[Assassin's Creed] Assassin's Creed: Revolution

[LanceSennin]

The grave bore no name.

That was the first thing he noticed.

It stood beneath an old tree on the grounds of the Aguila estate, separated from the rest of the museum by a short stone path that had almost disappeared beneath the grass. The surrounding grounds and structure had been restored due to the estate being converted into a museum a few years ago, but this particular corner had been left largely untouched.

No inscription. No dates. No information on the deceased.

Just a weathered stone slab, cracked along one edge which was a sign of how long it has remained here more than anything.

He crouched and brushed away a handful of dry leaves that fell on it.

"Strange," he mumbled.

He had spent the better part of six months examining the Aguila family's surviving records. Land deeds, correspondence, photographs, military documents… anything that could help him learn more about a family whose history seemed to fall apart as the 19th century gave way to the 20th.

Maybe it's just a coincidence that he shared the same last name with them.

Perhaps it's also a coincidence that he didn't know much about his own family background.

That's why he felt compelled to get to the bottom of this mystery.

The Aguila family had possessed considerable wealth and influence, as evidenced by the now-known 'Aguila Estate' that's visited by tourists, countrymen, and students alike. Their surviving records suggested that they were connected to prominent figures in Philippine history, yet several decades of documentation were strangely incomplete.

There was one name that appeared repeatedly in the few surviving references.

Francisco Bartolome Aguila y Santiago.

Born in 1869, and former owner of the Hacienda Aguila in Cavite. Apart from that, there was barely anything that could be established with certainty.

There was no reliable account of his final years, no confirmed record of his death, and no explanation for why his name seemed to disappear from historical records through the years.

And yet there was a grave on his family's property that appeared to have been deliberately left unidentified, as compared to the other burial sites around.

He took a photograph and compared it with another on his tablet. This particular grave was not in the earliest surviving estate plans, which he gathered through extensive research. This thing was no doubt added in a later date, but it's strange how the stone was left completely alone compared to the rest of the heritage site.

He looked at the grave again.

Perhaps it belonged to a relative of Francisco Aguila whose identity had been lost. Perhaps it was a wartime burial, because this place had suffered greatly from the devastation left behind by the Second World War. Both perfectly ordinary explanations for an unmarked grave.

Still, there's something about its isolation that seemed off.

His phone then vibrated, prompting him to stuff the tablet in his bag.

Opening his phone, there was an email from the university's archival team along with an attached photograph. The subject line read:

VIEW URGENTLY! ➨ ADDITIONAL MATERIAL FOR AGUILA COLLECTION

Curiosity taking over, he opened the attachment.

The photograph showed a small metal case discovered among the estate's surviving documents, which took a long time gathering. The contents of the case had not been shown, but there was a distinct symbol on the lid… something similar to the outline of a bird's skull.

Beneath the photograph, one of the archivists had added a note.

"There's a name inside the case. You should probably come back, you need to see this in person."

The message contained no further explanation.

He read it twice just to make sure, before zooming into the photograph. The surface of the metal case was dark with age, but the insignia was still noticeable despite it.

He saved the image and sent a quick reply.

"Where did you find that?"

The response arrived several minutes later, after he took a seat at the nearby bench.

"It was one of the materials recovered from a sealed compartment beneath the old archive room the last time we went there. Based on how old it looked and comparing its appearance to the rest of the place, it must have been left unchecked when the estate was turned into a museum. We're bringing it to the lab for further analysis."

Another message followed right after.

"You need to come in tomorrow. There's something else you'll want to see."

He stared at the screen.

He had spent years studying Philippine history, with a particular interest in the ways that political shifts and war affected the preservation of cultural heritage. He was already used to incomplete records, contradictory accounts, and documents that survived due to somebody forgetting to destroy them.

This wasn't the first time that he had dealt with missing information.

But he was facing a completely different dilemma this time.

The Aguila family was wealthy, influential, and connected to several important figures during the late 19th century. Their surviving correspondence showed political meetings, property transactions, and personal acquaintances whose names appeared elsewhere in historical records.

Yet Francisco Bartolome Aguila y Santiago, the last known owner of the Hacienda Aguila (now known as the Aguila Estate) before its acquisition by the government, was almost absent from those.

There were scattered fragments: a baptismal record, a few references in transactional records, and a military document from the final years of World War 2 that mentioned an individual with the same name.

But there was no reliable account of his life.

There was nothing that could tell what had happened to him.

There are at least a thousand people in the country with the same family name as Francisco (including himself), so tracking down any possible descendants would be nigh impossible.

He opened his notes and looked at the timeline he had assembled.

1869: Known birth, exact date unknown

1872: Possible connection to the Cavite Mutiny of 1872?

1890-?: Letters and correspondences connected to the years of the revolution

1945: Possible military record, lacking in information

Seventy-six years worth of historical records, reduced to only a handful of entries.

If this Francisco Aguila had lived through the revolution, the American period, and the Japanese occupation, then there should be more evidence of his existence. Even if those records were destroyed during the war, the lack of any concrete information was difficult to explain.

Unless, of course, any record of him was intended to be forgotten…?

"No, that's just speculation. We haven't explored everything yet," he quickly reminded himself.

Tomorrow, he will examine that metal case further with everyone else. Until then, he had no reason to believe that all this missing information leads to some conspiracy involving Francisco Aguila's name being erased from history.

Sighing, he pocketed his phone and left.

On his way back from Cavite, the world continued on as always; traffic moved through the streets, vendors loudly announced their goods to passersby, and children playing outside of their homes.

He had spent years studying the past, mainly about people of different origins who all had their own stories to tell about their lives.

For the first time, he was confronted by someone whose origin was something he had to uncover for himself.

---

The university's archival laboratory occupied the renovated basement of an old research building within the campus. Its walls were climate-controlled, its windows sealed against humidity, and its shelves filled with the carefully preserved artifacts and remains of lives that ended long before anyone working here had been born.

He arrived shortly after eight o'clock the following morning.

His colleague was waiting beside a glass enclosure at the far end of the laboratory, who took notice of his arrival.

"You're early," she said.

"You said there's something I needed to see."

"I did."

She handed him a tablet displaying the preliminary examination report of the objects that were analyzed, which were several bundles of correspondence, a leather-bound ledger, a tarnished metal case, and a photograph of a man whose face had faded almost beyond recognition.

The objects were recovered from a concealed compartment beneath the Aguila estate's former archive room. The compartment was apparently sealed, and the inside had suffered deterioration due to the decades that passed, but the contents were well preserved.

The case took center stage in the report, just as he was hoping. It had no obvious lock, but the lid was secured with a mechanism that took the conservation team an hour to figure out. Eventually, they were able to open it without damaging the contents.

Inside were three objects: a folded letter, a small piece of metal engraved with the same insignia on the lid, and another photograph.

He turned to the next page of the report, containing close-ups of that photo, from the front and back.

The photograph depicted two young men standing beside a stone wall. Both wore the formal clothing of the late 19th century; one was broad-faced, with a serious expression and a gaze that seemed almost challenging even through the faded image. The other was slimmer; he stood with one hand resting on the wall, looking toward the camera with an expression that was difficult to interpret.

On the back, there were two names written on it.

Francisco.

Emilio.

He suddenly felt a strange sense of recognition, even though he had never seen the photograph before.

"One of these is Francisco, but who is the second man?" he asked.

"The biggest possibility is Emilio Aguinaldo. The facial features are consistent with photographs from his younger years, but haven't cross-referenced it yet. Still, the name on the back could be all the confirmation we need."

"Then can we confirm that Francisco is the other individual?"

"We can't be too sure. A photograph only serves as yet another possibility," she shook her head.

Resisting the urge to click his tongue, he examined the photograph again.

If his gut instinct was correct, then this photo shows that Francisco was in direct proximity to one of the most important figures of the Philippine Revolution. That alone would make the image their biggest breakthrough, but there were two things missing.

The date and the location.

Skimming through the rest of the report, he looked at his colleague.

"Can I see the letter?"

"...we've only completed a preliminary scan. The paper is fragile, and we are being careful not to damage it in any way. But you can examine the digital copy."

She brought out her tablet and opened a file, showing it to him.

The letter was written in Spanish, with several lines in a different hand. The paper had darkened along the folds, and parts of the text were illegible. The visible passage appeared to be a private correspondence between two people discussing an unnamed individual.

He read the translated transcription provided for him.

"He has chosen his path, and I have chosen mine. Neither of us can persuade the other to turn back."

Below it, a second passage had been underlined.

"If the truth is ever discovered, let it be understood that our friendship was not a lie."

He blinked a few times and observed those lines carefully.

"Who wrote this?" he asked.

"We don't know. The handwriting hasn't been matched to any authenticated correspondence yet."

"Could it be Aguinaldo?"

"A possible option but again, we can't point our finger towards him just yet."

He nodded. She was right. A theory with no backbone serves as nothing more than baseless assumptions.

Still, the passage troubled him.

The two lines suggested a relationship that survived a profound disagreement, but serious enough that the author might have feared that the truth would be misunderstood by future generations.

He looked back at the photograph.

The two men stood side by side, both in their teenage years and their expressions relaxed enough to suggest familiarity with each other. Whatever it is that divided them, the picture had been taken before it happened.

"There's another problem," his colleague spoke again.

She brought up a digitized inventory of the Aguila estate for him to see. Many of the artifacts in the site were listed as a known possession of the Aguila family. However, the two photographs, the ledger, the case, and the documents that were all recovered weren't part of those.

These objects were sealed in that compartment beneath the archive room, by someone who deliberately hid them… or they could have been hidden during the chaos of the war and were never recovered.

"Have you found out why that compartment was sealed off?"

"Not yet. But the estate underwent extensive repairs after the war. The original archive room was badly damaged, and the whole place needed to be rebuilt. About two decades ago, the estate underwent another renovation, primarily because it was being converted into a museum. It's possible that the space beneath the archive room survived because nobody knew it existed."

"Or because someone didn't want it to be found."

She threw him a cautious frown.

"That's a pretty big stretch, and without any kind of grounds to base it on."

"I know. For all we know, the reason could be so simple."

He looked at the report again.

There was something else he wanted to ask, but he didn't know how to put it in words.

These two men could be connected through their association with a nation-changing revolution in the 1890s. If proven to be correct, one of them was one of the well-known revolutionary leaders of the time, but the other one had left almost no trace of his own life.

Seriously, what kind of person could be a significant part of history and still disappear from it?

"Can we examine the rest of the collection?"

"We will eventually. But there's something you should know first."

She handed him another stack of papers, this time a recent report about their subject's genealogical lineage.

Francisco Aguila's lineage had several gaps. Some were unsurprising, given the passage of time and the destruction of documents during the Second World War. Others were harder to account for, because of the sheer number of the country's population. Names disappeared from one generation and reappeared in another. Births had been recorded without corresponding family entries. Several documents referenced possible relatives, but lacked any kind of substantial evidence to prove it.

The known records were insufficient to establish a complete family tree.

But there was one particular conclusion that struck him at the end of the report.

He himself might have a connection to the Aguila line, Francisco's line.

He turned to his colleague with a skeptical look.

"How did you come to this conclusion?"

"Your own genealogical lineage. We took the known family records you submitted as part of the project and noticed a possible connection when comparing the names."

"I thought it was ruled out as a simple coincidence of having the same last name?"

"In our line of study, even a simple coincidence is worth looking into. As of now though, there's no direct line of descent that goes all the way to you. There are still many missing records."

He felt a hint of unease, as he read through the genealogical report again.

After starting this project, he had agreed to provide a vial of his blood to help in the research, mostly because he had the same family name as Francisco Aguila, and because he was always curious about his own family. He only knew of his mother and two siblings growing up, and any questions he had about his father were answered vaguely.

He never knew anything about his father's family either, while he had spent time with his mother's family growing up.

He had not anticipated the possibility that he had been studying about his father's family this entire time, but it's too soon to tell.

"Is there anything else?'

His colleague glanced towards a second room beyond the laboratory, and he followed her gaze.

"Yes. Yesterday, the university's Animus team began reviewing sample data using the blood vial you provided back then… right after the results of that genealogical report came out. They believe they may have found something."

At the end of the hallway was a room that housed a machine he had seen only a few times through the giant glass window: a reclining chair surrounded by a curved frame of sensors, cables, monitors, and projection equipment. It was the university's research-grade Animus system, a technology developed by Abstergo Industries decades ago with the ability to reconstruct historical memories from genetic information… at least that's what he knew about it. He didn't know how or when the campus took possession of one, but it was rarely used during its lifetime here.

He had assumed this project would simply be about hunting for documents and searching for well-hidden clues about a mysterious individual who's missing from the history books.

He could never have foreseen that it would involve the usage of an Animus.

"Why would an Animus be needed to learn more about Francisco Aguila? Are we out of options?"

His colleague did not answer immediately.

"I think you should hear that from the team inside."

---

The Animus laboratory was quieter than the main lobby in more ways than one.

Three people worked in different workstations, but they were all focused on one thing. They were all studying a sequence of data that moved across several monitors, and everything was being projected on the wall for him to see.

"I see you've been informed of what's going on already. Have a look at the projection," one of them said.

The central display showed a branching genetic model, with sections marked in different colors. Beside it, a reconstructed family tree contained several incomplete branches as it all led to one Francisco Aguila at the very top.

At the base of the display, he saw his own name… four generations after the very person whom they've been working to uncover this whole time.

His name was connected to a series of unknown relatives whose identities were still a mystery, despite all the data and records that they've compiled by now. He would then notice that they weren't connected to his name per se, but rather his father.

The same father whom he knew nothing about, apart from what his mother had told him.

The connection from his father towards Francisco Aguila was largely unknown, but now it was making more sense on why there's a possibility that he could be associated with the man who's strangely erased from history.

Above his father's portrait, there were multiple other portraits of possible descendants connected to Francisco Aguila, and they were all denoted by a question mark that marked the missing connection.

This didn't look like much progress has been made, but the important thing was that there's a clear path towards the supposed person that he was working to uncover.

"This is our problem," the lead researcher spoke. "Your genealogical records suggest a possible relationship through your father, but we can't establish the precise lineage through research and study. There are no other records of Francisco Aguila aside from what we know and what we know is already all that there is."

"So being in the Animus will allow you to reveal everyone in Francisco's family?"

"Not necessarily. We'll be able to find the connection between you two, but it doesn't magically identify every ancestor. Besides, we won't really need those. We need to focus on Francisco Aguila himself and if all goes well, we can access his memories through yours."

The head researcher gave a signal to her analyst, who changed the display on the wall.

A second model appeared, showing a series of reconstructed memory patterns associated with the genetic sample.

"We've found out that your blood sample contains markers that are compatible with the historical profile we've been investigating. Combine that with the possible family tree that we've constructed, we have reason to believe you are a descendant of Francisco Bartolome Aguila."

He studied the two models on the screen, highly skeptical yet fascinated at the same time.

"How sure are you?"

"There's only one way to find out at this point. Artifacts and documents can only take us so far into the life of an unknown individual, but the Animus can take us farther because it can reconstruct ancestral memories through genetic data from a living descendant. A simulation may help us investigate more."

He considered the implications.

He had to agree with that assessment. Six months into this research, and they've barely made any progress. Sooner or later, they would reach an eventual dead end because the amount of tangible evidence was limited, especially for a man who was erased from history.

Compiling important documents, gathering historical accounts, separating evidence from speculation… he was used to all of that by now. He was a relatively new researcher compared to the rest of them, but he was no less accustomed to the standard process of historical research.

The Animus could be the answer to their problems.

A machine was offering the possibility of experiencing the life of that individual.

They just haven't found a possible descendant, but that might change today.

It was difficult to believe, because he never thought of himself as the key to unlocking this mystery.

It was even more difficult to just brush aside.

"...that being said, the connection between the descendant and their ancestor isn't always straightforward. Our findings merely suggest a connection, but we could still be wrong."

"What happens if the connection is real?"

"Then we'll have access to a memory sequence associated with Francisco Aguila. We can't guarantee that it will explain everything, but it'll be better than everything we've done until now. The Animus reconstructs what survives in the genetic memory, not a complete recording of someone's life.

He thought of the timeline that he came up with: 76 years of missing information.

"What about the missing years?"

"We may fill in those gaps using the Animus. We may not."

He looked at the machine in the center of the room.

For a moment, he imagined what it would mean to witness the Philippine Revolution not through photographs, documents, written testimonies, or the interpretations of historians, but through the eyes of someone who had actually lived through it.

Still, he would have to remember that a memory isn't the same as an objective historical record. Whoever Francisco is, he would have his own assumptions, prejudices, fears, and beliefs. The man's perspective will no doubt shed light into past events, but it won't mean that he'll understand everything that happens.

In the end, as an aspiring historian himself, this was an opportunity that he could hardly ignore.

He didn't know how or why he was connected to Francisco Aguila, but he could find out for himself.

"How long would the simulation take?"

This time, it was the third team member who spoke, who seemed to be the technician of the group.

"That depends on the stability of the connection between you and Francisco. We'll be starting with a short synchronization test before attempting a deeper reconstruction."

The head researcher stood up and gave him a serious look.

"Before we proceed, we need you to understand something. This isn't anything like what we've done before. This is nothing like comparing documents or keeping track of historical accounts. The simulation may expose you to traumatic memories, and the experience can be disorienting. You can stop at any point if you need a break."

He thought about the contents of the letter once more.

"If the truth is ever discovered, let it be understood that our friendship was not a lie."

He wondered who had written those words. He wondered why Francisco's life had been concealed from historical records, and what exactly happened between the two men whose names appeared together on the back of the photograph.

Most of all, he wondered why someone would go to such lengths to ensure that the answers remained hidden, because there's no other explanation for why the data was so limited.

"I understand. Let's do it."

The technician guided him towards the chair, while being instructed to remove any accessories or gadgets from his body.

He removed his watch and brought out his phone, handing them over before settling into the reclining seat. Sensors were attached to his temples and wrists, a padded frame was placed around his head, and the room's lights dimmed as the machine powered on.

"Try to remain relaxed," the technician said. "Focus on the memory when it appears and stick with it. Don't fight the simulation and don't do anything that strays far from how things went."

He nodded and closed his eyes, fighting back a wave of nervousness.

A low mechanical hum filled the room.

For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then a point of light appeared in the darkness. He was sure that he still had his eyes closed, so this must be the Animus at work.

The light expanded around him, branching out into a pattern of interconnected lines, each one moving to connect to something until the space before him resembled a vast network of pathways. Some were clear and bright, others were flickering and incomplete.

He felt as though he were standing before a map where his destination was something he could not see.

A voice then came through the system.

"Synchronization beginning."

The lines of the simulation converged, and the bright empty space where he stood quickly took shape based on how the memory went.

As he felt his consciousness shifting to that of a spectator, the hidden events began to unravel.

 

[LanceSennin]

Sequence 1: Herencia

Memory 1: A Land Beneath the Sun​

Cavite, Philippines - 1869

The rain began shortly before midnight of March 22nd.

It swept across the fields surrounding the Aguila hacienda, knocking over the tall grass and beating against the tiled roofs of the estate. Beyond the main house, the workers' quarters were peaceful. The horses were quiet in their stalls, and the old acacia trees shuddered against the wind.

Inside the main house though, nobody was sleeping.

A woman's cries could be heard all throughout the corridors. Servants hurried between the kitchen and the upstairs bedroom, bringing fresh water, clean linen, and everything else that the midwife demanded of them. Downstairs, a wooden chair scraped against the floor, matching the screams the louder they became.

An old man sat alone in the receiving room, his hands resting on the head of his cane.

He had faced armed men without flinching. He walked through streets where a single wrong impression could mean torture. He had watched comrades disappear into prisons and witnessed men who spoke of liberty become indistinguishable from the very tyrants they opposed.

But none of those experiences had prepared him for the sounds coming from upstairs.

Another cry of pain rang out.

Another hurried instruction from the midwife followed.

Unable to suppress his worries, he stood up and walked towards the staircase, before stopping when a servant hurried past him.

"Is there news?" he asked.

"Not yet, señor."

The servant quickly disappeared into the kitchen to do as he was instructed.

The old man looked towards the tall windows. Even though he couldn't see what was outside, the ongoing storm was a perfect way to describe his mental state. By this point, he was an aging man in an immaculate camisa, his hair denoting his growing limitations, and his face carrying years of failure… all while having no clue on when it would all finally stop.

He had spent much of his life preparing for and facing opposition that other people could not see.

But tonight, he couldn't do anything.

For once, there was no hidden passageway to discover, no enemy to tail, no problem that could be resolved with a blade or a carefully chosen word. There was only the woman upstairs, the child she was struggling to bring into the world, and the helpless waiting of everyone else in the estate.

The old man lowered his head.

"Let him live," he whispered.

He didn't know whether his words were directed to the God who would condemn him, to fate who would continue to test him, or to the ghosts of those he failed, all of whom would despise him.

And then, at last, a child's cry rang out.

For just a brief moment, the cry became louder than the storm outside and it caused him to look up.

The child's cries became softer as the seconds passed, but continued on as if it was afraid of the storm that plagued the evening. While he listened, the old man let out a laugh of relief, though with a noticeable tremor in his voice due to his worries.

A servant appeared at the top of the staircase, completely exhausted but beaming with joy.

"Señor," she called. "You have a grandson."

The old man climbed the stairs more quickly than he ever did in the past few years, like he had went back in time.

---

Upon entering the bedroom, the air smelled of rainwater, candle smoke, and fresh linen.

His daughter-in-law laid against a pile of pillows, looking pale with exhaustion but still conscious. Beside her, the midwife held an infant wrapped in a blanket. His face was red, his fists softly clenched, and his mouth opened in another helpless cry.

The child's father stood near the bed, looking as though he had witnessed a miracle and had not yet decided whether he was going to believe in it or not.

When the old man entered, he acknowledged the new presence.

"Father."

"You look worse than your own child."

"I feel worse than the child."

"Then perhaps you should be the one wrapped in a blanket."

There was laughter from both sides, which served to lighten up the mood. The tension in the room eased, now free from the storm that shook the entire home from the inside.

The mother looked towards her father-in-law.

"Come and see your grandchild, Father."

The old man eagerly approached the bed, setting his cane aside. The midwife carefully placed the newborn into his mother's arms, who lowered her face to kiss his forehead.

For the first time that night, the infant became quiet.

The old man watched the small hand emerge from its blanket. Its fingers opened, closed, and then grabbed the edge of his mother's sleeve.

"So… you have already decided what belongs to you just by simply grabbing it," he remarked.

"Father," his son sent him a knowing look, "he is a baby."

"All the more reason to correct him before his habit becomes permanent."

"I swear to raise him just as you raised my husband to be a good man, Father. What will be permanent though… is his name," his daughter-in-law smiled. "What would you have us call him?"

The grandfather looked surprised at that.

"You would allow me to name your son?"

"We have already decided on a name that we wanted, but there's no harm in giving him another one. One that would come from you."

He looked at the child for a moment, and uttered the first name that came to his mind.

"Francisco."

His son nodded in agreement.

"And so it shall be. Francisco Bartolome Aguila y Santiago."

The full name sounded too large for the tiny person that was cluelessly looking around. It carried the names of two families, the expectations of a wealthy household, and the weight of a country whose future remained in the hands of tyrants pretending to be saviors.

But the child knew none of that.

As of now, he only knew the warmth of his mother's arms and the steady rhythm of her breathing.

Outside, the storm was finally reaching its end.

"So that's the name you came up with. I think it is a bold choice to put my chosen name ahead of yours but it is your decision to make."

"And what will you teach him when the time comes? Have you decided on that?" his son asked.

"That depends on what sort of boy he grows up to be."

"Surely you have already decided, viejo."

"I have decided nothing."

His son gave him a skeptical look.

"You have spent the past six months telling us what this child must learn, where he must study, and what sort of man he must become."

"I merely offered suggestions."

"You have given instructions."

"Then perhaps you should learn to distinguish one from the other, mijo."

The mother shook her head, smiling at them.

"Francisco has been here for less than a minute, and already the two of you are arguing about his future."

"That," the grandfather replied with a smirk, "is a family tradition."

Everyone, including the servants in the room, laughed.

For a little while, they were simply a normal family.

There were no soldiers outside the door, no secret meetings in neighboring towns, no messages carried in coded handwriting, and no violence carried out in the dead of night. There was a mother cradling her child, a father taking in the sight of his flesh and blood, a few servants allowing themselves to feel joy for this occasion, and a grandfather hoping for this boy to grow up in a better world than the one that had shaped him.

He knew better than to be optimistic and hope without doing anything.

But he would hold on to those hopes anyway.

---

Francisco's earliest memories would never be clear enough to distinguish them from the stories told to him afterward.

He would not remember the storm on the night he was born. He would not know the exact words spoken while he was being cradled, or the way his father had looked at him, or the overwhelming relief that had passed through the household when mother and child survived the night.

Those memories belonged to other people.

What Francisco could remember, years later, were only fragments.

From the sunlight shining on the wooden floor, the smell of wet earth after an afternoon shower, his mother's voice calling him inside before servants would light the lamps, his father's boots pacing around the veranda, all the way to his grandfather's cane tapping three times against the floor before he would enter a room.

By the time Francisco was capable enough to walk around the estate without being carried, he had discovered that the hacienda was a world of its own.

There were the broad fields, where laborers worked beneath the sun. There were the storehouses, the stables, the kitchen gardens, and the long paths connecting the estate to the road. There were servants who had known his father since childhood and workers whose families had lived on the land longer than anyone could remember.

And there was the manor itself, with its high ceilings, its carved wooden furniture, and its rooms that seemed to hold the voices of people who were no longer there.

Among all of these places, Francisco liked the estate's veranda best.

From there, he could watch the estate wake up each morning. Men carried baskets towards the storehouses. Women crossed the yard with bundles of crops balanced against their hips. The overseer inspected the work, while the cook's helpers would bring everyone breakfast from the kitchen.

Beyond the estate, he could also see the land stretching towards the distant hills, which was pleasant to look at whenever the sun was high in the sky.

Francisco would sometimes point at the people working in the fields.

"Where…?"

His father would look up from whatever he was reading.

"They are working, hijo."

"Why?"

"Because the fields must be tended to if we are to have a harvest. And we need to have a harvest if we want to eat everyday."

Francisco looked down, thinking about his father's words.

"W…Wirk?"

The man lowered his newspaper and approached his son.

"Of course."

"Why?"

"We may have people who work with us," he explained. "But that also means we have responsibilities toward them."

Francisco frowned, trying to understand the distinction but it was too complicated for him to understand.

His father lifted him up in his arms and looked out into the fields with him.

"Listen to me, hijo. You're too young to understand, but you will eventually understand that having land does not make a man better than the people who work it. Having more money doesn't make him wiser. And being given authority over the land doesn't mean he will always use it well."

The child just stared at him, listening but not understanding a thing that came out of his father's mouth.

"Sometimes, people listen to that man because he earned their trust. Sometimes, they do it because they have no choice. Everyday, I keep telling myself that we are the first option, because the last thing I want is for you to grow up in a household with tyrants, Francisco."

The child took in those words, though he couldn't comprehend anything about it.

Children were often satisfied by the certainty and firmness in an adult's voice, and Francisco wasn't any different from other youth.

It would often take years for them to learn everything on their own.

---

Even though his father gave long, complicated explanations that he could barely follow along, Francisco found them easier to deal with than his grandfather's simple yet frustrating responses.

When the child was capable enough to follow him around the garden, the old man developed a habit of stopping without warning at the most random of times.

"What do you see, Francisco?" he would ask.

"Tees."

"What else?"

"Fowers."

"What else?"

"People."

"And?"

Francisco was always quick to give in to impatience whenever he's with his grandfather.

"Ev'thing!"

"Everything is a very large answer for a very small boy like you," the old man would comment.

Sometimes he would point to something that Francisco had not noticed, which were mostly things that any kid wouldn't normally notice: a bird hidden among the branches, a broken tile from somewhere, or perhaps a servant who's too nervous to interrupt the moment between grandfather and grandson.

"Looking is not the same as seeing," the old man would tell him one afternoon.

Francisco kicked a loose stone off the path, looking utterly bored,

"Shame."

"No, Francisco."

"Shame!"

The old man stopped walking, prompting the child to do the same. He leaned on his cane and stared down at his grandson.

"Then what would you use, hijo? Are you looking at me right now? Or are you seeing me?"

"Ehh…?"

"Children can only look, because they expect the world to show itself to them. But when you grow up, that is when you start to see things. When you stop looking and start seeing, that's when you know you have stopped being a child. To see is to pay attention, Francisco."

Francisco thought about what he explained for about three seconds… before running off.

His grandfather watched the child go.

"An excellent beginning, and a terrible student."

Despite those words, he was smiling.

There were times when the old man seemed to know things before anyone told him. He would pause halfway through a conversation and turn towards a gate just before a visitor arrived. He would notice when a servant had been crying, when a horse was in need of something, or when someone had entered a room without permission.

Francisco simply assumed that this is what happens when people grow old.

His grandfather never corrected him.

He also didn't explain why certain visitors were gathered in a room at the back of the manor, where the windows remained shut even during the day. The old man never explained why a few letters would arrive without names, or why his father sometimes returned from a journey with a tired expression and mud on boots that should have been clean.

When Francisco tried asking about these things, he received answers that were neither lies nor entirely truthful.

"Business," his father would say.

"Old friends," according to his grandfather.

And when he asked if he could meet those old friends, the old man would tell him that he should go out and meet other kids instead.

Francisco disliked that answer.

And the fact that his grandfather never appeared embarrassed by it made him dislike it even more.

---

One afternoon, Francisco found the old man in the library.

The room was quiet except for the ticking of a clock. Sunlight passed through the shutters in bright and narrow lines, illuminating dust that drifted lazily above the desk.

His grandfather was reading a letter.

Not one of the big books around here, but a normal letter.

That was enough for the child to approach him quietly, curious enough to wonder what was on that letter… even if he can't understand anything written on it yet.

The old man held the parchment close to the light, his expression unreadable. On the same desk lay a small wooden box, its lid open for anyone to see the contents. Inside were several objects that Francisco had never seen before: a folded piece of cloth, a narrow metal instrument, and a ring bearing a design that resembled a bird with its wings spread.

This time, he couldn't stop himself from voicing out his wonder.

"That…?"

His grandfather immediately folded the letter and fixed his posture.

"These are things you are not supposed to touch, Francisco."

Too fixated on these new objects, the child reached for the ring… only to be stopped when the old man caught his wrist. Not forcefully, but quickly enough to startle him and get the boy's attention.

"I said you are not supposed to touch that, hijo."

Francisco stared at him, looking scared. His grandfather seemed to notice his distress, so he released the boy's wrist and closed the box.

For a moment, the atmosphere seemed entirely different. The old man no longer looked like the patient figure who took quiet walks through the garden and derived amusement from teasing him with confusing statements. His eyes had sharpened, and his hand rested on top of the box as though it contained something dangerous.

"Why are you here?"

The boy glanced at the box first, before looking up at him.

"You."

"I am here."

He looked at the box again and pointed towards it.

"That…?"

"I just said you are not supposed to touch any of it. That includes knowing more about it."

"My…?"

"It is not yours. These belong to people who are no longer here."

"Why?"

A sad look flashed across the older man's face, before masking it with his stern expression.

"They… are not here because they went away. You may not understand right now, but you will when you are older."

True enough, Francisco could not understand why his grandfather wouldn't allow him to check out the box, when the old man had allowed him to explore to his heart's content way back then. This was the first time that his grandfather forbade him from doing something, and he couldn't help that his curiosity was taking over.

"My…?" he asked again, this time looking hopeful.

"Fine. Perhaps when you are older, I'll let you have a look at what's inside."

Satisfied with that answer, the boy rejoiced and began jumping for joy, bringing a laugh out of the old man.

"Come here, hijo. I have something else for you to see, anyway."

Francisco watched as he reached into a drawer and brought out a small wooden horse, roughly carved but carefully smoothed, with a little mane cut into its neck. The old man then handed it over, and the boy's face brightened.

In an instant, the box disappeared from his thoughts and was replaced by the toy that his grandfather gifted him.

For the rest of the afternoon, he played on the library floor while his grandfather returned to reading the letter. Every so often, the old man would look at his grandson, watching him lead the wooden horse into charging across the floor and colliding with the legs of a chair or the base of a bookshelf.

Francisco never noticed it.

He did not notice his grandfather folding the letter a second time, nor the way his fingers lingered over its creases. He didn't hear the quiet sigh that escaped the old man's lips, one filled with lament.

After the boy was taken away to his bed, the old man put the box away in a cabinet inside his room. Although he spoke about letting his grandson have a look at its contents, he hoped that that day would never come, even after he grows up.

There are certain things in the world that children should not have to inherit.

But in the back of his mind, the old man had a feeling… that this boy would inherit them anyway.

---

That same evening, the boy's father joined the old man in the library, sitting by the window.

Francisco was already asleep. The house was quiet, but it was raining outside once again. The library was almost completely dark, if not for a single candlelamp that kept the surroundings illuminated at the bare minimum.

"I heard you scared my son earlier."

The older man looked up from his desk to acknowledge his son's presence.

"I stopped him from taking something that wasn't his."

"You know that he's a child. It's in his nature to be curious."

"Yes, and that's why I stopped him before he could do something foolish."

The boy's father sighed.

"We've both changed, Father. Several months ago, you were the one thinking about my child's future, and I was the one who wanted to let him live his life. But now it's you who wants him to stay away from the path we are on, while I think about what he would want to do when the time comes."

"What are you trying to say?"

"You can't keep everything from him forever. Maybe whatever you told Francisco will work to keep his mind off our business for now, but he will ask about the same thing eventually. The more we hide it from him, the more he'll want to know about it."

The old man shook his head.

"I have no intention of hiding anything from the boy."

"-but you will decide when he is ready."

"No. That is what fathers do."

"And grandfathers?"

He gave his son a tired smile.

"Grandfathers make sure their sons remember what fathers are supposed to do, mijo."

The father flashed the same smile, as both shared a brief laugh. Afterwards, neither one spoke but they actually had the same thing in mind at the moment.

"Do you still believe the Brotherhood can make a difference, Father?"

The old man's smile disappeared as he heard that question.

At the same time, the rain outside grew stronger.

"I believe people can make a difference," he answered. "The Brotherhood is only one means of doing so."

"And if it fails to achieve the freedom we have sought?"

"Then we must understand why. Our homeland cannot be free when its own people aren't united."

"And if our own people become the problem?"

"Then we must have the courage to oppose them. By any means."

Both father and son stared at each other intensely, before the latter sighed deeply.

"You make it sound so simple, getting rid of Spanish sympathizers. They're supposed to be our countrymen."

The older man tapped his fingers on the desk over and over.

"I make it sound necessary. If they are truly our countrymen, then they would realize the danger and oppression that's been brought to us for three hundred years."

"You cannot change the mind of a person who has gotten used to his chains, Father. All you can do is give them the future that they were robbed of, but there is no need to spill their blood."

"And what if they don't have any chains holding them back? What if they were poisoned by thoughts of power and glory by the Spanish? It brings me pain no less than you when I think of murdering my brethren who live on the same soil as us, but we have to make a choice. I have made mine. What about you, mijo?"

"My choice?" the father leaned back against his chair and crossed his arms. "I want Francisco to have a peaceful life."

"...so do I."

"I want my son to grow up without having to make the decisions we have made."

The old man agreed silently.

For a moment, he imagined his grandson as a grown man, standing beneath the same trees, looking out across the same fields, and treating all his workers like family. He imagined Francisco inheriting the land, marrying, raising children, and growing old without ever needing to learn what was inside that wooden box.

It was a pleasant thought.

But it was also a fragile one.

"We cannot choose his life for him, mijo."

"I know, so what can we do?"

The old man thought about what he should say next, but he couldn't come up with anything . This was the life he chose ever since, and he had forgotten what it's like to be a normal individual.

All that he could do was keep on doing the same thing, hide this other life from his grandson… and possibly show Francisco that it's not worth learning about.

"We give him something worth carrying forward, far from the life we chose. We teach him to question our principles, so that he lives his life becoming better than us. And when the time comes, we let him choose what sort of man he wants to be."

"And if he still chooses the path we took on?"

"...then I pray he has the strength to leave this life behind, because I cannot force him to do anything."

"I will not force him as well."

Neither man spoke after that.

Outside the manor, the rain continued to fall over the fields of Cavite. The Aguila estate slept beneath the storm, its walls sheltering a family that was doing its best to protect and prepare the next generation from the world outside.

In an upstairs bedroom, Francisco slept peacefully beside his mother, his wooden horse tucked beneath one arm.

The boy knew nothing of the Brotherhood. Nothing about the men whose names were hidden in old letters, or the principles that his father and grandfather lived by. He knew nothing of the distant capital, where decisions were made in the name of a king across the sea, or of the growing unease among men who had begun to ask what their country might become.

The only things he knew were that his mother would wake him in the morning, his father would carry him downstairs if he refused to get up, and his grandfather would probably find some way to make him upset again.

For now, that was enough.

For now, the world had not yet asked anything of Francisco Aguila.

But it would… in due time.

 

[LanceSennin]

Sequence 1: Herencia

Memory 2: The Things Children Notice​

Cavite, Philippines - 1871

Francisco Aguila had developed three habits by the time he was two years old.

The first was asking questions.

The second was refusing to accept answers that did not satisfy him.

The third was following his grandfather around.

The first two habits worried his father, because those were quirks that his son could bring with him until he grew up. The third worried everyone who had ever witnessed the old man's reactions to finding the boy somewhere he did not belong.

On one particular morning, Francisco was discovered sitting beneath the dining table, eating a piece of bread he had stolen from the kitchen.

The boy was very fortunate that his mother found him first.

"Francisco."

He poked his head out of the table to look up at his captor.

Doña Isabel Santiago stood at the end of the table, both hands resting on her waist. Her expression was stern, although the corners of her mouth betrayed her true feelings.

"Where did you get that?"

Francisco looked at the bread.

"Heer..."

"That is not an answer."

He took notice of his mother's demeanor and expression, before offering her a smile.

It was the sort of goofy smile he learned that could make the household forgive him for things that would have normally earned him a scolding.

The woman crouched and held out her hand.

"Come here."

Francisco shook his head.

"Come here, hijo."

He clutched the bread more tightly and shook his head again.

Doña Isabel sighed again.

"Very well. You may remain under the table. But I shall have to tell your father that his son has decided to become a thief."

Francisco stopped chewing.

"...thief?"

"Someone who takes what does not belong to him."

The boy looked at the bread again... and held it out to her. He still had no idea what his mother meant, but he didn't like the ominous tone that she just used. It gave off a scary feeling, and he'd prefer it if he never heard it again.

Isabel accepted the loaf, trying not to laugh.

"Thank you, Francisco."

Seeing his mother smile cleared his mind of any scary thoughts about her, and now he felt the need to be carried. He crawled out from beneath the table and reached for her hand, which Isabel quickly took as she lifted him into her arms.

"Remember this, my son. There is a difference between being hungry and believing that hunger gives you the right to take anything you please."

He leaned his head against her shoulder, satisfied that the matter had been settled. She smiled and leaned in to kiss his forehead, before rocking him gently.

"And if you are hungry, you may always ask. We have lots of food in our home, you need only ask."

Francisco nodded, while he began to wonder if it was really that easy.

That afternoon, the cook reported that somebody had stolen another piece of bread.

Thanks to a mother's intervention, nobody ever discovered the truth... not that it was anything serious.

---

Don Alejandro Aguila was a patient man, though not always in the ways that his son required.

He was patient with managing the estate's finances, unexpected visitors arriving from Manila, and long meetings with other people whenever he left home for important business. He could argue with someone without interrupting or instigating any physical altercation, because all he would do to dismantle it is give a better argument of his own.

With Francisco, however, his patience was frequently tested.

Just like his father's dilemma with the boy, Francisco wanted to accompany him everywhere.

Whenever he would inspect the fields, Francisco wanted to come. Whenever he visited the stables, his son would ask the same question. Whenever he sat down to read something, the boy would try to climb on his lap so he could read as well.

And whenever he said no, his son would demand to know why.

One afternoon though, he would finally relent and give the boy what he wanted.

They walked together along a narrow path separating two fields. The sun hung low above the trees, and the air smelled of grass and damp soil, a parting gift from the recent storm that finally left mere hours ago.

Francisco held his father's hand while his gaze was directed towards their feet, making sure to match the older man's pace and footsteps with his own. A worker would greet them as they passed, getting the boy's attention.

"Good afternoon, señor."

"Same to you."

While they walked away, Francisco looked up at his father curiously.

"Why señor...?"

"Because he was being respectful."

"You can just call me Father," Alejandro laughed. "In fact, I would prefer that."

"Why?"

"Because I am your father."

"Then... why he... señor?"

"Because I am not his father."

Francisco turned around briefly, where he noticed that the worker had already gone back to work. He wanted to ask the man if what his father said was true, but decided not to go with it. His father didn't look like he was joking, unlike his eccentric grandfather.

"What's señor?"

"That's what the people here use to call me and your grandfather. Someday, when you grow up, they're also going to use the same thing to call you. It means that we are the owners of this land, and the ones that the workers depend on for their livelihood."

"They... not family...?"

"There is nothing wrong if you decide to see the people around you as family. It's not a term that's limited by blood. It would say a lot about your character if you grew up to be accepting of our own workers, hijo."

"Do you...?"

"No, but not by choice. There are certain things that prevent me from extending the same courtesy to our workers. And besides, I already have all the family I'll need in you, your mother, and your grandfather."

"Only us?"

"I will be honest with you, Francisco. You may not understand it now, but there are reasons why I am not around most of the time. I have to work outside of our home and whenever I am here, my attention is on you. I don't have the time nor the obligation to give the same attention to anyone else."

Francisco tilted his head.

"Perhaps you will disagree with my actions in the future, but I want you to remember this. Being a father is a serious responsibility. It is different from being the head of a household. It is not all about telling their child what to do."

"Eh?"

"A father must care for his child. A father has to protect him, teach him, and help him grow. But he must also learn when to let his child make his own decisions. And that makes you different from the workers in our land. There will be a time where you will grow into the man you want to be, but everyone else will be the same. Everyone who works in our fields and home will continue to listen to me as the head of our family, but not you."

Alejandro crouched so that they were eye to eye.

"...the choices you make when you grow up will come from you and only you, hijo. My responsibility as your father is to prepare you for that."

Before Francisco could respond to any of that, the man lifted him into his arms and carried him the rest of the way back.

That night, after Francisco went off to bed, Alejandro sat alone at his desk for a long time.

He had gotten carried away while speaking with his son earlier, where he spoke about responsibility and choices. He was speaking with a child, for Christ's sake!

Still... they were words that the boy needed to hear and if need be, he'd gladly repeat everything he said to him in due time.

After all, he knew better than anyone that having authority over others meant responsibility, and if one had ignored that same principle, he would be no different than the oppressors who have lived on their soil for three centuries.

His mother taught him different things.

She taught him to recognize the smell of rain before it pours. She showed him how to distinguish the birds that nested near the house from those that flew over the fields. She taught him the names of the flowers growing along the walls and how to approach an animal without scaring it.

Isabel noticed that her son was a fast learner from the get-go, possessing a strange but useful ability to take notice of any peculiarity quicker than anyone else. Although he couldn't put his thoughts into coherent sentences as of now, he would point towards anything he deems out of the ordinary.

Anyway, she also taught him to listen.

Whenever he grew impatient about something, she would ask him to sit beside her and remain quiet for a little while, not allowed to speak.

At first, he didn't like it.

There's always something more interesting to do.

Somewhere to explore. Something to observe. Someone to bother.

But he couldn't do anything that's against his mother's wishes.

"Close your eyes," she told him one morning.

Francisco obeyed, but kept one eye half-open just in case something happens.

"What do you hear, my son?"

"Nothing..."

"Nothing?"

He shook his head.

After a while, his half-open eye finally closed as the sound of birds chirping in the distance filled his ears.

Then the clattering of dishes while they're being washed in the kitchen.

Then the distant voices of several workers who are hard at work.

"Birds," he said.

"You heard the birds? What else?"

"Kitchen..."

"And what else?"

"People."

"Anything more?"

Francisco lowered his head, putting his all into listening to everything that's around him. Not long ago, he just wanted to go somewhere else and do something interesting, but now he wanted to try and recognize everything that he could hear... like some kind of guessing game.

There was a horse neighing happily in its stable. Somewhere in the house, a door creaked open. The wind caused some leaves to rustle.

"There's... a horse... and... door...?"

"That's enough. You can open your eyes."

He did as he was told, and the first thing he saw was his mother smiling at him.

"Do you know why I made you do that?" she asked, brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead.

He shook his head dumbly.

"I wanted you to see what the world around you is always speaking to you. You don't always hear it because you are too busy speaking instead of listening."

Francisco pouted.

"I listen."

"Sometimes."

"I listen abuelo."

"Because he asks you questions and gets angry when you don't answer him."

He grumbled to himself, while the woman just brought him in for a hug and kissed the top of his head.

"Listen to people, my son. Even when they have nothing to offer you. You will see that it is easy to listen to someone when you want something from them. It is harder when you believe you already know what they will say."

Like with his father, the boy didn't understand what she was trying to tell him.

But he would always remember her voice.

And perhaps, in the future... he would be able to put her words to good use.

---

Don Rafael's lessons were his least favorite part of the day, if it was going to happen.

One day, the old man suddenly decided that Francisco should learn to walk before learning to run, just so his grandson could properly think about his actions before doing them, and to develop a new habit of asking for permission before entering rooms that were not his.

Francisco strongly objected to all three.

"You cannot just run everywhere, boy."

"Why not?" the boy frowned.

"Because you have to walk before you run."

"Walking is slow!"

"Exactly. When you are slow, you will be able to see everything coming your way instead of being caught off guard by something you didn't notice."

"I want to run!"

"And what if you hit your head somewhere? What if you trip? What if you bump into someone? Are you going to say the same thing, hijo? Will you tell someone else that you just wanted to run?"

Francisco thought about that last statement for longer than a few seconds, but he still kept up the angry look because he was upset.

"Remember this, Francisco. If you continue to rush headlong at everything that's before you, you will find yourself losing control of your own path. Do you know what will happen if you lose control? You get hurt. You don't want that to happen, do you?"

The boy stared at him defiantly for a few moments... before running away.

Don Rafael watched him disappear around the corner, before shaking his head.

"Sometimes I wonder if it's the boy's stubbornness that's the problem... or mine."

That was only one of many 'lessons', which was just as much of a hard time for the old man as it is for the young boy.

But despite their disagreements, Francisco adored him.

His grandfather possessed a seemingly endless supply of stories, most of them about his time as a younger man. Some concerned their family's history; others involved merchants, sailors, soldiers, and travelers who had crossed paths with him during his younger years.

There were a few stories that changed each time he told them; sometimes it was deliberate to test Francisco's memory, but there were also times where the old man would interpret things in a different way just so he could hear his grandson's perspective.

In the rarest of times, it would be both... like the time when his grandfather shared a story about a soldier that went away to fight in a war.

"It's different!"

The old man turned his head slowly.

"Different?"

"Why he run away?" the boy protested. "Thought he brave!"

"I did not say he was brave."

"You said it before! He fighting! Fighting war!"

"I only said he left to fight in a war, hijo. I never said he would fight anyone."

Francisco crossed his arms and frowned, grumbling in a not-so-silent way.

"Liar abuelo..."

Rafael put a hand against his chest, feigning disbelief.

"You wound me, Francisco."

"But you said he brave..."

"Very well. Let's say that he was brave."

That took off the displeased look on the child's face at the very least, but he still had questions that needed answering... questions that wouldn't have sprouted if only his grandfather didn't change his stories ever so often!

"Then why run?"

"Brave men can run away."

"Huh...?"

Francisco had never heard such a thing before.

'Brave' and 'run away' being said together felt so wrong, especially after being told of old legends and folklore where the hero defeats the villain and triumphs over evil. Up until now, he had never heard of an instance where a hero or soldier doesn't fight and instead, runs away.

"Tell me, hijo. If a man sees danger approaching and decides to leave before it reaches him, do you think he did the right thing?"

"No. He fight!"

"Do you think that's his only choice?"

Francisco nodded.

"What if the man has a family?" Rafael proposed. "What if he's like me, someone who has a son and a grandson? What if staying would mean his grandson loses his abuelo? What if running away allows him to come back another day when he is prepared? Do you still think he should fight?"

The boy blinked a few times while considering those new conditions in his mind.

He wanted to say that his grandfather was being unfair by saying all these things, but he couldn't shake the scenario off his mind now that he was imagining it.

"No..."

"Do you still think fighting is his only choice?"

"No..."

"Do you still think brave men can't run away?"

Francisco snapped out of his thoughtful expression as he stomped his foot angrily.

"Abuelo!"

The old man chuckled at the boy's reaction.

"Forgive me, hijo. But you will understand my amusement eventually," Don Rafael defended himself. "Before you changed your mind, you were thinking that there's only two kinds of people in the world. The brave ones who fight, and the cowardly ones who run away. If this was the case, it would be easier for everyone to show what kind of person they are. They only need to make one decision in their lives to show it."

Francisco's frown lingered on his face, his frustration turning into confusion once again.

"Unfortunately, my boy... the world isn't as easy as we want it to be."

He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"You will likely forget about this, but I want to say it now. Sometimes a man must stand and fight. Sometimes he must walk away. It's a difficult choice to make not because of whether he's afraid or not, but rather if that man is running to protect what matters or to simply protect his pride."

At this point, Francisco could only look away.

Once again, he barely understood anything from his grandfather... same as with his mother and father. Every now and then, the three of them would say a lot of things but end up being so confusing that it's hard to understand anything that they try to explain.

He did learn one thing from the discussion with his grandfather, and that it's not bad to run away.

For a boy who preferred to run instead of walking, this was a lesson worth keeping for the future.

---

There were other things that Francisco noticed as he grew.

His grandfather sometimes left the house after dark and returned before dawn.

His father occasionally received visitors who were not introduced to the rest of the household, including him.

And sometimes, while reading daily newspapers, both of them would be completely silent.

Francisco could not read the papers himself, but he recognized the difference between an ordinary day and one in which either his father or grandfather would remain at the dining table long after supper. Both of them would be quiet until everyone else is out of sight, including him.

How did he know?

He once tried to spy on them, but was immediately caught by his grandfather who gave him a thorough scolding.

Francisco also recognized the way his mother would glance toward the windows when unfamiliar horses passed along the road, as if she was keeping watch over something.

And he recognized that his grandfather's cane did not always tap three times before entering a room.

There were even a few times where the old man moved without it.

The young Francisco once followed him through the garden and saw him step over a fallen branch with such speed that seemed impossible for someone of his age. While it was surprising, it was also perhaps the coolest thing that the boy had seen up until that point.

"Abuelo!"

The old man turned around in an instant, as he saw his grandson standing not far away.

Francisco pointed at the branch, his eyes wide in awe.

"You jumped."

"Did I?"

"You... can't jump."

"And who told you that?"

"Because cane."

Don Rafael looked at the branch, then at his grandson. For a moment, a look of annoyance crossed his features but was quickly masked by indifference before it could be noticed by the boy.

"Hm. Perhaps I should start thinking about getting a new cane."

Francisco, eager to see it again, tried to imitate the older man. But upon getting close to the branch, a spike of fear filled him and caused him to back off. All of a sudden, he didn't feel like he wanted to do it anymore... until he noticed that his grandfather was watching what he would do.

Fearing the thought of disappointing him, Francisco shook off his growing fear and made a run for it instead of doing it up close.

While he was able to leap off the ground, he stumbled over the branch due to a lack of height, causing him to land on his hands and knees as a result.

The old man immediately crouched beside him, showing a look of concern.

"Are you hurt?"

Francisco shook his head, though his eyes had begun to water.

His grandfather offered him his hand.

"Then get up."

Fighting back the urge to cry, he accepted the gesture and got pulled up to his feet easily. He looked at his hands and brushed the dirt off them. Looking down, he didn't see any scratches on his knees, so that means he could try again!

"Try again, but don't do the same thing that you did earlier. You will only hurt yourself more."

With that, the boy's intention of doing it all over again was halted. His grandfather was right, and he didn't want to get hurt any further. He might end up crying for real, and he could only imagine the old man being disappointed

This time, Francisco looked at the branch carefully and thought about something for a few moments. He grabbed the branch and feinted a jump, only to test how high he could reach.

The height wasn't enough for a reasonable jump, and now things were starting to make sense for him.

His grandfather was bigger than him by like a mile, of course he wouldn't have a hard time jumping over a mere branch.

In the end, instead of jumping, Francisco brought his leg up and climbed over carefully.

Don Rafael smiled, pleased.

"Good. Remember what I said about rushing headlong at everything in your way? Compare your results now from what happened earlier when you tried to rush at it."

While the puzzle pieces clicked in Francisco's mind, his grandfather's gaze moved from him to the far end of the garden, where there's a narrow path leading away from the house and into the trees.

Someone stood there.

A man who didn't look familiar to the unsuspecting Francisco, but was dressed plainly enough to pass for a traveler. He arrived only now, without an prior announcement, and simply stood on this exact spot.

The old man met the stranger's eyes.

The stranger gave a small nod.

Don Rafael returned it.

Francisco would tug at his sleeve right after, demanding to be shown how to jump higher and more properly.

By the time the old man looked back at the spot by end of the garden, the stranger was already gone.

---

As the months flew by, more and more visitors came by the hacienda.

Some came to discuss inventory and trade. Others arrived from Manila with news of political debates, disputes within the Catholic Church, and the growing demands of educated Filipinos for greater representation and fairer treatment under Spanish rule.

Of course, Francisco understood none of it.

The only things he knew were that the visitors talked a lot and the discussions normally resulted in his father getting serious.

One evening, a guest spoke about reform as they all gathered in the receiving room.

"The government cannot continue to ignore the ilustrados of this country," the visitor said. "They are asking for representation, for equal treatment under the law, and for an end to the abuse towards all our brothers across the archipelago."

"And you believe the Spanish authorities will listen? Much less the governor-general?" asked Alejandro.

"They have to, eventually."

The old man sat by the window, silently looking out into the night sky while tapping his fingers on his cane.

The hacienda's guest turned towards him next.

"Do you disagree, Don Rafael?"

"I believe men in power listen only when they have reason to listen. And by now, they've become very skilled at explaining why they need not listen at all."

"Then what do you suggest? That we do nothing?"

"Do not put words in my mouth. I suggested no such thing."

"Forgive me, señor. It was not my intention. I am only worried for what might befall our homeland in the coming years. Now that the Suez Canal has been opened to the world, it will be easier for the Spaniards to strengthen their forces here."

"Then perhaps that is what you need to do first. Understanding the difference for what might and what will. Confusing the two can be dangerous."

"Your caution will not win us freedom, Don Rafael."

"Perhaps not. But acting out of worry will not accomplish anything either. I desire the freedom of our country no less than you, but marching into a lion's den without preparation is not a guaranteed victory."

While the adults debated heavily about the current state of events in their homeland, Francisco sat on the floor nearby, arranging small wooden blocks into a tower. He also had his wooden toy horse nearby, ready to crash into it. He paid little attention to the conversation, but his presence was still noticed by his father.

"Francisco," Alejandro called out gently, "why don't you take your toys and play upstairs instead?"

The boy turned to him.

"But why?"

"Because this talk is for adults only."

"But I'm playing."

"That is not the point, hijo. Children are not allowed here right now, so go upstairs with your toys."

Sighing, Francisco gathered his wooden toys and left, grumbling as he left the room.

He had no idea why he needed to leave, when he wasn't even listening and was only minding his own business. Neither his father nor grandfather would give him a proper explanation but again, it's not like he would understand anyway.

But as he left the room to head upstairs, Francisco heard his grandfather speak again.

"One day, the boy will have to decide what he wants to do. We should not make that decision for him before he is old enough to even understand the question."

Francisco froze.

He wanted to go back inside and ask what was going on and why he was being talked about, because there's no other 'boy' whom his grandfather would talk about other than him... at least that's what he thought.

But instead, the boy continued on upstairs into his room where his mother was already resting.

This wouldn't be the end of it, anyway.

He would have other opportunities to ask about all of this.

He had years to learn what his grandfather tried to teach him about bravery, what his father meant by responsibility, and what his mother meant when she told him to listen.

He would have the time needed to learn all of these things at his own pace.

Or so his family believed.

---

On the last evening of the year, the Aguila family gathered together for supper.

The windows were open to greet the evening breeze. A servant moved between the table and the kitchen, replenishing dishes while Don Alejandro told a story about a merchant who had tried to cheat him over a shipment of goods.

Isabel laughed at the ending.

Rafael simply shook his head.

"You should have known better than to trust a man who smiles before he tells you the price."

"That honestly describes half the merchants I've encountered in Manila."

"Then you have learned yet another useful thing about Manila, mijo."

Even Francisco giggled, despite not understanding the story. He just saw all three of them laughing and he felt compelled to do the same as them.

His mother reached for his hand beneath the table.

"Are you tired, my son?"

"N-No."

"You have been yawning for ten minutes."

"Not tired..."

Hearing that, the old man on the table leaned forward and flashed a more serious look.

"Then you should have no trouble answering a question, hijo."

"What question?"

"What do you think makes a man strong?"

Francisco glanced at his father, who just shrugged and wordlessly encouraged him to give an answer.

The boy thought about it carefully, before an idea struck his mind.

"Ah! Big arms."

Don Rafael nodded, as though he was considering that as a serious philosophical answer.

"That's good. What else?"

"Sword?"

"Very useful. Go on, hijo."

"Ah... horse?"

"For transportation, I can agree."

"...a-and gun! A gun too!"

Isabel gave her father-in-law a disapproving look.

The old man raised his hands innocently, while Alejandro laughed in amusement.

"I did not give him the answer. I'm as surprised as you are."

Francisco eagerly waited for the next question, but there wasn't any.

"Strength can help a man win in a fight, Francisco. You may end up using all of the things you said in a fight, but they will not help in telling you whether that fight is even worth having in the first place. Your tools will not be able to tell what you should do after a battle as well.

Francisco stared at him for a while, before his gaze wandered towards his food instead.

"I believe you have already lost your audience," Alejandro laughed.

"Very well. I will try again when he is older."

Isabel squeezed the boy's hand in a comforting manner.

"You don't have to listen to your grandfather, Francisco. There's no need for you to be strong all the time."

"I don't...?" he asked.

"No. Sometimes you need to be kind. Sometimes you'll need to be patient. And sometimes, you will need to admit that you're afraid."

Francisco frowned, his mind subconsciously thinking back to his grandfather's words months ago.

"Why afraid?"

"Because it's normal for a person to be afraid, my son. No one will ever judge you for being afraid. In fact, there would be a bigger problem if you didn't feel afraid."

"Is abuelo afraid too?"

"Of course."

Francisco stared at her in astonishment, before looking at his grandfather for any kind of confirmation.

Don Rafael considered denying it, but decided it's not worth the effort.

"Yes, I am afraid. I get afraid often, Francisco."

"Of what...?"

"Many things."

"But what...?"

The old man looked at the people gathered around the table.

At his son, whose hopes for their homeland had outgrown his own faith in their rulers through their combined efforts.

His daughter-in-law, who had given their family a kind of warmth that he had only experienced once before when his wife was alive.

And then the little boy staring at him, who was still innocent to the world outside of the hacienda and the dangers that were waiting for him.

"...of losing the people I love," he finished.

The room fell quiet, and nobody made a sound for about a minute.

Without hesitation, Francisco slid from his chair and closed the distance between him and his grandfather. He climbed onto the old man's knee and wrapped both arms around him.

"I'm here, abuelo."

The old man closed his eyes and returned the embrace,

For a moment, he held the child more tightly than he intended.

"Not yet, little one."

Francisco pulled back and tilted his head curiously.

"What that mean?"

His grandfather smiled and ruffled the boy's hair affectionately.

"It means you should finish your supper before your mother decides you have had enough."

Francisco smiled and nodded, going back to his chair and resuming his meal.

The adults resumed their conversation as well. Afterwards, the servants dealt with the dishes. Outside, the night settled over the estate, and there were distant sounds of celebration from the workers outside for the new year.

It was the last day of the year 1871, and none of them knew how precious this would become.

Alejandro would not always sit at the head of the table. Isabel would not always be there to guide her son away from danger. Rafael would not always have the strength to carry the boy, nor the luxury of pretending that the world's cruelty could be kept beyond their home.

As of now, nobody knew what the future had in store for them.

But on this night, Francisco fell asleep with the thought of his family always being together, no matter what.

For a little while longer, the Aguila family remained whole.