A/N: Once again I apologize for the long hiatus! It took me longer to get the muse for this than I would have liked, but I'm slowly getting the ideas back, so I hope to be able to crank out more chapters faster. Though, I promise nothing for my muse likes to appear and then disappear whenever it pleases, as most muses do.
I sincerely hope you all enjoy this chapter despite it's lack of actually getting them closer to killing Washington. I really wanted to explore the fractured state of Haytham's mind, so I took the liberty of experimenting with that in this chapter. That being said, I hope that the next chapter will be somewhat longer than the rest. We'll see though!
As always, I do not own these characters and please read and review! Thank you!
CHAPTER SEVEN: these scars will bleed
He was seeing ghosts.
Ever since they'd bedded down for the night, still some ways from Washington's central of operations, they'd been blurring through his peripheral vision. Sometimes he saw Altair, a stoic presence to his right, and other times there was Ezio Auditore, a blade in the crowd to his left. Once, he even swore he saw his father in his twilight years, with the ocean spray on his face and the wind in his hair. Now, his eyes were closed, an arm slung haphazardly across them to keep them closed.
"Sir, here are the map- Sir! Are you alright?"
His eyes flew up and he picked himself off the floor in a hurry. He dusted off his garments, touching his nose with a wince. Dried blood crusted to his upper lip and he scowled at the feeling before realizing he wasn't sitting beside a fire, though standing in the middle of his room at the Restless Ghost and a very confused looking William Johnson was poised in the doorway. Pulling himself together, Haytham pulled a hopefully reassuring smile. "Perfectly alright, Johnson." Though his words were clipped and any sane man could tell he was definitely not 'perfectly alright'.
"You've got blood on your face, sir," replied Johnson, brow rising.
Haytham's mouth opened to explain exactly what happened, though he found himself unable. How could he possibly explain this when he himself was confused? Why was he here? Was he just hallucinating this entire place?
Or was the realm in which Ziio was alive just a figment of his imagination, a dream brought to life by the unceremonious way in which he fell unconscious?
"Sir?" Now Johnson just looked concerned, stepping further into the room, a crease between his brows. "What's wrong?"
Haytham sucked in a breath through his teeth, now able to feel the warmth of a fire against his clothes, though the hearth was not lit. His hands were shaking, he could feel them tremoring against his sides. "This isn't real," he said flatly, meeting eyes with Johnson, whose brow arched higher, if that was even possible. When the room he stood in didn't dissolve around him and give way to the forest he was quite sure he was sitting in, he felt his heart sinking. It couldn't have all been a dream.
Dreams didn't feel that real.
The Grand Master, feeling himself begin to slow unhinge, grabbed Johnson's shoulders. "This isn't real! Tell me this isn't real!" This wasn't like him, this distraught, panicked emotion coursing through his veins like fire. This was the opposite of what he was like, stoic, poised, always ready with a counter attack.
Johnson seemed taken aback by the other male's outburst, placing his hands on Haytham's wrists to pry the Grand Master's hands from him. "Sir, perhaps you ought to call in at Abner's," he suggested, speaking of the physician that had a shop nearby.
In response, Haytham growled through his teeth, turning on his heel and pacing back and forth. He could feel the flames' heat licking at his skin, though there was no fire. He could feel the garments of Ziio's people rustling about his feet, though he wore his Templar robes. He was so used to the weight of the eagle head atop his, that his tricorn felt odd and off balance perched there instead.
He felt more out of place here in this moment, than he ever had in Ziio's village. It was as though his body was stuck in one place, while his mind alternated between the two, fragmenting itself between the two. Though, he thought suddenly, pushing Johnson's concern from his mind, perhaps this is all the effect of the tea. He had been told it would drive him to insanity, and perhaps here he was, teetering on the edge of that cliff. One push could send him over.
He snatched his hat, threw it down and raked his hands through his hair angrily. Damn this situation to hell and back! He needed to get to Ziio and he couldn't do that when he was stuck in the Restless Ghost with poor, confused William Johnson.
He needed to calm himself down, allowing himself to come unhinged wasn't going to help anyone. He paused his pacing and took a deep breath, allowing his eyes to flutter closed at least for a moment while he collected himself. He breathed in slowly and let it out in the same manner before opening his eyes. He offered a thin smile in Johnson's direction, who was still staring at him as if the old grand master had lost his mind.
If Haytham had to hazard a guess, he'd predict that Johnson was closer to the truth than either of them knew. Or cared to admit.
"Johnson," he said calmly, "if you wouldn't mind..." He cast a look towards the door. Johnson bowed and muttered out a 'sir' before vacating.
He turned back to his room, surveying it. His journal lays open and forgotten on the desk, along with several old novels from London. Maps cover the left side of the desk, strewn across with little care, though he thought back to the episode before he passed out and wondered if they were such a mess because of that, or if he really had just left in such a hurry that he were content with leaving them in such disarray. Absently, he rolled them up, his fingers moving as though programed by an outside force, his thoughts a mile away.
Then he stopped, freezing mid-roll. The Apple. The Apple of Eden was at the center of all this, he was certain of that. Perhaps if he found it here, it could transport him back…. He crossed the room in three long strides, stepping through the door and out into a crowded street.
He tensed, turning to look behind him. His room was just as it had been when he stood in it, though the sight before him was not the hall in the inn, it was somewhere completely different. He shook his head, officially believing that he had lost his mind.
Even though he'd never studied a word in his life, Haytham knews the people around him are speaking Italian, and he knew what they were saying. The woman to his left, was calling a young child back to her side and a male across the street was advertising his fresh produce. Diagonally from him, an old man with wise eagle's eyes was sinking himself into a bench, waving away a worried red head, and a child with a much darker shade of the same hair.
Haytham's body felt youthful. He no longer felt the ache in his bones, nor the tiredness of his eyelids. Though he also felt a strong coil of distaste in the pit of his stomach. The city was foreign and he felt out of place, not only in that body but in that time. Despite this, he walked forward, joining the old man on the bench. Words bubbled up from his throat and they were out of his lips before he could clamp down on his tongue. "Il diavolo," and even though the Italian felt off on his tongue, he knew what he was saying. 'The devil'. "I hate this damn city. I wish I was in Rome." The 'r' rolled off his tongue and he held in a cringe at the strange feeling. "I hear the women there are ….hmm." The next part of Italian rolled off his tongue and his brain faltered, jumping back for a moment. He felt the flames for the briefiest moments, though the next he was back in the Italian city (he still wasn't sure which it was) and he didn't have a clue of what he'd just said. Though he continued, "Not like here. Firenze." The word was spat out, and instantly it all clicked. He was in Florence, Italy, and if he was thinking correctly, he was sitting next to one of the next greatest Assassins after Altair; Ezio Auditore.
The voice of the old Auditore sounded beside him, deep and timbre, "Don't think Firenze is your problem." The Assassin didn't look Haytham's way, instead looked out at the crowds in the market place. Though the Assassin's voice held a tinge of pain, coiled beneath the words and in his throat. Then Ezio's throat seized and he drew in a sharp intake of breath, an obviously struggle to breathe.
Haytham's hand shot out to catch the older male's before he could stop himself. "Coraggio, vecchio," he said and this time the words ("Courage, old man") didn't feel strange on his lips as they curl into a small smile. Something passed between the two of them then, when Ezio turned and looked into Haytham's youthful eyes. It seemed to Haytham as though he had lived the older's enter life with him, just by staring into his eyes. He could feel the life force in the old man's body slowly shutting down, admitting that it had lived a good life and that it no longer had the oil left the pump away.
A still veil of grief fell over Haytham as he gave a slow nod towards the other and a smile. Ezio's eyes flickered to focus on the woman and the girl and Haytham allowed his eyes to follow Ezio's, a feeling of serenity falling over him. It was as though he were feeling the old man's emotions. He was content, knowing that he had, had all the time he needed with the people he loved. Haytham wasn't a coward when it came to death, but he had never thought he would greet it like an old friend as Ezio had.
Now, he supposed he could, when it came for him.
Ezio's breath rattled in his chest and Haytham requested he get some rest as he pushed himself up, spotting a Templar cross-like mark sewn onto the right wrist of his clothing. He let his hand fall, patting Ezio's before getting up and walking a few paces, pausing to glance back at Ezio, who was smiling.
That was how Ezio Auditore died, with a contented smile on his face.
The girl (who had brown hair, Haytham realized upon closer inspection) raced across the courtyard, throwing herself up onto the bench beside Ezio, her little hands on his cheeks. The woman had dropped her basket, her steps more somber and slow. She lowered herself to her knees, one hand at her mouth, the other grabbing for Ezio's, desperate for the warmth it used to offer. She leaned her forehead against their jointed hands, her eyes firmly squeezed shut.
As Florence faded away around him, Haytham felt the presence of three words in his head. Liberty. Time. Love.
And he fully understood each one, how they were to be the foundations of his life, how they had been the pillars of Ezio's life.
Kahionhaténion had his hands on Haytham's shoulders when the elder came back to himself. He jolted into sitting position when he realized there was someone there, mere inches from his face. The Native, rocked back onto his heels, scrutinizing Haytham. "You were far away, Kenway," he said calmly, a smile stretching his features. "Welcome back." He pushed a mug into Haytham's hands, a clay mug, warm to the touch.
Haytham blinked as Kahionhaténion released him. He took a swig of the tea (it was not the tea of the willow, thank the lord) to wet his dry throat. "What happened?" he questioned, his voice scratchy in his throat. He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose against the headache building behind his eyes.
Kahionhaténion's hide covered shoulders bobbed with a shrug. "How can I know? I did not see what you saw, and I am quite certain you saw something. You were not yourself and more than once, you murmured something in a language I did not understand." His head tilted to the side in curiosity. "What did the tea show you?"
He recounted his tale to the best of his abilities, of how he had first appeared in his rooms at the Restless Ghost and then how he'd exited into the streets of Italy ("a city across the ocean" as Kahionhaténion described it) and met a man he'd only heard legends about in his dying moments. Kahionhaténion had pondered on that information for a few long moments before accepting it with a slow nod. He patted Haytham on the shoulder. "You should rest," he suggested, "when the sun rises, we kill the Mad King."
Praying his sleep would be dreamless, Haytham downed the rest of the tea and heaved himself up off the stump and crossed a few paces away, laying down in his furs and closing his eyes.
Sleep came easily despite the activity within Haytham's brain.
