Haytham Kenway

I think about her sometimes. More than sometimes… quite often, if I'm to be honest. I thought that by now I would have found a wife or started a family, but, alas, fortune has not been so kind. My occupation wouldn't allow for a family – at least, not a successful one.

So why, then, does she keep returning to my mind? That Mohawk woman – that beautiful Mohawk woman – from America? Gracious, the eyes she had – they seemed to see right into my soul, pierce me like some celestial being; I could not lie to her. Imagine if she had become my wife – what a thought indeed. If… if I ever were to take a wife, I must admit, I would take her. But, despite this, my ineffable ignorance of her… culture, as it were, binds me. I do not know how she would react to such a proposal. But hear me, speaking such nonsense of marriage to Mohawk women! I have far more important matters on my hands after the failure of the Precursor Site. I have returned to London, hard as it was, to share my bad news. Thankfully, it was received well by most (those whose reception mattered, anyway). We have agreed to continue our search with no less zeal.

Though, I wonder… the woman – Ziio – after that night in the cave, did she conceive? The thought has rarely cross my mind, admittedly (I haven't the time to think much, these days); it is difficult for me to fathom. I have my family, the Templar Order, but it is… strange to think that there may be a child of my flesh and blood out there somewhere. It is a shame I do not have anything left of Ziio, as she perhaps has of me. All I have is her memory, and the presence of it in my mind will give me hope still… or so I can only pray

It was getting terribly late – almost midnight, according to the grandfather clock in the corner of the room – but Haytham wasn't tired. His mind buzzed. A child! Could it be true? How great were the chances? He tried to call on his knowledge of the female anatomy, but realised he knew next to nothing about it, and abandoned the thought completely. He had left Boston, leaving his posse behind to continue their work concreting the Templars in the New World. He had left for London, another monumental trek across the Atlantic, with nothing but bad news and a heavy heart. Heavy for what? Was it his inability to access the vault, or was it the things he had to leave behind? Good, cooperative people who, perhaps, weren't beacons of moral purity, but were dedicated to the job and hard-working. A world so open to new ideas and thoughts, so susceptible to manipulation – no. Not manipulation. Haytham despised the word. Moulded. The New World was young enough to be the perfect material for moulding. So fresh and supple. And her. Ziio. He had to leave her in that unfortunate little place – he could have given her the life of a proper lady, had she returned with him. But he had never asked as much of her, and he knew she would never have accepted had he done so.

Haytham sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The candlelight was bad for his eyes, or so his doctor had told him, and his fatigue had quickly caught up with him. The slush of the London streets had risen to form frost across the windows; what dreadful weather. Haytham hated winter, especially in London. Picking himself up, he extinguished the candle on his desk and made towards the large four-poster standing in the middle of the room. My, it looked inviting. He removed his waistcoat and belt and boots, climbing in without bothering to change. He would do that later.

He had been running for a long time. It felt like years, though it couldn't have possibly been for more than a minute or two. His sides ached, every single muscle in his body straining, and his breath came short. He had been drawn by the screams and the shrieks – though there were many, they were all of the same voice, gruesome sounds superimposed upon each other. It was unnerving, and had drawn him running. The voice seemed vaguely familiar, though he couldn't place it. But for now, the thought of the voice had slipped form his mind. He needed to stop running before he fell. He had to stop, but he couldn't.

His lips parted and a name was torn from deep within him: he could feel himself say it, though he could not hear it, and therefore was unaware of what he had said. Who had he called?

Finally his legs gave out from under him and he staggered, by some miracle managing to stay upright. He looked down to find himself almost knee-deep in pure, white snow. To his left there were indents of many footprints, evidently those of children who had been running about sometime before. The depressions were being filled in with snow and were nearly invisible.

There was silence. The screaming had stopped, much to Haytham's relief, but his concern only increased. He was well aware of what was indicated by silence after such racket – despite his protesting body, he persevered forward towards the strange, high stakes before him.

It was a large fence – no, a wall. A wall surrounding some kind of small community; the place was utterly deserted. Suddenly, the air is split by a high, undulating wail. A child? Haytham could see no mother about – he couldn't see anybody, nor could he see any signs of recent activity. He traipsed through the snow, lifting his aching feet high so he didn't fall.

Again, he uttered something. This time he knew he had cursed, but he hadn't heard it. Before him lay a small child, no older than three, swaddled in deerskin and lying in the snow. The child was crying weakly, its strength drained. Haytham's heart froze in his chest.

Without much prior thought, the man reached down to take the child in his arms and hold it close against the incarnadine material of his waistcoat. Despite his state of undress, he wasn't cold at all.

"… Haytham?"

Haytham turned. It was the voice who had been screeching just before – when he caught sight of the speaker, his throat constricted and his muscles turned to stone. Ziio. Ziio! By God, it was her! But… she was bleeding. There was… there was lots of blood. She had left no tracks in the snow, only a trail of red. She had been shot – in the chest, too – her clothes soaked with blood from a gushing wound.

He made to reach for her, to touch her, to help her, but as soon as his fingers reached her falling form, there was only darkness.

Haytham woke covered in a cold sweat. He was not one to suffer night terrors, and certainly not about people he barely knew. He knew he oughtn't to have been frightened, but there was a certain degree of terror in him that even he could not explain. The image of mauled Ziio was stuck fast in his mind, and of the freezing infant. He slowly sank back down against the pillows, his head thumping painfully. He reached for the pitched beside his bed, his mouth suddenly parched. God knows how much longer he could take the thought of the damned woman. He didn't have time to be worried about people.