Chapter 26: The Widow
It was a standard sort of morning at Davenport Manor, and one that Kira was inexplicably growing tired of.
It used to be something she longed for: these rare moments of quiet in her otherwise turbulent life. Time to reflect and recuperate. Time to pretend that her existence even vaguely resembled something of normality. An hour or so of peace before she was propelled back into an all-too-familiar world of violence and death.
It seemed remarkably dull, all of a sudden. She wasn't sure what had changed. Perhaps the novelty of the illusion was finally wearing thin.
Kira idly pawed at her breakfast with a fork, distracted, as Achilles and Connor discussed their latest advances. They had covered, she believed, the subject of the ongoing renovations to the manor, and had now delved into the exciting field of Connor's training. Kira inwardly groaned, knowing she should probably pay attention, but entirely lacking the will to.
She looked over to Gabriel, who, in contrast, was trying desperately to appear invested in the conversation. She pitied him. It was quite a challenge: trying to fool a room full of people who had mastered the art of deception themselves. Not even a challenge, really. A lost cause, and one that Kira herself would have attempted, back when she was keen to prove herself an obedient recruit.
She smiled to herself. That ship had not only sailed; it had been boarded, looted, and sunk to the bottom of the ocean.
Gabriel might have the determination to see such an endeavour through, though. When Kira had sent him away, months before, to recover both mentally and physically from what Haytham had put him through, she hadn't entertained the possibility he would ever come back. It had come as a surprise when he did: something she was more than willing to give credit for.
All that she asked of him on his return (and it hadn't really felt right at the time- asking him anything in return for saving his life) was that he spoke nothing to the others of what had occurred in the warehouse. Kira's secrets, however dishonest, had proven invaluable, and neither Connor nor Achilles could have spared the boy the fate she had. That in itself she hoped would inspire some loyalty. It seemed to, at least; Gabriel hadn't betrayed her yet.
She sometimes wondered what he had learned from eavesdropping on Haytham's activities: what information the Grand Master had deemed so vital as to cost her apprentice his life. She didn't dare ask, though. For Gabriel's comfort, and perhaps- in some twisted way- for Haytham's sake too. Her eyes roamed over what visible scars the man had left upon the young boy.
It was a stark reminder, and one she found herself consistently- shamefully -needing.
Kira was suddenly aware of having become the centre of attention. She looked up, eyes wide.
"Well?" Achilles provoked.
She tried to think back to whether she had heard a question. She hadn't, but she made a show of considering it for a moment. "I am sorry," she admitted softly, "I must have missed what you said."
Achilles scowled. "I asked," he reiterated, exaggerating each syllable, "if you could speak to his wife."
"Whose wife?"
The scowl deepened impossibly. "Have you not heard a word of what's been said?"
Kira shrugged.
"It is one of our scouts," Connor stepped in, for his friend's sake, "Henry Beall. He was killed yesterday. We should inform his wife of what happened, she should know-"
"What did happen?" Kira cut in. She knew the man- not well, but they had spoken from time to time. His main point of contact had been Achilles, who now dropped his face into his hands: a way of containing his frustration. Kira gathered that what she now asked had already been discussed.
"He was captured- by the Templars," Gabriel spoke with a staged calm.
"We had tasked him with infiltrating William Johnson's home," Connor further explained. "For information- to see if the Templars have been making any further attempts on my people's land. He is not the only scout we sent…" his voice slowed fatefully, "but he is the only one who did not return."
Kira had stiffened. "I see. You are sure he is dead?"
Achilles answered- the melancholy of the conversation blunting his anger: "One or two of the others followed along once he had been captured, hoping to aid him. We are sure."
Each person around the table stilled mournfully at the words. For the varying amounts of time each had devoted to their profession, the impact of death remained- as ever- a substantial and terrible one.
Kira stood decisively. "The wife's address," she demanded, extending a hand to Achilles; she didn't trust herself to say any more. She was awash with emotions, and none she felt particularly keen to betray.
With a sigh, Achilles retrieved a journal from the centre of the table. He flicked through several pages before handing it open to her. An address was sprawled down with some other information. Kira committed it to memory, then returned the book with a brisk nod. "I'll deliver the news," she stated evenly. "Besides, I have other business in Boston."
She had no desire to expand on that; this was, after all, the first time she was hearing of an expedition to steal information from Johnson's home. She thought briefly of how she might have been able to spare Beall's loss had she been privy to such plans. Of how completely and utterly preventable his death had been.
Her anger drove her from the room without another word. She had made it to the front door- was on the verge of crossing into the welcome freedom of the bitter outdoors- when she felt a hand close around her arm. The grip was firm, but not unkind.
"Are you alright?"
She turned towards the sound of Connor's voice. He was looking at her imploringly, his hold on her already softening. There was a certain sincerity to his expression; he was the sort of person who could draw truth from you, for seeming simply to be someone who would take care of it.
"Of course," Kira lied through a half-smile. It would be too easy to indulge in honesty. It was an alluring path, and one she could not predict the destination of. She wouldn't take any chances by walking it.
She broke away from Connor then, refusing to languish in her own feelings of discontent when somewhere in Boston, a wife was waiting for a husband who could not return.
…
Kira pushed through the doors of the Green Dragon without reservation, the words of Beall's widow still fresh in her mind. To call them 'words' would have been a courtesy- a euphemism romanticising what they'd actually been: the desperate, broken wailings of a woman whose world had been overturned within the span of a brief conversation.
It had been a difficult few hours, and time that had only incensed Kira's fury. She had lost her temper the moment she left the manor, and her regard for consequences the moment she told Annabelle Beall of her husband's fate.
Death had a funny habit of trivialising your fears.
Kira stalked towards the bar, where she had spotted Haytham and Thomas amid a conversation; the rest of the group were seated sporadically nearby. She was glad to have stumbled on Haytham here- she hadn't fancied traversing the lengths of Boston in search of him, but would have done so if she had needed to. Fate, it seemed, was happy to smile on her in instances such as this.
There must have been a certain malice to her approach, for each Templar that laid eyes on her straightened instantly with alarm- which she supposed spoke something of their competence. Haytham was the last to see her, and though his expression was openly one of piqued interest, it was free of the concern shared by his companions.
Kira felt their eyes on her as she neared their leader. It was empowering: being deemed such a threat.
"We need to talk," she spat when she had finally closed the gap.
Haytham was anything but spurred by her tone. "That was quite an entrance," he smiled, eyeing her thoughtfully as he took a casual sip of his drink. "Trying your hand at intimidating me, are you?"
If he was waiting for her to be charmed by the words, he would be waiting a long time. She stared back at him, unmoved, until he saw the futility of his efforts. With a look of defeat and a beleaguered sigh, he finished his drink.
"Come with me," Kira commanded, already turning, and satisfied that he was in tow. She didn't grace the others with any show of recognition. None of them made any move to follow her, and that was all she needed to know. Stepping out into the barren courtyard behind the tavern, she had Haytham alone.
She wondered what she would have done with such an opportunity a year ago. Killed him? Died trying? She looked over him now. Probably the latter. He was distracted for a moment, unrolling his shirt sleeves; he hadn't brought his coat with him. She watched the tensed muscles of his arms as he moved. Definitely the latter.
She realised he was watching her, and straightened purposefully.
"If you are planning to make some attempt on my life," he began, practically reading her mind as he finished buttoning his cuffs, "then I shall have to disappoint you."
Kira forced herself to remember what she was doing- why she was here. "Have you killed anyone?" she asked briskly, a quiet venom to her voice. "Recently?"
Haytham frowned. "How recently?"
"Yesterday, specifically."
The man thought about it for a moment. "No. Ah, wait-" he thought about it some more. "Yes."
The nonchalance alone was enough to have Kira seething. She gritted her teeth- felt the sharp dig of her nails as she clenched her fists- and concentrated on keeping her cool. She was vaguely aware that the other Templars had moved to watch them from the windows. "Who?" she managed to ask.
Haytham rubbed the side of his neck pensively. "Some common thief," he answered. "The poor fool had decided to break into William's house, of all places. A rather costly mistake."
Kira glowered, bristling. "I'm going to ask you one more time," she spoke, a little too levelly to be natural, "and this time I want you to think." She took a step closer. "Who was he?"
The Templar couldn't grasp what she was suggesting- not at first. Then he did, and his disposition changed. "Ah," he said, and there was unease for the first time. "He was one of yours, was he?"
Kira nodded gravely, beckoning silence.
It was almost nostalgic: the type of silence that used to fall between them before their historic exchanges would take a turn for the worse. The quiet before a war neither wanted to engage in, and yet somehow found themselves volunteering for anyway. Neither one of them had missed it.
Kira was the first to cave; she wanted answers. "His death- was it quick?"
"Yes."
"Don't you dare lie to me."
Haytham narrowed his eyes. "No, not particularly," he admitted, "what did you expect? We wanted information and gave him an incentive to provide it. Rest assured, however, he never spoke a word of-"
"Rest assured?" Kira snarled. "You mean to say he did not betray us when you tortured him? Before you murdered him in cold blood? You are right, Mr Kenway," her tone was almost lethal, "that is a tremendous comfort."
It was a difficult passion to match. Haytham glanced away from her. "I am sorry."
"You are not," the woman asserted, reclaiming his attention. She wanted it desperately. Wanted him to be confronted by every single word she uttered against him; she wanted it to hurt. "The man is dead. Gone. Everything he was- everything he could have been- you took that away from him. It is the one thing that cannot be undone."
Haytham turned on her, acting on an impulsive need to defend himself. "And what about you? How many men have you killed?"
Kira stilled, the words striking a delicate chord by design. It would have been foolish not to anticipate this: the Templar understood her- it was a talent he had a habit of exploiting. "Too many."
"And are you going to try to convince me that every one was justified? That each was in the service of some alleged greater good?"
"No."
"Exactly," Haytham smiled with vicious triumph. "We are the same."
And that was true, in one respect at least: Kira had a talent for understanding him too. "Fine," she sneered, "you want me to confess my failings? I can." She took another daring step towards him. "I have made mistakes- more than I could possibly count. I have taken lives for reasons not even disputably fair, and do you know what? It terrifies me." She paused to take a shallow breath; honesty was an unfamiliar weapon. "I know it is wrong and I want to do better. I am trying to do better, at least."
Haytham scoffed. "I see. And what of me, then? You think I see no fault in what I do- that I kill out of some incessant need to be cruel?"
"No," Kira returned pointedly, "not cruelty- pragmatism. I don't think you care for whether something is right or wrong- only effective." She was close to him now, and her voice dropped as a consequence. "Everything," she growled, "is a means to an end with you."
For how softly it was issued, the accusation bore a remarkably sharp edge. Haytham did not attempt to disguise the injury it had caused. He stood, still stubborn, still steadfastly unshaken, but suddenly without a defence. There was nothing, he realised- no rebuttal he could offer ingenuously.
It was a rare occurrence, and one that wasn't half as satisfying as Kira hoped it would be. She had won. She shouldn't have to say anything more, and yet-
"I feel sorry for you," she was speaking, all at once, words that had not been vetted or prepared, "because I think it terrifies you, too. I do not know you, or what suffering and loss you have borne to be standing here- but I am sure it has been sizeable. And I am sorry for all of it. Sorry that you have had to face it alone, but that-"
"I am not alone."
"You are," she hissed, surprising herself with her bluntness. Even Haytham had tensed at the assertion- something she would have missed if she wasn't so frustratingly close to him. She resisted the urge to step back and distance herself from whatever wounds she was inflicting. "But you cannot use what you have endured as an excuse to hurt people. It cannot justify it. It just…" she sighed, crestfallen. "It just doesn't."
Haytham nodded slowly, stung by the sentiment, though hardly a stranger to it. He glanced at the ground and was spared briefly by the cold passiveness of it. He thought about what Kira had said, and the way she was looking at him.
He thought a lot about how close she was.
"The man I killed…" he tested aloud, tentatively meeting her gaze, "did you know him well?" There was something Kira wasn't saying; he wanted desperately to know what it was.
"No," she answered.
He frowned. "So what is the matter?"
Kira blinked back at him disbelievingly. On the surface, it was a foolish question. She could understand what he was truly asking for, however: a glimpse into what she was really thinking.
She inwardly shrugged. Fine.
A moment later and she had sealed the distance between them.
She pressed the sharp edge of a dagger into the soft column of Haytham's throat.
He froze, though not with the instinctive compliance that came from wanting to survive. Kira could sense it; she'd held enough people at knifepoint to know the exhilarating sense of power that came with it, and that feeling was infuriatingly absent now. Haytham studied her expression unflinchingly. His composure held when even behind them, the air cracked with the sound of wood striking wall.
"Sir!" rung Charles' voice. He had come crashing through the tavern's rear door.
The urgency was smothered. "Go back inside," Haytham ordered.
"But sir-"
"Inside," the command was reiterated. Haytham turned finally- careful as the flesh of his neck tautened against the offending blade- and silenced his friend with a warning glance. "Now."
There was a moment of hesitation before Charles withdrew. Kira listened to the sullen retreat of his footsteps and the harsh ensuing creak of the closing door. The sound was almost reluctant: an intrusion on the relative stillness of its surroundings. Haytham twisted his gaze back- it was difficult not to wilt under it.
"I should kill you," Kira said simply, and somehow without menace. Her blade dug further; it was with tremendous diligence that it was kept from drawing blood. "I should kill you," she repeated, "and God knows you have given me every reason and opportunity to."
Haytham didn't dare move.
"It is my duty to protect people," the woman continued, voice starting to shake. "My purpose- the one thing I can do to make this godforsaken life of mine worth anything at all. I should stop you. I can stop you." The hardness of her expression melted into bewilderment. "And I don't."
Against Haytham's throat, the bite of the dagger faltered. Then it was back, with resolute firmness.
Kira glared. "You killed someone. And if his blood is on your hands, it is on mine too."
It was a confession, and one she had never intended to make. The air seemed to thicken. There was suddenly no more to say, and she was a person accustomed to the ache of the unsaid. She swallowed a dry, creeping feeling of vulnerability; honesty had proved a double-edged sword.
Haytham was deathly still, and to her mounting frustration, completely unreadable. She searched his eyes for some remote betrayal of his mind- a thought, a feeling- anything that might slip through the cracks of the inscrutable mask he now wore. It took her a few, long moments to realise no such breach could be found.
There was nothing, save for silence and the excruciating company of guilt.
She felt the cool touch of fingers against her hand and almost jumped at the sensation. Haytham had closed his hands around her grip on the dagger, and she watched as softly- almost reverently- he slipped it from her grasp.
"Kira," he spoke, tentatively: an invitation to stop him, but she didn't want to.
Her name sounded foreign spilling from his lips.
Dropping her hand, she relinquished what little power the weapon had afforded her. Even when Haytham lowered and pressed it back into her palm, she had to stifle a feeling of helplessness. She studied the way his fingers covered hers as he curled them around the hilt. The touch was warm, but his hands were cold.
"I am sorry," he insisted quietly, tearing her gaze from the movement. "Truly."
Kira drew in a harsh breath as she despondently searched his face once more. "I don't believe you," she said.
And for a sparse few seconds, something flickered in his expression. A glint of regret. He was not a person to be trusted, and his belief of that- she realised- could rival her own.
She came to her senses and took an overdue step back from him. They had both spent a lifetime deceiving people, and there was no reason to lament the fact; it had served them well up until now. She raised the dagger half-heartedly towards him as a threat, driving back her urge to sympathise.
"I don't want to kill you, Haytham." There was a sudden strength to her voice. "But I will."
Sheathing her weapon in an abrupt movement, she turned to stalk away. There was a fleeting moment of hesitation- a feeling that she should turn back- and then she was gone.
…
It had been a while since Haytham had been left speechless in the wake of one of Kira's outbursts, and feeling like a stone weathered by the relentless onslaught of the tide. As he came to terms with the fact that he was capable of more than simply standing in uncertain silence, he was struck by how familiar everything seemed.
It was a custom he and the Assassin had fashioned for themselves: they fought, they threatened each other, and she would leave. Next came the part he now found himself in- the part where he lets her and spends an inordinate amount of time wishing he hadn't.
Cursing beneath his breath, he made hurriedly towards the door of the Green Dragon.
He bustled inside and was at once set upon by his companions- each of whom had a considerate amount to say about what they had witnessed through the window. Dissuading their complaints with odd words of reassurance, he reached his chair and snatched up his coat, pulling it on with haste. He was back outside a few seconds later.
It didn't take him long to catch up with Kira; she was in no apparent hurry to be anywhere. He followed her at a distance, making no attempt to conceal himself, nor effort to make his presence known. Eventually, having walked a few sparsely-populated side streets, he watched her arrive at the foot of the Old State House. With a quick glance about herself, she scaled it out of his sight.
Reaching and standing where she had stood a minute or so prior, Haytham looked up to where she had disappeared. He inspected the ledges and sills she had utilised, assessing his own potential ascent whilst pausing to steady his breath. He had to remind himself that this is what he wanted: to change the way these disputes of theirs' ended.
He began to climb. He had more to say, and for once, he was going to say it.
…
Kira could see across a whole length of the city from where she was perched.
Sat high upon the slanted roof of the Old State House, she was concealed from whoever strayed the sprawling streets below. She hugged her knees as her eyes roamed the silhouettes of faraway buildings, from innumerable red-brick houses to the towering spire of the Old South Meeting House. The distance in-between was bathed in the orange light of the setting sun, and she flexed her fingers beneath the warm prickle of it; it did little to stave off the winter cold.
She liked to come up here when she needed to think. It was a view only afforded by the skills of her profession.
A muffled sound of movement came from behind her, and she released a sigh. It was regrettably a view afforded by the skills of her enemy, too.
"Watch your step," she muttered over her shoulder, before turning back towards the distant skyline. "On second thought? Don't. A lot of my problems would die with you."
Haytham smiled as he made his way over to her. The roof was treacherous: slippery with damp evening air, and mindfully, he lowered himself to sit at the woman's side.
"Why are you here?" she questioned under a breath as he did.
He took a moment to appreciate the view as he settled. "Because you seemed unhappy," he answered plainly. "And forgive me, but for all the threats of violence, I did not think you wanted to be alone."
She nodded vacantly at the assessment. "I see. And you thought your hounding me would make me feel somehow better?"
He shrugged. "Whilst I am here hounding you, I am not out murdering innocents."
The corners of Kira's lips lifted into a joyless smile: a courtesy- and a sign that she appreciated the man's efforts to cheer her, if nothing else.
Unsatisfied with the response, Haytham edged a little closer. "Are you alright?" he asked, eyes narrowed as he sought some visual indication of the answer; he always did seem to want something more from her.
Kira had tensed, the question accentuating the numb feeling in her chest. She was, wasn't she? She thought about the suffering she witnessed on an almost daily basis- of all the people she had tried to help throughout her years, and of the inevitable few she had failed. She thought about Henry Beall, lying dead- his throat cut- in a ditch somewhere. She thought about Annabelle, lying awake, grief-stricken and alone in her bed.
She began to nod again, ready to recite the usual spiel, when the words dried into a dull ache in her throat. "I had to talk to his wife," she volunteered as a contrite explanation of sorts. "Henry's- the man you killed. I had to tell her what happened."
Haytham stiffened next to her, almost imperceptibly, and Kira wondered if she had struck a nerve: if he was dwelling on any of his own, similar experiences. "She was distraught," she continued. "Hysterical, even. She kept wailing about how much she loved him- about how desperately she wanted him back. She begged me to take her to him- told me I must have made a mistake. I tried to console her, but what could I do?"
The Assassin stared ahead of herself, eyes glazed as she relived the memory, whilst Haytham listened patiently. She hugged herself tighter.
"I said that Henry loved her- that he had died trying to make things better for her. It was the truth, at least, but she didn't care. Why should she?" Resentment had begun to seep into her tone. "The man is dead," she huffed. "Little good his valour serves either of them now."
It was the sort of thing one would expect to hear from Haytham. Kira knew it, and as the man beside her frowned anxiously, she suspected he knew it too. She had spent her life refusing to vindicate any part of his cynicism, but for all the day's events, it was surprisingly easy to slip into.
"I tried to comfort her," she spoke again, "and she told me that I did not understand. Screamed at me- insisted I could never know the pain of what I'd put her through. She was wrong, of course. I think that was the worst part- I remember exactly how it feels."
There was a sliver of silence as the Assassin finally met the Templar's gaze. "You do too, don't you?"
He hesitated. Offered a soft nod and a weak half-smile.
Kira returned the gesture before looking back upon the view. In the distance, she could make out a guard pacing the top of another building, and she tracked his movements as she thought about Haytham, and the irony of their respective positions:
For all of their differences- from their occupations to the vast contrast of their very ideals- they were the same, here, on this rooftop. Two people with nothing but a handful of lost loved ones and a superior view of the city.
"If I had known," Haytham ventured, stirring her from her quaint reflections, "that the man was working for you- if he had said something, anything to suggest that-"
"I know."
"I would have spared-"
"I know," she repeated. She didn't need convincing.
Haytham sighed. "What was he doing in William's house?"
Kira was watching the faraway harbour, where birds circled about the soaring masts of ships- dotting the pink and orange sky. "Looking for information," she said. "To see if you had taken any further steps into acquiring the natives' land."
Haytham's exasperation deepened. "But I have told you already that we possess the funds to-"
"I know," Kira interrupted with a dry chuckle, feeling rather like an echo of herself. The man's line of thought was the same one she had been wrestling with all day. "Achilles did not see fit to tell me of his plans."
"He does not trust you?" a tilt of Haytham's head inquired.
"No."
It was a firm but untroubled confirmation: an acceptance, even. Kira relaxed, dropping her hands and releasing her knees from where they'd been cradled against her chest. She took a few deep breaths of cold air as she stretched her legs, before regarding Haytham with a sideways glance. "Can you blame him? Look at us. We are supposed to be at each other's throats."
The Templar smiled. "You were at my throat- quite literally, with a dagger- less than an hour ago."
Kira chuckled as she thought back on the incident. "True. Still-" she paused as she twisted to face him properly- "I am sorry for that. And for all that I said, too."
Haytham looked back at her incredulously. "Do not be," he dismissed. "You were right. I am not…" he glanced at his hands as he sought to find the words he needed, and it took him a second longer to meet her eyes again. "It is easy to forget that I am not who I set out to be."
There was another pause. "Are any of us?" Kira asked distantly.
"No," Haytham breathed, "I suppose not."
They pondered this for a short while, silently enjoying each other's company in a manner both had recently come to appreciate. It was different from the awful anticipation that lurched in moments of quiet within their feuds. It was peaceful. Comfortable- though not without its own kind of tension.
"Look…" Haytham started, with an awkward sort of sincerity, "I will not lie to you and insist I feel any remorse for killing that man yesterday. He was a stranger to me, and killing him? Practical- like you said. Easy. Too easy, though that is not something I have ever particularly lamented. What I do regret, however, is that you… well, that I-"
He sighed, words once again failing him. He rarely spoke from his heart, and he was hopelessly out of practice.
"I resent," he said at last, "any hurt my actions might have caused you."
Kira's efforts to remain neutral crumbled as a frown creased the lines of her face. She voiced her trepidation: "You owe me nothing, Mr Kenway."
Haytham smiled as though he were in on a joke only he could understand. "I owe you much," he replied, looking to his hands once more in reflection. "For the kindness you have shown me- that which I am wholly unworthy of."
"Mr Kenway, I-"
"Please call me Haytham," he insisted, with a quiet sort of desperation. He met her gaze, amused by the look of contempt he found waiting there. "We have both of us tried to kill each other- we are surely beyond the need for such formalities. Besides," he added with a slight smirk, "no one says it quite as nicely as you do."
Kira hesitated before leaning into the change of pace. "Even when I am threatening you?"
The smirk widened. "Especially when you are threatening me."
On the street beneath them, the flow of wandering citizens had thinned, and Kira decided it was getting late. "You forget your place, Haytham," she scolded, though the teasing lilt of her voice suggested the trespass was not entirely unwelcome.
Haytham chuckled gently, in no position to defend himself against the charge. He watched as Kira adjusted her footing- testing the slide of the rooftop- before raising herself carefully and wobbling as she straightened. "I must return to Achilles," she announced as she found her balance.
"Of course," he nodded. "Far be it for me to keep you from those senseless little duties of yours."
Kira issued a faint noise of disgust, offset by a smile as she moved to peer over the edge of the building. The street was practically bare, and it was as good a time as any to make her descent. She regarded Haytham from over her shoulder, then followed his gaze to where Boston lay spread before them.
"Beautiful view," the Templar mused from behind her.
She hummed in mutual contentment, savouring it for a few precious seconds. "It is my view, Kenway," she said, turning to the man with a smile. "Don't get too attached."
With that, she dropped over the edge of the roof and out of his sight- an exit he was more than willing to permit this time. Free of her presence, he turned the collar of his coat up against the cold before crossing his arms- tactfully tucking his numb hands into his sleeves. He thought about the warmth of the inn or his home and decided he was happier here- for a short while, at least. For as long as he could last.
He looked between the now-empty place beside him and the view once more. Don't get too attached, she'd said, and she was probably right.
He smiled to himself, appreciating a private irony.
It was far easier said than done.
Happy New Year! Ahhh my gosh hi everybody, sorry for the long wait on this chapter- am in my final year of uni now so have just been super busy with work. I would come to this fic like once a month and write a thousand words or so, just to keep me sane. :D Figured it would be great to get it finished for a little new year's surprise! Hope you're all doing ok, thanks again for being here if you've made it this far. It's been a journey, hasn't it? Have been working on this fic on and off for practically 6 years now- which is TERRIFYING, but I have no intention of stopping anytime soon.
Anyway there's still plenty in store- I can't guarantee it'll be soon as I'll be back at uni after the break, but never doubt it's in progress! Thanks again to everyone who's commented, liked or followed- 6 years in and it still absolutely makes my day. :D You're all the best- hope you're safe and well!