A Beautiful Nightmare:
With a trench coat drenched in pouring rain and the roaring of thunder above his head, Haytham stood in the gusts of winds, turning left then right to shift his gaze at the crowds of frantic citizens. They ran to shelter, to find warmth, but unlike him, he sought someone, or rather his head.
Washington… George, you mad man….
The name repeated in his head like the rhythm of the violins that plucked a tune in a tavern; never to stick to the weary drunks, yet always following the minds of the vigilant. Boots stepped over puddles, gloves covered the now frigid fingers, and every hat of every head blew away in the gusts. A voice from the distance echoed back to Haytham's thoughts, and though eerie, he still replied in his mind.
Why do you insist to exist? What you wrought on your soil is nothing but turmoil and destruction.
And as the voice replied, Sacrifices must be made.
The voice to Haytham suggested no more than tyranny. Only a king would have such an ideology of his subjects, and if Washington were to become the "god among men", why must there be casualties?
But before the Templar could angrily screech back, the voice continued. Leadership does not demand perfection. Leadership demands the voice of the people to reach to that certain individual, that one man to arise from the masses and to lead the voices that so demanded he. There shall never be a period of peace, an era of happiness, nor a year of suffrage.
And as he turned while wandering around to find the voice, George appeared before the very vision of Haytham. He wore no commanding hat nor coat of authority, but a white lace gown with a pair of pants and sporting boots. His eyes were darkened with haste and intolerance, as if he had grown old in a second. His fingers were weak, feeble, defenseless, as was the soul Haytham reflected in the leader's eyes. His sighs were unbearable, almost comparable to the wale of a widow whom had reflected all the corners of life.
"Why you've such a deathly look upon yourself, George? Seems leadership never demanded a perfect complexion." Haytham haughtily paced around the dead looking man. "If you know a man has a burning hatred for something, why confront him? Hm..?"
George gave no reply but, rather, attempted to lay his bony hand on Haytham's shoulder. In a panicking manner, Haytham grabbed his arm, twisted it, and pushed him into the ground, onto a puddle of mud.
"Do you understand why I dislike you so much, George? I cannot tolerate your skills in leading other men. Your ideals are tainted with sweet words but the worst intentions! You have nearly lost every battle that you have led and RELIED on the help of others to do your work so the colonies may feel safe in a folly man such as yourself! Not to mention this sudden ideology Braddock drilled into your head, believing expansion into the wild shall mean the spread of an empire. You are not an empire, and nothing near it! The killing of these tribes, these perfectly human beings who try to succeed just as we do, must burn in an eternal fire of self-hate and selfishness. You are pieces of land, proclaiming to be united, when these states are not even informed on what you plan for them. What must you say of yourself before I snap your neck into pieces?"
George merely smiled. "Awaken, Master Kenway…"
Lee stood at the doorway of Haytham's quarters. "You were mumbling in your rest. What had distort you previously to do so?"
Haytham's eyes angrily opened, yet a sigh of relief arose him from under his blankets. He rubbed up and down his widow's peak, wiping off droplets of sweat to find even in his dreams he will never stop fighting.
"Nothing to concern you, Charles. Just… a really pleasant nightmare."
Charles raised an eyebrow at his direction, in reply to the odd pleasancy his master had given off to him. "Sir, that is quite the contradiction."
"Charles… Life is a contradiction."