So after a very long absence, here's the next chapter!
Warning!
Please keep in mind that there's a lot of both physical and mental abuse in this chapter, so read at your own risk. I don't want to spoil anything, but if you're not sure, contact me first.
Loyalty I value the most about mankind.
I'm drowning.I have died many times.
And they're killing me over and over again.
The sound of hooves is the first thing I remember after the darkness. The pain is the second. A hot, blazing pain. One I have never even closely experienced before. It's the fire from before, which has now withdrawn to the area around its centre, my left shoulder. There's another one in my leg, not even closely comparable, but I cannot move without stirring it. I try to scream, but something prevents me from doing so. There's something in my mouth, a piece of cloth or similar.
Everything around me is shaking; I can feel the wheels beneath me jolt over an uneven ground. The movement further enrages the beast inside of me, the flames burning through my flesh and charring my soul. Soon the flames should break through my skin and the whole world will turn to ashes.
My eyes shoot open.
Darkness. A horse whinnies.
I'm blind. There is nothing but the void. Another attempt to scream, it fails. Only a soft whimper.
I panic, but have lost control over my body.
Fabric brushes over my face.
Perhaps the hooves aren't hooves but rain.
"Let me repeat my question."
My tormentor hasn't moved an inch since the last time he killed me, still smiling wickedly.
I'm still on the chair, freezing in the cold, my wet hair and clothing sticking to my body.
My breathing is uneven, the memory of my last death still too vivid.
"Where is the Apple?"
My voice is but a whisper. "I told you all I know, we never spoke about those artefacts."
He sighs. "I thought we agreed on not lying to each other, no? After all of our shared hours, you disappoint me."
Not again.
"Please, I swear it. I never was part of his inner circle, I don't know. I don't know."
I'm shaken with sobs. "Please. I told you everything!"
The first step is darkness. A cloth, wrapped around my head, still wet from his last attempt to obtain information I do not possess. Then immobility. The chains leave bruises on my skin. One precious second of silence. A splash and I breathe water. Screaming only makes it worse, but I cannot fight the panic. I never can.
He pulls my head back, pulling at what remains of my hair so that I wouldn't drown too fast.
I gag, fighting the bonds that restrain me to the chair, not noticing the pain it causes me. My body spasms, my lungs screaming for air. My screams silent, only gurgling audible. Black spots appear in my vision.
Give in! Give in! It's over soon, just give in.
After minutes of fighting the pointless war against the water, I'm defeated.
The void, my old friend, welcomes me back into his arms.
The carriage comes to a halt.
Someone opens its door, the world sways as they climb in.
"Time to visit your new home, darling."
The stranger lifts me from the seat; the fire in my body immediately flares up, roaring like a raging dragon.
A fierce cold wind pulls at my clothes.
I'm being carried, the wind suddenly stops, we're probably indoors.
Down some stairs, judging by the patter of feet.
I have long lost my orientation.
"We're done for today, tomorrow we'll try again."
He releases me from the cot and chains me to a retaining ring on the wall while we wait for my escort. The stone wall feels solid against my cheek; nothing could ever break the everlasting walls of my prison.
I'm tired; it's useless telling him that there is nothing I know. The other one appears in the doorway, he brings me back to my cell, half dragging, half carrying me.
Endless stone walls and the persistent smell of death.
They left me alone for my first three days. I lay there for hours, swaying between consciousness and darkness, the pain occasionally pulling me back to reality, or at least my perception of it. At some point, I managed to pull myself into a somewhat sitting position, careful not to touch the wall with my injured shoulder. The exhaustion of that act sent me right back into oblivion.
The next time I awoke, I forced myself to stay conscious. Slowly, inch by inch, I examined my wounds. My torn blouse was soaked with blood, some dried some fresher, sticking to my side. I hardly managed to pull the cloth off the wound, inevitably also pulling off the bit of scab that had formed on the injury and connected it to what remained of my shirt. New blood poured out of the reopened wound, dripped on the cold stone floor and intermixed with all of the different dirt that had gathered there throughout the time. Binding the gash proved impossible, so I simply sat there and hoped it would close by itself, which it did to a certain extent.
Next on the list were my left leg and its broken lower bone. I vainly darted my eyes around my cell, searching for something with which I could put it in a splint, but there was nothing in it but myself.
So I robbed as far away from the wall as my chains allowed me to and then fastened my leg to one of the iron bars of my cell's entry, using the remnants of my blouse as a binding material. I repositioned myself and then, with all the strength I could gather, grabbed my chains and pulled myself towards where they were connected with the wall, hauling myself into a tense straight position for a split second, feeling how the broken bones in my leg readjusted themselves into something closer to a line than before.
No one heard my scream, or at least no one cared.
"That'll do.", I tried to assure myself through my tears. "At least until Haytham comes and takes me home."
I did not expect it to take long. What a hopeful fool I was.
Perhaps it was all a dream.
Haytham won't come because there is no Haytham. He doesn't exist, he's nothing but a creation of my imagination. Perhaps I never left the palace; they threw me into the dungeon and left me to rot there.
At some point, I consider praying but quickly abandoned the idea again. If there is a God he has long turned his back on me.
Or perhaps I'm dead and this is my personal hell, doomed to die on a loop.
They never intended to kill me. At least not permanently. It wouldn't work. Nothing they tried, not the knives, the needles, their all-so-precious devices for inflicting pain upon their subject, not one proved effective with me. No pain even closely matched the one in my back, the blazing beast living inside me. It simply swallowed the rest, demanding and dominant as it was. You belong to me alone, it says to me. No one else shall have you.
So their first methods might be considered somewhat soft compared to what is known to be utilised in the world's most gruesome prisons, something I even indirectly witnessed in the palace, every time the Governor had been paid a visit by some higher ranking officials, who usually put him under pressure for not paying his tribute to the Sultan in accordance with the regulations, resulting in him hastily ridding the poor souls under his rule of every last coin they possessed. Those who could not pay were brought to his dungeon and scarcely ever seen again. Their screams could be heard in the quarters of the lower servantry.
But am I not still in the palace? Is this what the dungeon looks like? If I could somehow leave my cell, follow the long corridor towards the torture rooms, turn somewhere and ascend the stairs to the building's upper levels, would I find myself within the walls of my youth? The sandstone rooms and hallways, so different to the dark walls I now find myself in; the gardens, the haramlik with its fountain and black and white pavement? Perhaps I'd try to find Jenny, only to realise she never existed in the first place, along with the other people I probably never met.
I have always been here. Perhaps the information they are seeking from me is a part of some cruel game, or perhaps it is also a hallucination. Have I ever left my cell?
All hope I carried with myself before has long been abandoned, so I stopped counting the days as well. There is nothing left to count them for. After the second month, I understood that no one would come for me but the guard who brought me food and escorted me to my tormentor, waiting in his playroom to tie me to his chair and ask me pointless questions he long accepted I did not know. They never expected any answers from torture; it was more of a sport for them and a punishment for me.
And even those visits become rarer and rarer.
They came for me two days later, which I again had spent mostly unconscious. Opening the door woke me, as my leg was still bound to it and was therefore painfully jerked back with it.
"She's still alive, I'll bring 'er to Angus.", the first of the two guards grunted.
But the other one shook his head. "Nah, you know our orders. She won't survive another two days if we dont bring her to medical first."
I was dragged down the endless corridor I would later come to know as the everyday path to my death and chained to a wooden table in the middle of a room similar to where I'd soon be interrogated for the first time.
But not too soon, as they first had to ensure my survival.
After about half an hour I had spent silently fighting the beast in my back, a woman entered the room, another maid I did not know, not much older than me and seemingly scared.
"You know what to do, no talking.", the second guard barked and the girl quickly nodded, shakingly putting down the items she had brought with her: a small bag and a bucket of water.
She handed me a piece of cloth to bite on and then started cleaning my wounds with a bottle of pure alcohol, not minding any of my muffled screaming or twitching, professionally bandaging my open injuries and successfully relocating the bones in my leg.
I silently watched as she cut off my tangled hair, my eyes following each long strand fall to the ground; only slightly wincing as she dressed me in a rough linen shirt which she painfully pulled over my head and back.
My only companions in the cell are the shadows and a rat I named Freddy, with whom I would occasionally share my meal, usually consisting of old bread crawling with maggots and a cup of water which I stay away from. Angus has his own methods of taking care of my hydration.
Freddy isn't really talkative and neither are the shadows, distant figures from the past drifting through my mind, infesting it with lost hope and leaving me even more shattered than before when they turn out to be hallucinations.
Take me with you, I want to scream. Whatever place you vanish to, don't leave me here all by myself.
I still keep talking to them, telling them stories from the palace, singing the songs I learned while being at sea, reciting every single line I can remember from the Latin plays I had to study and educate them in what I recall from etiquette and my other subjects. Because, even though I am often uncertain whether I even say those words aloud, these memories are the only things keeping me sane, at least to a certain degree. I sometimes feel as if the past, or what I imagine the past to have been, is the only place I can run to without being followed and recaptured. Remembering what has been keeping my thoughts away from the present and the utter desperation of my current situation.
"We will continue our work another time."
I don't even bother responding to him anymore, he does not listen to me anyway. It is beyond me why he keeps asking me those questions when we both know that it's not answers he seeks, but the pleasure of inflicting pain upon me; of demonstrating his superiority over a weaker being.
While I wait for the usual guard to come and pick me up he starts to pack up his utensils, not paying me any attention, too preoccupied with his precious belongings. In the earlier days, after every session, he'd have to call a guard to clean up the mess I've caused, but they eliminated the problem by refraining from giving me any food before the treatments so that I'd be able to choke for hours but not cause any inconveniences to them.
Hunger has become a secondary need in any case; I hardly feel it at all. Either I've grown used to it, or it was also swallowed by the beast.
The guard comes and unchains me from the wall, dragging me through the corridor leading back to my cell. I only look up in surprise when he suddenly turns left into another corridor I've never seen before, it's darker and more narrow than the one I'm used to. There he ungently drops me on the floor and finally turns around.
It's not the guard who usually accompanies me.
"Did you seriously think I was just going to let you rot in here without at least getting my personal bit of revenge on you as well?", Newt asks me gleefully. I hardly see his face in the dim light but recognise the smirk he wears on his face, full of anticipation for whatever sentence he has cast upon me. Although I can imagine all too well what he might have in mind. My heart pace quickens as I frantically start searching for a way out. I know there is none, not this time, not in my condition and not with an enemy this bound on ending me.
He turns his back on me as if wanting to admire the opposite wall.
"You know, I have waited for this moment since the night you so rudely ran from Hancock and me. My head still hurt days after and I swore to myself that I would make you pay for it. So many different ways I imagined, it somehow satisfied me enough that the actual act of bothering to find you felt unnecessary. But then, you showed up again and thought it wise to report my relationship with Jane to Canterbury, leaving out names of course. You're not that stupid. At least you weren't then. I wanted to kill you when you stood there, I wanted to carve you up like a fucking animal. So close you were, and yet unreachable, suddenly under the Master's protection, there was no way I could even get close to you."
He turns around again, staring down at me with disdain.
"And then, fortunately for me, you made the most stupid decision in your entire miserable life. And now we're here and no one will care what I'll do to you. Because you don't exist anymore. You have become a ghost and no one will ever know what happened to you because no one will know that you ever existed. Should the unlikely event of anyone asking for you occur, then I can promise you I will personally ensure that event to never happen again."
Slowly, almost lovingly, he crouches down beside me, not minding my pitiful attempts to crawl away from him and draws a dagger from its shaft on his belt, examining the way its blade reflects the light of a nearby torch.
I can't keep my eyes off his face, tracing it for anything that I might use to my advantage while still being too scared to even move. No matter what races through my mind, it would all encourage him even further. It's useless.
So I let him pass. Show no sign of reaction when he reaches down and starts cutting through the fabric of my clothes, simply turn my head away, focus my eyes on some spot on the wall and try to blend it out. I know what to do. The dragon won't let me feel the pain; I can always rely on him.
The unpleasant sound of torn fabric is now replaced by the clink of his belt being unbuckled. Somewhere deep in my mind, I'm filled with fear that he might hear my heartbeat and realise how terrified I really am. If that happens, I'd lose even that last bit of power over myself that I still hold. My resistance as far as it goes.
So it isn't the noise I expect which yanks me out of my mental stronghold, but the one that I don't.
Newt begins to laugh; a humourless snicker filled with venom which makes me shiver and stirs the hair on the back of my neck.
"Good Lord." he exclaims while staring at me with such spite that I immediately feel the urge to cover my body from his eyes. "You must be the ugliest creature that I've ever seen. Can't even look at you without getting sick. Turn around so I 'm not forced to watch this hideous excuse for a female body anymore."
I don't comply, just stare at the stone ceiling above my head.
"I said turn around."
As this still doesn't reach the desired effect, he grabs my sensible side and roughly shifts me around himself, immediately fuelling the fire in my shoulder. The dragon roars, unleashing another shockwave of pain that threatens to consume me. I bite my lip hard to prevent myself from both screaming or crying, my fingers clawing at the floor as if wanting to tear out a piece of solid rock from it.
I completely freeze, unable to do anything but firmly shut my eyes and focus on channelling the pain. It's a ladder, a lifeline, a way for me to leave behind all existence and float in the endless waters of pure consciousness, to disconnect my mind from my body. So that I do not feel his sweaty hands on me, lifting my body from the ground, positioning my legs to his advantage. Some part of me wants to fight, to kick him, to scream and to run away; but I simply can't, I have lost all control over myself. My only way to protect myself from reality is to escape it.
Each one of his thrusts is a new wave of pain, circularly emerging from their epicentre in my shoulder, the equal-armed cross burned into my flesh. And I let myself drift, the waves bouncing my body in the black sea. The pain, my only friend, my most loyal companion, welcomes me, swirls me around and carries me forward. We're one, united at last.
It doesn't take long but feels like an eternity.
Newt doesn't bother to dress me back into the torn shirt, he simply drags me back to my cell and tosses it over my exposed body.
"So that no one will have to see you." he hisses through the bars, granting me a last one of his sneers and then leaves me alone with the fear, the tears and the shadows on the walls.
My interrogations have stopped.
Crying has become too exhausting, the thirst and the hunger ridding me of whatever desire to live I might have once had. Even thinking is too hard for me now.
I can feel the presence of death; his cold breath brushes over my skin and his icy kisses leave traces on my sweaty brow.
Come with me child, he whispers to me. Come with me and leave it all behind.
There is nothing I'd rather do than obey, welcome his eternal embrace and simply let go. But however hard I try, even with the refusal of what little food they grant me, even then there is something preventing me from doing so. Some small part of me who fears death even more than confinement. Even more than the pain. It keeps me alive against my will, pulls me away from the darkness and fights the emptiness inside me.
So I lie there, weaker and weaker, my eyes fixed on the glow the torch on the wall opposite to my cell casts on the ground and wait for that small light inside of me, my final stand before the gates of hell, to finally be overpowered by the void it silently fights. Because there is no other way to go than the path that lies before me. My other options have long vanished one by one. Only one step forward, over the threshold that connects the world of the living with the one of the long forgotten souls, only one step and at last, the agony will come to an end. I just have to let myself fall, such an easy thing and yet so hard to perform.
If I could, I'd be angry with me. For not even having the will to die properly. But I can't find the energy to care. I don't care about anything anymore.
I must have fallen asleep at some point; even though it gets harder and harder to tell reality apart from whatever scattered thoughts my weary mind produces. There are loud voices coming from somewhere in the building, although I fail to make out their exact location. The noise is ringing in my ears; it feels like a hundred angry bees attacking my brain. Where does all the noise come from? Silence! I want to scream. Let me die alone! All I manage is to close my eyes again, but not for long as there is another noise now, a familiar one and closer, only a few corridors away.
The loud voices are now joined by shouting and grunting, a few screams now and then and the unmistakable sound of steel meeting steel.
My heart is racing, my breathing uneven; it requires all my strength to stay focused and listen to the fight happening such a short distance away.
And there it is, the enemy I thought impossible to ever encounter, the thing I never thought I'd ever feel again.
A spark of hope.
I don't even deny or attempt to fight it, listening is much more important right now. More screams, someone is yelling orders I cannot understand, distant cursing and more sounds of swords being struck against each other.
Steps come closer, I panic. What if it's Newt again, who came to finish me once and for all? Because even if I feel like death is my only option, I don't want it to be him. I want it to be anyone but him. Taking my life would be his last victory, and I don't want him to win.
I hold my breath in an attempt to stay hidden, although I know that I'm being ridiculous. Newt knows exactly where to find me and that I'm too weak to fight him or run away should I somehow miraculously manage to flee my cell. There is no way out for me.
The steps are now quieter again, the person has moved away in another direction. I am simultaneously filled with both disappointment and relief and slowly exhale. Meanwhile, the overall noise has grown even louder than before, as if the combat was mere steps away. But I know that my mind deceives me, as the torch on the wall has not even flickered yet. They are still too far away.
After the crescendo of the fight, the following silence almost appears condemning. It feels like it took a lifetime to end. Which side has won? Which sides were there in the first place?
Someone hisses something not far from my cell, followed by an ugly gurgling sound. My heart, which beat so quickly a mere second ago, now freezes. It was close enough for me to understand the question that was asked. A question that ignited the previously smothered flame of hope all anew. Three simple words.
Where. Is. She.
All the agony, the resignation, the anger, all forgiven and forgotten at the prospect of seeing him again. He came. He came. He came here for me. He came to rescue me. To bring me back to life. To tear me away from death's cold grip. He is here.
"Haytham.", I try to scream but manage nothing but a faint whisper. I'm over here. Over here.
Something blocks the light of the torch. Someone is standing there. Tall and broad-shouldered. It's him. It's him. It's him.
Keys clinking, it's too dark to see anything. I cannot speak anymore, the excitement almost become too much to bear. He's here.
The figure tries to glance through the bars but apparently fails to recognise anything. A whisper, a word, a name, my name. My real name, not Aurelie Garceau. Aurelie is dead, she died in the fight with the Assassin. But Julie, Julie is alive. Julie lives and she is here and she is me and it is her name that was whispered through the bars.
I gather all my strength, but only manage a whimper as an answer, constantly scared that Haytham will for some reason decide to leave me here. Perhaps if he believes me dead or too weak to come with him.
And there it is again, the small but persistent voice of doubt in my head. Oh, Julie, it says. Stupid, hopeful, naïve Julie. Has it not crossed your mind that he might not be here to save you, but to finally rid himself of the constant problem you pose. You know how he treats traitors, and failures like you are just another kind of it.
But even the prospect of dying through his hand seems merciful compared to the long and agonising death that awaited me under my previous circumstances.
My head feels heavy, it is almost impossible to move it, but I somehow accomplish it. Now I'm in a better position to glance at my saviour, the dark shadow towering before me.
He's still struggling with the keys in the low light, his cursing louder than before. My mind takes a while until I realise that it is not Haytham's voice I hear. It's darker and has a very different intonation than Haytham's clear English accent. The fear immediately returns to me.
The door to my cell opens with a creak.
"My God, what have they done to you?"
For a second, he just stands there, just as inert as me, as we try to recognise each other's faces. Then he slowly crouches down beside me, the torch's fading light shines through a loose strand of silky dark hair, finally revealing the aristocratic cheekbones, straight nose and the unmistakable scar splitting his right eyebrow.
In this very moment, although I know that it makes no big difference, disappointment is all I feel. That, and the everlasting fear.
"Can you hear me?", Shay asks in a quiet voice as if there were unwanted ears listening.
I jerk my head very slowly, attempting a nod.
"Good. I'll get ya out of here, I promise. Everything will be alright. Can you walk?"
If I were able to, I would have laughed. But now I'm even more scared that he will leave me all out of sudden. Shay barely knows me at all. He has a hundred more reasons to just leave me behind than Haytham, with whom I at least share some sort of bond. But, the voice in my head hisses, hasn't Haytham already let you down all these months? And now? Where is he now?
Somewhere nearby!, I angrily reply. Standing guard or coordinating his men. Not even I believe my own foolish lies anymore.
"Julie."
Shay jerks me out of my thoughts.
"Can you try and stay awake? It'll be easier for the both of us."
I nod again, forcing myself not to jerk back from his outstretched hand, fighting the terror that has me in its grip. Haytham sent him. He's a friend.
Very cautiously, as though treating an injured bird, Shay first wraps his coat around my shoulders and then tries to lift me to my feet, which immediately awakens the dragon. He roars furiously, the fire exploding inside of me, not permitting me to leave. The pain is too strong, what's left of my rational mind turns itself off and pure instinct takes control. My chains rattle as I first jump backwards, and then, as my feet alone fail to carry me, crawl back on all fours and press myself against the opposite wall, as far away from him as possible. The adrenaline renders me painless for a precious second. A warning growl, more resembling a cornered animal than a human being escapes my throat. Get away from me! Leave me here and go!
That's what I want to scream at him right now. But I don't do it. Because I still want him to take me as far away as possible from this place of death and agony. To help me out of my misery.I choose to stay quiet and wait for his reaction.
Shay hasn't moved an inch, apparently not surprised by my attack, or at least not showing any signs of it. He is still crouching on the floor beside the open door, calmly looking me in the eye. "No one is going to hurt you, Julie.", he now says in a voice probably aiming at reassuring me. "I just want to get you out of here, alright? But I can't do that all by myself."
I still don't answer, so he rises to his feet and walks over to me. "Let me see that."
The chain is still fastened to my right leg, so he first frees me with one of the keys on the ring he brought with himself, mindful not to come too close to me. I wrap his coat even tighter around me, ignoring the further pain the act inflicts.
"Where exactly are you injured?"
It takes me a few attempts to answer, I try my best but the words just don't leave my mouth. The recent lack of water has dried out my throat. Or perhaps the months without much talking have made me forget how to use my tongue. "Upper… Back… Side…Leg."
Shay nods sternly and then seems to contemplate what to do next.
"You can't walk, so I'll have to carry you. It will hurt but I'll try to minimise the pain as far as I can. From the way you're moving, I assume its your left side that's injured?"
Another nod.
"Right. I'll keep that in mind. There's… something else. Your eyes haven't been exposed to any daylight for a while now, it might be best if I bandage them for now, to prevent them from taking any damage."
Now it is not only fear that rushes through my veins, it's also pure panic. Blindness means no control, water, choking, pain, death. Hands I cannot see. Touch I cannot foresee.
I violently shake my head, trembling and with tears on my cheeks.
His brows are furrowed now, and I'm too scared to do anything.
"Don't…..go.", I try to convince him not to just turn around and seal my fate.
He's silent for a second, staring at me with an expression somewhere between anger and disbelief, although I cannot fully make out which one it is.
"I won't leave you, for God's sake.", he grumbles. "Who do you take me for?"
Then, after another pause of silence. "Fine, no bandages. Can you try to lift yourself from the wall a bit?"
This time, he succeeds in wrapping one arm around my waist, careful not to come too close to my injuries, and placing the other under my knees, gingerly picking me up.
"Christ lass, you weigh next to nothing."
My fingers cling firmly to the fabric of his coat, my face half buried in it, as I silently fight the raging dragon while simultaneously growing stiff, trying to resist the anxiety that builds inside me. Although there is at least one layer of thick fabric between his skin and mine, my heart races and my breathing's unstable. I can almost feel the sweaty hands on me again.
Too many enemies.
On the way through the long corridors I have become too familiar with, I spot a sunken figure in a sitting position leaning against a wall.
At first, I don't recognise it through the thick layer of smoke, nearly open my mouth to warn Shay but then realise who it is I'm looking at.
Newt, with wide open eyes, staring into the void, his entire uniform and the wall behind him soaked crimson from the open gash in his throat.
It's too much to bear, my mind shuts down and I flee into the well-known darkness that has carried me through the past months.