaps something else in him shattered. I do not know - but I felt it. I knelt on the floor for a long time, saying nothing, stroking his hair, letting him weep and grieve and feel the pain he never allowed himself to.

When I closed my eyes, my own throat closed up, and my eyes welled. It wasn't his fault. The unfairness of it all made tears of rage, of sadness, spill down my cheeks. Kanen'tó:kon had not deserved to die - and Connor had not deserved to wield the blade.

Charles Lee was a monster. This, we knew. But now he had torn everything from Connor. His mother, his friend, his village, his entire family. Clanless, he had no choice now but to live out his days on the homestead and assimilate with the rest of the colonists.

We were still sitting like that when Connor spoke into the silent room, his voice thick with equal anger and pain. "It is a battle that Charles Lee wants. I will give him a war."

*

Guys! Get you a bestie who will crochet you a Shrek hat even though she hates Shrek, and a House Lannister cushion even though she despises the Lannisters 🩷🎀 that's true love. Right there.

Anyway!! This will be my last chapter before 2025!! I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas 🥹🩷 God bless you all 🫰

xoxo Panda