Sorry for the long wait, Uni is killing me.
Potential trigger warnings in the end notes, spoilers though!
Enjoy!
The world has lost some of its colour.
You only recognise change when you're confronted with the familiar, which simply doesn't fit anymore, like a pair of shoes you haven't worn in some time and only then realise it's your feet that have grown, not the shoes which have gotten smaller.
It hardly ever comes at a rapid pace, rather sneaking into your life so you don't notice it until it's too late, until you see it in the details, the smallest things you wouldn't even have been aware of before.
It's those insignificant details which have the largest impact on your life, the greatest significance in showing you what you've truly lost.
The past few months have been drenched in hazy shades of foggy greys, which not even the summer's radiant greens and the autumn's warm golden light could lift.
In these months, I have become a ghost.
Wandering the halls of Fort George without ever being present, barricading myself into another world I've created, a world which only exists in my head, breathing without living.
I'm haunting this place.
I see it in the faces of those I once knew, strangers to me now, quickly averting their eyes or hiding behind their forced smiles.
The days pass by without a trace of my former existence.
I don't mind the loneliness, this way I only have myself to answer to and myself to lie to.
On my first night Anette came to bathe me and broke down crying when she saw my true self, when there was no thick fabric left for me to hide in. I took her in my arms and told her not to come again, that this would be our secret. Now she's joined the sea of faces which prefer to look away rather than see the uncomfortable truth and some part of me is relieved, it's easier this way.
Sometimes a familiar face breaks the surface and smiles, waves, winks at me and I fight back the tears and nod back at them with a silent promise of avoiding them the next time.
Everything seems surreal, as if the world I once knew was only a mirror and my dagger shattered it into a thousand pieces, everything around me seems too big, the bed I lie in awake at night and the childish hopes and dreams I once had in it.
I try reconnecting myself through my journal, but my previous entries are nothing but meaningless ash, so I step over to the fireplace to burn it, but change my mind when I feel the soaring heat on my skin.
Those memories are precious.
I start a new entry instead.
Writing helps me heal, even if it's just silent talking.
Why is it, that putting words on paper always feels so liberating?, I scrawl across the blank page. Why does it make us feel better, as if the situation changes only by writing it down. It's just words, conveniently places patches of ink on pulverised rags of cotton and linen. I assume it's the idea that our thoughts won't be lost should we forget them or die. That, even if the paper is only a silent listener, we have someone to share our secrets with when no one breathing will lend us their ear. A shared mind, while still lonely.
A few entries, struggling with the words weaving their way through my brain like roots of a sickness, the frustration caused by my inability to express the whirlpool of thoughts seething inside of me, then I have nothing left to say and abandon it again.
Even in summer, I always light the fire at night. Not necessarily because it's cold or because I'm scared of the dark, but because I enjoy the symphony of the hissing flames, always joined by the sounds of the waves crashing against the shoreline. It grants my restless mind some peace and I often spend the nighttime hours with sitting on the windowsill and staring out into the dark until my eyes have adjusted to it, watch the small specks of light coming from passing carriages and wandering boats out on the water freckle the night like lost fireflies.
Haytham checks on me sometimes, but even his visits become rarer and rarer. He kept his promise and brought me a new cane, beautifully carved and evidently from expensive wood.
I give it to a beggar on the street.
When he asks me about it, I tell him I don't need it anymore, I can walk by myself again.
In an almost ceremonial act, my fingers trail over the rough wood of the one Val gave me, every inch of it familiar, it lend me its steadiness and lead me by its patient hand while I made my first, shaky steps and learned how to use my feet again.
Then I throw it into the flames with a silent oath that it wasn't all in vain.
Regaining my strength proves a more tedious task than I expected, it takes me weeks and three meals a day until I manage my first push-up and even longer until my stamina is restored to something even remotely close to what it once was.
More nights spent on the windowsill, the blank pages of the journal spread out before me like wings, matching the blankness within me.
Order, Purpose, Direction. I write enthusiastically. There must be a purpose and direction for me as well.
Like the one before the dungeon, my beliefs and driving forces. I'll just have to find them again.
But then again, I don't know what exactly I was fighting for then, let alone anymore. No one is even remotely willing to explain anything to me any longer, because ever since I told Angus everything I knew in his chamber, I am naturally considered as someone prone to blurting out the Order's secrets on the nearest occasion. Understandable now, and perhaps even before, as I was too young to be fully involved. But what were my motivations back then? Haytham, mostly. I did not care to think about the cause we're supposedly aiding or whatever reasons most of the others must tell themselves to justify their actions, neither did I much care about consequences as long as they didn't affect me or anyone I cared about. All I needed was my oblivious trust in Haytham and his actions. Violence was justified; harshness necessary, because he always had his reasons and explanations and even if he chose silence, I knew what he did had to be right.
So what's changed? What happened to my unyielding loyalty to him?
Maybe I'm the shattered mirror, not the world around me. And puzzling it all together comes with the risk of cutting myself.
The Order might not have officially expelled me, but I'm still an outcast. And yet, I stay, simply for the reason that I don't know what else to do. I have nowhere else to go, nothing else to believe in or support, no other reason to be.
A few shards of glass reassemble by themselves in a late September evening, when a hesitant, yet firm knock on my door yanks me out of my thoughts.
"Come in.", I call hesitantly, having no idea who it might be. Haytham? Or perhaps Anette changed her mind?
But my late visitor is no one I could've expected.
I feel a lump in my throat at the sight of him, standing in the door as if he's afraid to step over the threshold, awkwardly kneading the brim of a hat in his hands and looking at me with the eyes of a scolded dog.
His hair is longer and neatly combed back, his coat, waistcoat and breeches in an excellent condition, his stockings don't show a single speck of dirt and his shoes shine as if recently polished.
His face partly covered by a well-groomed moustache now.
So different to the cheeky stable boy with his dirt-encrusted boots and constant smell of sweat and horses.
And I'd still recognise him out of a thousand other people in the blink of an eye.
We stare at each other like strangers searching for anything familiar, some small feature to bring it all back.
He clears his throat.
"Sorry I didn't come earlier. I know I should've, but... I s'pose I was scared of what I might find and what I might not."
I nod mechanically, my eyes trailing him for signs of injuries, a limp maybe or if he's going easy on an arm or leg, but find nothing. If he's wounded, he knows how to hide them.
"Uh, I know it's late and I've just completely crashed in on you, but would you like to go for a walk? I mean, only if you want to, of course, we-"
"Yes. ", I interrupt him, finally having regained my ability to speak and grateful for an opportunity to at least close the physical distance between us. "Gladly. Lead the way."
Relieved, Gus offers me his arm and we stroll down the hallway and out of the door into the warm night.
"Walter Easton, by the way.", he says and unsuccessfully attempts a small curtsy while still walking. "My utmost pleasure to make your acquaintance."
A name which I'll need some time to adjust to. It's easier if I imagine Gus as a different person, forever banned to the sunlit grounds of the estate, red ribbon around his neck, than try to force this new, respectable and finely dressed name onto him.
I grin and shake his outstretched hand. "Julie Martin, pleasure's all mine, Mr Easton."
"Ah.".
He makes a face.
"What?"
"You see, Miss Martin, I fondly hoped your name to be something utterly ridiculous, so I could take the liberty of laughing at it all the way through the streets of New York and enjoy the look of embarrassment on your gentle countenance. So, if I dare, I would suggest to replace your boring, ordinary name with something as simply delightful as Amphillis Cloudesley in the future."
I burst out laughing and he joins in as the ice between us cracks and shifts.
"Sorry to disappoint you, Walter."
"Hey, that's not too bad. I once knew a fella by the name of Theophilus Humphrey, and though he was as decent as any man, you'd constantly have the urge to smack him."
We keep on fooling about until the tension has eased enough to drop all pretence.
"So, uh.", I start, a tad uncomfortable. "Heard you're with your family now?"
My straightforwardness doesn't seem to bother him at all.
"Yeah, I'm married. I would've told you in there, but..."
"No no, it's alright, I understand. I'm... very happy for you."
He sighs and gives me a sideways glance. "The question feels kind of wrong, but how're you doing ever since, y'know?"
"Never better."
"You almost convinced me there."
I shrug in response and change the topic to something more important. "How did you escape? Canterbury gave clear orders after he uncovered my allegiance."
Now it's his turn to shrug.
"Saw them coming, those guards are dumb as rocks, you hear them ten miles against the wind, so I sneaked away to check on you and... They dragged you right past my hiding spot, I really wanted to help but there was nothing..."
His voice now almost pleading. "You have to believe me, they were too many, at least five or six and... "
His eyes beg forgiveness he doesn't have to ask for.
"Stop.", I say, shaking my head. "You did nothing wrong, all of this was my fault and mine alone. I'm only here now because of you. If you didn't tell the Grand Master what happened I'd be dead."
He doesn't seem convinced.
After a deep breath, I continue, my voice trembling. "I thought my actions got you killed."
A flash of the smug grin that I've seen so many times. "Bad weeds grow tall, eh?"
I snort loudly. "Guess that applies to both of us now."
We walk in silence for a bit, then I open my mouth again, because he has to know. "It was Abney, Walter. She gave you up to them, I tried to deny it but they didn't believe me. I never intended for you to share my fate, or gain their favour by giving you up as well."
Walter stops dead on his tracks, but it's Gus' face who looks at me with eyes filled with indignation, faintly reminding me of the night we sneaked away from Abney because I hadn't been careful enough.
He puts his hands on my shoulders so I have no choice but to face him and firmly looks me the eye.
"Do not, not even for a single second, believe I'd ever blame you for anything that happened that night. And don't you dare blame yourself either."
If it wasn't so dark, I could have sworn that there were tears in his eyes.
He promises to come visit me as soon as he's in New York again and I smile and nod and act as if I believe him and wish him a safe journey back to his family in Philadelphia and wave until the night swallows him and I can sit on my windowsill again and bury my head in my pillow, knowing that I'll never see him again and those past hours of happiness is all I have left to hold on to.
Though I believe in neither prophets, nor old and blind women claiming to possess the gift of clairvoyance, there is something in human nature resembling an attenuated version of the clear feeling of imminent danger most animals seem to rely on. A nagging feeling in your stomach, as if something foul had been consumed and a sudden urge to run and avoid the situation at any cost.
Haytham sends for me on a cold and windy day by the end of October and even the dark clouds hanging low in the sky seem to foretell something grim coming and only further contribute to the clammy feeling in my chest.
Every inch of me wants to turn back as I ride out of the city and follow the vague instructions on my destination. My horse senses my uneasiness and responds with unusual skittishness, shying away from the smallest sounds with its ears flicking back and forth. I have to stop a few times and try to calm him, but my words and gestures are meaningless when the sound of my pounding heart seems so booming in the silence of the forest around us, only occasionally interrupted by the wind sweeping through the branches of the leafless trees or the cry of a distant animal.
The path we're following is so narrow and often intermitted that it's unlikely that this is a well-known or even man-made route, and I soon feel the painful awareness of my complete and utter seclusion from the safety of the crowded place of New York's streets. In moments like these, there's always a small voice whispering into my ear and slowly pressing the air out of my lungs.
No one will hear you scream.
I violently shake my head to rid myself of it, which naturally proves a wasted effort, it just grows louder.
No one will find you if you die here.
I read the instructions for what feels to be the hundredth time, also in vain. There is nothing in them indicating that I'm not on the right path.
What might Haytham want of me here in the middle of nowhere?
It takes me almost one and a half hours to find the ruin of the old castle described in the letter, a huge weight lifting off my heart when I spot the guardsman leaning against the moss-grown wall next to where the entrance once was.
"Down there.", he only says after I hand him my horse's reigns and cast him a questioning look.
A steep and derelict rock-hewn staircase leads down into a surprisingly well-maintained basement, with a long, almost constricting corridor leading further underground. After only a few steps I make out a sound which doesn't seem to belong to this ancient place, first muffled but clearer with every further step closer to its source.
Voices, at least two of them, raised in an argument, although seeming to put a lot of effort into not letting too much of their anger off the leash and tending to get more quiet towards the end of their sentences, as if restraining themselves once their first few heated words slipped their mouths.
I don't understand what they're saying, only a few louder words here and there before they fall back into their hissing whispers, which avail to nothing without the context of the whole conversation.
Haytham Kenway is one of those voices, his back straight as ever, hands clasped behind it and head raised to stare at the slightly taller man leaning in the shadows. The other one is Shay, though hardly visible in the poor light conditions familiar enough by now for me to be able to identify him.
I have no intention of spying or eavesdropping on them and make no effort to leave my arrival unannounced, loudly clearing my throat and greeting them with a simple "Gentlemen."
Something tells me they knew I was coming even before I opened my mouth because neither seem the least bit surprised.
"Julie.", Haytham says in a rather sober tone of voice. "You're here. Good. There's something I wish to show you."
Shay stays quiet, choosing to ignore me and frown at the ground beneath his feet instead, his arms folded in a seemingly defiant posture and his brows deeply furrowed as if contemplating how to best murder whoever upset him this much, my bet being on the Grand Master in propria persona, who's not paying him any heed at the moment.
"Did uh... Something happen?", I hesitantly ask, unsure how to deal with the situation, not ever having encountered anything similar, the air between the head of the Order and his most efficient agent never having been so highly charged with conflict in my presence before. In fact, I rarely ever saw them exchange any harsh words before.
"No.", Haytham answers flatly, yet not quite able to hide the annoyance in his tone. "Shay and I merely had a minor disagreement you needn't worry about."
Cormac snorts loudly, casts the older Templar a sideways glance unmistakably aiming at reminding him of his unchanged opinion on whatever matter they were discussing, then pushes himself off the wall and walks past me and leaves us without as much as looking at me.
Haytham stops me from asking with a wave of his hand and indicates me to follow him further into the underground system of loosely branched rooms and corridors, stretching far wider than the castle walls above our heads.
"How's your training proceeding?"
"Did you drag me all the way out here just to ask me that?"
"Of course not."
I shrug. "Good, I suppose. According to circumstances."
He nods, apparently content with my vague answer. "And your overall state?"
"What?"
"How would you describe your overall state?"
The whole conversation is highly unusual and I have no idea what he's aiming at, my face mirroring the confusion I feel.
"Fine... What on earth is this all about?"
Haytham takes his time to answer, maybe contemplating what best to say or simply not wishing to tell me too soon. It takes us a couple more minutes in silence until we reach the end of the tunnel, stopping in front of a solid wooden door which looks like it could even withstand a battering ram.
There he turns, gives me a long and stern look, reaches into his coat and produces a new set of finely crafted silver daggers, the magnificent hilts subtly ornamented and the steel slightly folded and shining like a surface of water when hit by sunlight.
"Tying up loose ends, Julie."
Speechless, I carefully take the weapons into my hands, admiring them from all sides and not quite ready to believe they're really mine now, surprisingly lightweight and yet sharp as a shark's tooth.
"These are beautiful.", I whisper awe-stricken, swirling them around and letting them dance in my hands so easily that it's as if the past year had never happened for a second, and I'm back again on the training grounds and the steel a part of me, like another pair of hands, blending with my own and deadly once released, piercing through the straw target like butter.
I gently attach them to my belt and then look up to Haytham again, who took a few steps back while I was admiring my present.
He nods solemnly and hands me the key to the door. There's something which irks me about the situation, the gift surely wasn't coincidental and this secret-mongering of his is highly suspicious as well. As if he orchestrated all this for a special purpose, to somehow test me? Why does he give me a new set of daggers right before I'm supposed to open a door in a far corner of an underground system of tunnels beneath an old ruin deep in the woods?
The only way to find out, however unpleasant the thought may be, is to open that door.
I turn the key in the lock and pull with all my strength, the heavy door only yielding to my efforts inch by inch, almost agonisingly slow.
My eyes take a few moments to adjust to the darkness but once I've fully grasped what it is I'm looking at I immediately turn around, meet Haytham's imperious gaze with my own and, with a self-possession and poise I wouldn't have thought I could muster say: "I want to do this alone."
His eyes narrow slightly and his lips tighten to a line, but he grants me my request with a short nod, leaning against the opposite wall and waiting.
Clear the ring for Julie Martin.
I close the door behind me.
The cell is just as dark and filthy, but bigger than mine was, and equipped with a simple straw paillasse and even a small bedpan, which judging by the overpowering stench in the small room hasn't been emptied in a while.
The worst part of it is its inhabitant, no other than Lord Alexander Canterbury himself, huddled on the mattress beneath a rag full of holes, with his limbs bent and bloody, his hair and beard matted and glued together by time, filth and excrement, grown out so long that they cover the few parts of his body which the dirt has not yet stained beyond recognition or the rags fail to hide.
But most alarming are his eyes, still black as a raven's wing and yet wild, glistening with sparks of a raging fire inside him.
In only a few months of time, he appears to have aged centuries.
The whole scene is completely stripped of colour, as if upon entering the room, the world is suddenly desaturated to shades of filthy browns and greys.
I don't dare step forward, even in, or perhaps especially in this state he still frightens me, the memory of our last encounter still vivid enough to make my back sting and twist and my skin crawl.
There's no clear evidence pointing out that he's even fully alive and present, but Haytham wouldn't have send me in if he wasn't. What would be the point of confronting me with a corpse, alive or dead? He must've kept him in this state, weakened and humiliated, but still strong enough for questioning.
"What a pleasant surprise, Miss Garceau. Though I suppose it's Miss Martin now."
Canterbury lifts one skeletal hand from the cot and makes a large gesture. "I'd offer you a seat but am afraid I haven't the means for it as of now. Surely, you've accustomed yourself to it by now."
I don't move, just stare back at him and fight the need to run away and hide somewhere in the woods where I don't have to see and think about this anymore and can lock myself in my mental fortress once and for all.
He seems to enjoy my discomfort, slightly shifting on his straw to make himself more comfortable, though even that slight movement seems to cause him a significant amount of pain, while still being able to glare at me with his feverish stare.
"Is it not remarkable how fast the tables can turn? Who would've thought we'd find ourselves in this situation a mere year ago? Alas, alea iacta est."
For some reason, there's no trace of remorse or contempt in his voice, its bitter undertone and the sneer on his face the only things proving his awareness of his fatal condition.
Canterbury has made peace with his fate and welcomes it with his head raised high, rather than convulsing
in fear, even with the sleeves of his sanity irrevocably dipped in madness. I can't help but admire him for his unyielding strength, wishing that I had been even half as courageous a few months ago.
Alea iacta est - the die is cast.
"How poetic. You never struck me as a fatalist."
Habit and the eerie preservation of his noble bearing still urge me to address him as 'Sir', but it would seem ridiculous in this situation. He holds no authority in this place, no matter if his behaviour points otherwise.
A few of his teeth are missing, his smile looks like a grotesque grimace under all the dirt and blood and pain.
"I believe that extreme situations like the one you and me find us in right now always teach us the most about ourselves, wouldn't you agree, Miss Martin?"
Even though I should have a million reasons to despise him, the only persistent thought I have is that this simply isn't right, it disgusts me to the core.
Almost nothing of the dark-haired, formidable Aristocrat I remember has survived imprisonment, even his once so deeply melodic and calm voice has turned into a hoarse, spiteful whisper.
And yet there is nothing satisfactory about this scene, no desire for revenge or further suffering, just my wish to get as far away from him as possible.
"I see my men left a lasting impression on you. " he muses, not allowing me to lose myself in my thoughts for too long.
"What do you mean?", I ask, suddenly very nervous, my pretentious facade of indifference collapsing. How much does he know? How much can he know? Did he talk to Angus before his imprisonment? Or Newt? Was he there at some point to check on their progress with me? No, that would've been foolish with the Templars on his tail, they must've sent him reports of some kind, but how would they know where to send it to?
"It has been almost a year, yet you still walk with caution and even though you're trying to hide it, slightly limp. Walking is like breathing, once we start actively thinking about and try to control it, it rarely ends up looking and feeling natural, wouldn't you agree?", he answers with a smile which makes his gaunt face look even more scary, a controlled, almost rational madness staring back at me from the depths of his black eyes. "Favouring your left leg and, evident by your slight slouching and the way you're leaning towards your left as well, the injury in your side isn't quite gone either."
I maintain a straight face, neither confirming, nor denying his deductions. After some seconds of silence in which I contemplate what to answer to him, I hesitantly say: "My wounds, however efficient they might have been, have healed."
He ignores that.
"Your situation isn't that different from mine now, just that your chains are metaphorical. One missed opportunity and everything is gone, and you don't even grasp a fragment of what it all was for."
I raise my head in defiance, trying to physically even out his rampant arrogance.
"Explain it to me then."
Canterbury's laugh quickly turns into a spasm of coughing, shaking his whole body for several minutes.
"How truly beautiful the naiveté of youth is. Do you not remember that I've told you already?"
After a while in which it becomes evident that I don't intend to answer, he does so himself.
"The Isu and their wondrous, terrifying legacy. A race we're so inferior to, that the very thought of them threatens to burst some peoples' pathetic mind-sets, so they run back into their churches and to a God who doesn't care, spend their lives trapped in the same mundane routine and wait for their deaths to eradicate every trace of their pointless existence. But at the same time, we have evidence that there were superior, God-like beings roaming this earth millennia ago, and that their objects of power still exist somewhere on this planet and what do we do? Nothing. We keep the populace dull and ignorant and our knowledge to ourselves under a veil of secrecy and a conspiracy of silence and continue to meddle with things which vanish in their irrelevance when compared to what we could achieve if we could only unite under the common goal of committing ourselves to the Precursors and their teachings. World peace, the end of hunger, diseases, corruption. Paradise on earth in our grasp, yet we don't lift a finger to claim it and rather bicker with politicians and other zealots."
"Like the Assassins? They seemed awfully convenient the last time we conversed.", I snort coolly.
"Ah yes, the Assassins. Much like us in their own way, yet fundamentally different. They strive for total freedom to achieve peace, a fairy-tale based on their childish trust in mankind, yet they seem oblivious to the fact that freedom is a mere affair of definition and that there are no definitive borders to it, as soon as someone decides your freedom stops where theirs begins, your freedom is suddenly finite and the concept reveals its flaws. Mankind is foolish, they do not call for freedom as they call for the security achieved by order. What would they do with a freedom they are not made to deal with? What does a cow care for freedom if she can live her life happily, with an overabundance of fodder, a warm place in her stable and a fence to keep her safe?"
I scoff loudly. "You contradict yourself. Mankind is stupid and are meant to be, but we should enlighten them with ancient knowledge?"
His voice remains as calm as ever.
"You hear my words, yet you do not listen. The knowledge and the artefacts aren't the final solution, they are the ladder to it, the trigger to the cogs of the process leading to a world the Bible would call Eden. A cure for the everlasting sickness of this planet, yet we refuse to use it."
"You are delusional and no better than those you deem so unworthy, chasing myths and telling your tales." I jeer at him, because I can think of nothing else to say. "The worst part is that not only do you genuinely believe your own mad ravings, but you expect others to follow your example."
It doesn't sound half as believable as I hoped it would, I have never been a good liar.
Canterbury's sardonic laughter pierces marrow and bone, his body coiling in pain, yet he doesn't stop.
"What a good puppet you are! I'm sure Haytham's proud on the other side of that door."
My despair increases by the second, there simply is nothing I can say to oppose him and his high, hoarse laughter is ringing in my ears.
"Once a puppet, always a puppet." he chants in an unfamiliar, croaking voice. "You're just a chess piece begging to be moved around the board, nothing but an expendable pawn. Probably why you played your role as a servant so well."
I swallow hard, not daring to look at him anymore; I have nothing to counter his stabs, my hands as empty as I feel.
"I know." I whisper, more to myself than him, and then I explode. "Do you really think I don't know that? After all of what I went through? Do you honestly believe I can ever return to my life as if nothing happened? That I don't think about that each and every bloody day of my aimless existence here?"
He immediately stops laughing.
"Hmm.", he nods a few times, a contemplating look on his face, suddenly serious again. "I suppose you do understand. Now that your rose-tinted world is crumbling you're beginning to see it differently, yet still have time to set it back together the way it really is. That's an advantage you have over most of your so blissfully ignorant colleagues. Use it, even if the catalyst for it might seem like a price so brutal you wish you hadn't paid it, you can count yourself lucky. It took me far longer than you to realise it all and my chances are long gone and I accept that. Yours are not."
I nod mechanically, giving up the last traces of a defiance I never possessed.
Why does he sound so much like Val?
I can't tell whether he's sneering or smiling anymore, my vision is blurry and my head spinning.
"Then this is it, Miss Martin. There are no great speeches left, no ancient wisdom to teach. Only one, if you allow me. Death never takes the wise man by surprise, he is always ready to go."
Canterbury seems content, he has delivered his message and knows that it will infest my mind for some time now, that it's impossible for me to simply forget this conversation ever happened.
He has accomplished what he intended to, ready for whatever horrors the Order might still have in mind for him before they finally allow him to die.
I take a deep breath and walk over to him, sitting down on the mattress and searching for doubt or fear in his eyes which I don't find.
"Who said that?" I ask and reach for my belt.
"Jean de la Fontaine, a wise man himself."
His smile is genuine when he reaches for my hand.
I close my eyes for a brief second, then draw the daggers' blade over his exposed throat.
The weapon makes it seem effortless, even easy, there's no great pressure or strength necessary, just the willpower and a steady hand.
I stay with him until the last drop of blood has left his body, then let go of his hand and shakingly close his eyes, the deep black ocean inside them trapped in his vacant stare.
I feel nothing, just the whirlpool of numbness which hasn't left me ever since my return to this life I no longer know, which I'm no longer a part of.
I just cut the man's throat who brought me all the suffering of the past months and yet doesn't even permit me to hate him, and I feel absolutely nothing, just the rising despair and confusion caused by my inexplicable lack of emotion and a growing headache.
Something about the peace on his face bothers me so much that I can no longer look at him, stand up and walk over to the door without turning back once.
Haytham hasn't moved, he's still leaning against the opposite wall and looking me over with his usual expression, careful not to betray any of his thoughts.
Did he intend for me to rid him of his adversary? Just another carefully planned move on the chess board?
"I hope you're satisfied now." I say and hand him back the daggers, which he takes after a moment.
"And you?" he asks in return, slightly raising his eyebrows.
I don't care to answer, just turn away from him and walk back until he's out of sight. Then I start running.
The guard outside is too surprised to react in time, I yank my horse's reigns from his hands and am already in the saddle before he realises my intention.
He calls after me as I urge the animal forward, away from the castle and into the forest, without any direction or destination, just the wish to get as much distance between me and Haytham as possible.
My mind is as if wiped blank, I can't grasp a single thought, the headache growing worse by the minute. Smaller branches graze my face as the horse finds its way through the forest, no longer relying on me giving directions.
The first thing I realise is my own surprise when we breach through a particularly dense portion of undergrowth and suddenly find ourselves on a stony and steep beach nestled in between some coastal cliffs, overlooking the rough and restless sea, stretching far out and merging with the low clouds in indistinguishable shades of stifling greys, all muted by the deafening sound of the high waves continuously crashing against the cliffs.
There's no way to follow the shoreline on land, the cliffs making it impossible to ride on and the way back seems just as insurmountable now.
A dead-end.
I let out a guffaw which scares the horse, it whinnies and tosses its head around, prancing on the spot as if it can't wait to leave again.
Gently patting its neck, I look out into the water.
"Isn't this quite ironic?" I ask the agitated animal. "This is quite literally the end of the trail. No passage left of right, no way back, only one way to go. We should be grateful, life very rarely leaves us with such clear instructions. Or maybe it's God, if you believe in such things."
The horse doesn't bother to answer so I dismount and carefully step from one stone to the other until I'm standing on the last one which the waves haven't reached yet, its surface still dry. One step further and my feet will meet the water.
I crouch down and wait for the next wave to reach me, carefully extending my arm and only lightly touching the surface with the palm of my hand.
"You shouldn't go in, it's awfully cold." I call back to my horse before realising that it's gone.
Bon voyage, I think and take off my shoes. I'm not sure why I do it, maybe because you're always taught to take them off before doing anything, entering the house or, in my case, the ocean on an overcast, rainy day.
The water truly is cold, I shiver as the next icy torrent washes over my feet.
Was the ocean in my dreams cold as well?
I don't remember.
For months I've felt like having fallen into a deep hole.
I see the bright sky above me, I know it's there but it's restricted by the walls of my earthly prison.
I also know that there is a way out, but however hard I try to climb it, the soil is muddy and my fingers only grip loose chunks of it, the hole growing and growing with my desperate attempts to escape it.
Maybe this is my way out.
My feet soon grow numb, which I deem fitting enough to take another step forward, small but sufficient enough to feel a sting in my ankles.
It's easy, really. After months of looking for the final solution for the inner desolation nagging at me I now realise that I already uncovered it half a year ago, when I was trapped in another loop of despair and couldn't find a way out.
Even the water doesn't bother me half as much as expected, tiny pebbles prick the soles of my feet and the waves seem to draw me in.
No more talk of apples.
I take another tiny step, ignoring the doubt building in the back of my mind.
If you can't find the exit to a situation, just leave the way you came in.
Seems reasonable enough, why shouldn't it work this time?
All of this being another hallucination is the only comfort I manage to cobble together for myself, the other explanation being that I've simply and fully gone mad.
My solution works both ways.
Maybe each of those dreams are like doorways to another dream I have to traverse, and in the end I'll either find whatever I'm looking for, or finally realise that there is no such thing as reality and I'll have to choose one of the chambers in between the doorways to exist in.
Or maybe I'll just wake up in the black sea again and have to re-live through all of what followed.
Maybe this time I'll stay with Val, or follow her advice and leave to some distant place where my secrets are only my own and I can pretend to be someone else than me.
Would be nice for a change.
Two steps now, gooseflesh covering my knees under the wet fabric of my riding breeches.
"Time to wake again, old friend." I say to the resting dragon, though I'm not sure if aloud. He must be there somewhere, only waiting for me to call for him so that I can hide behind him again and peacefully yield control over every last fibre of my being.
Once the water reaches my waist and I struggle to remain standing, I turn my face towards the bleak sky and yell: "Our anchor we'll weigh and our sails we will set!"
Nothing returns but a few alarmed seagulls screeching back at me.
The next wave is so strong that it knocks me off my feet and I'm suddenly underwater, being tossed around so violently that I forget where left and right is.
No, no, no.
Why is this so different?
This water here is alive, playing and dancing with me like a child.
Moving.
Nothing feels right, there's no darkness, no bonds and no hard chair pressing against my aching back.
Where did it all go?
I open my mouth and scream, water immediately flooding my lungs. Choking and panicking, I flail around with my arms and legs, crying out for the beast to save me, but receiving no answer.
Where are you?
One of my feet catches something solid, something other than the persistent water swirling me around and dragging me farther and farther out into its embrace and I hastily kick and scream even more and swallow even more of it but then I feel the ground again and this time it doesn't slip away from under my feet and my face breaks the surface.
Coughing and spitting uncontrollably, I try to breathe and remain balanced at the same time, having to stand on my toes to be able to hold head above the water. Another wave rolls in and pushes me forward and I use its momentum to take a step towards the shore. It seems desperately far away now, the water carried me a large distance in only a few seconds of time.
Step by step, I slowly work my way back, stopping every time I sense a wave coming and letting it pass while focusing on my stance. Soon my heels touch the ground again, which makes moving forward easier. Now, after it has dragged me out so far the waves seem to have changed their minds and push me back instead, until they first retreat to my chest and waist again, then to my knees.
Now it's the air which is freezing, each gust of wind painfully stinging on my skin.
I sit down in an area where the water reaches enough of me to protect me from the wind, but hasn't enough strength to pull me out again and listen to the pounding sound of my heart. The salt rendered my throat parched and sore and my eyes are burning, but none of it hurts as much as the pain in my chest.
This was it, my last solution, yet no solution at all. I did everything like before, but I didn't wake up because there will be no waking up. The pain tears me apart and I scream to get rid of it, I scream and scream all my anger and fear and shame out into the void of the restless sea before me. Nothing returns, only the rhythmical sound of the waves crashing against the shore. I break down crying. He's gone. The one I thought would never leave me. My constant and only companion in those months of darkness and pain. My fiercest friend and most feared enemy. It never came to my mind that he might vanish with the wounds, I always assumed he was just asleep, awakened by even the lightest taste of this liquid hell but he isn't there now. The beast has died with Aurelie Garceau and the sea I'm kneeling in isn't the black one I'm seeking. I'm more alone than ever before, even the fear and pain have deserted me.
It takes me a while accept it, but once I have, my own ridiculousness transforms my sobs into a humourless snicker and then I laugh hysterically
I laugh so hard and loud that it wouldn't surprise me if the guard back at the castle ruin heard me. Here I am, sitting amidst the icy floods of the Atlantic Ocean, overzealously keen on escaping a reality I refuse to accept rather than embracing it.
Wishing myself back to a sanctuary which has locked its gates on me and now drifting in between those two worlds without being able to decide in which direction to swim.
How wrong I was, the forest doesn't represent the way back to the Order, but every other way I can still take once I muster the courage for it. This isn't a decision between death and despair, but between death and everything else.
I've merely been back a few months, which I've spent locking myself away in self-pity and waiting for the answers to come to me out of their own accord, how could I possibly know that this is all there is and especially all there will be?
You're a fool, Julie Martin.
I stand up swiftly, turn around and walk back to the stony beach to find my missing horse.
As it turns out, it's Haytham who decides my fate in the end, as he has done so often before.
Two weeks after my meeting with Alexander Canterbury and three days after I've overcome the flu which had restrained me to my bed ever since, I meet him on one of Fort George's old battlements.
The events on that day had one good outcome, as soon as she saw my condition when I finally returned, half frozen to death and feverish, my old maid Anette rediscovered her motherly instincts and immediately tucked me into bed, taking care of me in the following days like she did back when we met, when I was nothing but a frightened little orphan in a foreign country and with little more on my ribs then I have now.
She apologises a few times, but I interrupt and urge her to stop every single time, telling her the same thing I told Gus, or Walter, some time ago, that there is nothing to forgive.
That seems to comfort her enough to talk to me again, and though I'm quieter than I was before, I greatly enjoy her presence and stories, praises and complaints, together with whatever New York has to offer as of late.
Some part of me realises that I'll soon have say goodbye to her.
"I'm sending you to London." Haytham says, eyes scanning the horizon as if awaiting an enemy attack.
It hardly comes as a surprise, the destination itself perhaps, though I suppose it makes sense that he's sending me to the place he has ties to, and maybe some sort of influence left.
"I see."
"No objections?"
"You're compromised and I have no purpose here."
"Care to elaborate that conclusion?"
I take a deep breath.
"The war is coming to an end and only then will the full amount of its aftermath be revealed. While England and France may have suffered some economic and financial losses, it was on this very soil here where their conflict was fought out, leaving us as the perhaps biggest loser of the war. In its weakened state, this land is easily influenced, an excellent time for you to strike and expand the Order's power, also because, with the Assassins gone, you will find little to no opposition from the outside, so your greatest obstacle will consists in silencing the doubt within our own ranks. Considering the recent mutiny, your support as Grand Master seems to be built on sand as of late, so you have to quickly rid yourself of the question marks, which is me, known as unstable and unfit for any missions, assigning me anything here would appear as picking favourites which you can't afford, but then I suppose Shay must go as well, he's still widely seen as the Assassin Traitor in the Order. Since most missions from now on will be of a more diplomatic and political rather than a military character, I suppose his loss is a sacrifice worth making. Have you told him yet?"
Haytham sighs and nods, massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger and slightly stretching his shoulders as if the whole world weighed them down.
"I'm certain he's delighted to yet again function as my babysitter. Was this why he was so mad at you the other day?"
As usual, he ignores my bitter tone.
"I still possess some influence within the British Rite, the new Grand Master there is more liberal-minded than some others, so you'll be well-provided with everything you need."
After about a minute, he hesitantly adds. "Shay has been secretly assigned to this mission for years, an ancient artefact of paramount importance has been stolen by the Assassins and has to be retrieved at all costs. I expect both of you to follow your orders."
Again with the mystical precursor objects.
He and Canterbury had a disagreement on them but on what account? Now that he's dead, I'll probably never know. I murdered my only opportunity of a different viewpoint, someone who has nothing left to lose than perhaps his version of the truth.
Though by now, he probably wouldn't be alive either way, having succumbed to Haytham's fading interest in him and his ramblings.
What difference does it make?
As we stand there in an uncomfortable silence, estranged like we haven't been ever since our first encounter, I wonder if this stubborn silence is his way of saying farewell to me.
I suddenly have a desperate need not to let that precious moment slip in vain and open my mouth just to prevent him from leaving too soon.
"What is it like? England, I mean."
Haytham slightly cocks his head to the right, the corners of his mouth curling into a faint smile.
"Beautiful and monstrous alike. A large beast fed and groomed by society. And London is its heart and jaws."
"Well that just boosts my enthusiasm to go there right away." I reply dryly, but manage a small smirk myself.
He turns his head to look at me directly, the smile hasn't fully vanished from his lips yet.
"You should look forward to it, however grim it might seem. While most people fail to even cross the borders of their own parch of land in their lifetimes, you have a grand adventure in prospect."
We stand there for a while, our pride and the distance between us not permitting any of our feelings to break the surface. Some part of me wants to thank him for everything he did for me, for his attempt of giving me a better life and purpose and the few precious happy years I spent under his guidance.
Some part wants to curse him for it.
"I want you to know that I'm not abandoning you.", he hesitantly says. "we have agents in London and Shay and I will stay in contact. You can trust him."
I swallow hard to rid myself of the knot in my throat. "I know."
"Good. I still have faith in you, Jules."
Tears fill my eyes and I quickly close my eyes to suppress them, biting down on my lip as hard as I can.
I can't answer, everything has been said and no words known to me could change anything any longer.
And yet I can't stop myself from watching him go.
He turns around halfway, looks at me with a strange expression, as if feeling the need to say something but not quite being able to find the words, sighs and gives me a short, affirmative nod.
I return the gesture, my throat slightly tightening and not yet allowing the small smile to fade.
Then he turns back around just as swiftly and disappears between the walls with the tricorne on his head and his cloak waving in the wind like his own, personal flag.
Potential Trigger Warnings: suicidal tendencies, severe depression
