Next one coming soon!
The dream always starts with me opening my eyes, which is so unusual that I mostly think I'm waking up instead.
I'm standing in a dark room, although I can't be sure it is one as I don't see any walls or a ceiling. Water gently caresses my knees, water stretching as far as the eye can see, unifying with the black void in the distance. When I turn my head upwards I almost expect to see stars above me, but there is nothing but the same darkness as everywhere else. I can't see any direct light source either, but it seems like the surface of the black sea I'm standing in is glowing on its own, or reflecting some distant light only the water itself can see.
The ground I'm standing on feels solid and cold, like stone. There is no one else here, but I still scream for help. My cries vanish into the void and no answer ever comes back. I've also tried escaping, running in one direction or another, but it's pointless running into nothingness.
It always ends the same.
There's a distant noise, growing louder and louder. I can never tell what exactly it is, a crescendo of unified memory, but sometimes I feel like hearing a rhythmical stamping sound, the rattle of chains, even laughter. And suddenly, I can't move, just stand there, terribly frightened, and watch the water slowly rise. I shudder as it touches my hips, my belly, my chest, and then slowly climbs up to my chin.
My heart gripped with panic, I try to raise my face to the starless sky, just to gain another precious breath of air, and then it's over.
I never actually die as I never actually wake up.
There are glimpses here and there, but I can't tell reality from hallucinations anymore, or maybe everything is just a dream with no end. A tree outside a small window, loaded with glistening snow, so bright that my eyes sting like angry wasps and bright spots dance in my vision even after I've closed my eyes again. Shadows on a wooden wall. A bitter taste in my mouth. Endless black water. Keys rattling in the distance. I'm freezing and blazing at the same time, shaking uncontrollably. More bitterness. More drowning. I turn my head away from it and I turn my head upwards for a last breath and I always lose. Trapped for eternity.
Sometimes, there's singing in the noise, rough voices and sweet ones, telling me stories I don't understand.
Au Claire de lune
Pierrot répondit.
And what exactly did Pierrot respond, chère maman?
Hurrah, my boys, we're homeward bound, a dozen voices roar in return.
"Goodbye, fare-ye-well.", I joyfully hum with them.
And while the black tides come and go, I'm their constant companion, always with a bitter taste in my mouth.
"Goodbye, fare-ye-well!", I shout into the darkness.
Pierrot doesn't respond.
Another glimpse now, a face framed by silver hair, illuminated by a light source somewhere in the back.
"Maman.", I gasp. Tears blur my vision, I blink angrily, I want to see her clearly. It's heaven, I'm convinced. And she's smiling down at me. I can't see her face, just the shining garland of light around her head, but I know it. But why does heaven hurt so badly?
It's the pain that makes me sob softly, the pain in my body and the pain in my soul. Pourquoi tu m'as quitté?, I beg her.
"Hold still, stupid girl!", the floorboards creak.
The bitterness returns, however hard I fight it.
My mother sings again.
Au Clair de la lune
Mon ami Pierrot
Prête-moi ta plume
Pour écrire un mot
"Don't bother.", I tell her. "He's got no bloody pen and he's quite moody today."
The waves have gotten colder, I shiver under the sheets, my whole body covered in sweat.
Still no stars in the sky above me.
Au Clair de la lune
On n'y voit qu'un peu
My gaze wanders back to the half-lit waves surrounding me. Perhaps it's truly moonlight they're reflecting, a moon I can't see from where I'm standing, perhaps I cannot see him because you can barely see in moonlight?
On chercha la plume
On chercha du feu
"On chercha la sortie!", I grumble back at the voice. But how to find the exit in an endless sea?
Our anchor we'll weigh, and our sails we will set, the waves howl as they engulf my waist. Goodbye, fare-ye-well.
'If you can't find the exit to a situation, just leave the way you came in', a very Haytham sounding voice whispers through the winds in a streak of wisdom.
How very helpful.
I stare at the waves surrounding me.
I blink.
I blink again.
"Goodbye, fare-ye-well...", I whisper, eyes widening in surprise.
And suddenly, I know what to do.
With an almost solemn calmness, I turn my head towards the starless sky one last time, as the water reaches my belly, then take a deep breath and throw myself headfirst into the inky black floods.
My eyes shoot open and I'm immediately blinded by the glaring brightness.
White spots explode all around me like fireworks, refusing to fade however hard I screw up my eyes or yank my head around. My shoulders twist painfully as I try to raise my upper body from the bed I'm lying on. Something is restraining me, binding my arms and legs to the mattress.
And where there are bonds, there's death.
Not again not again not again.
The fear is back in a blink, I scream and twist in blind panic, trying to free myself before I have to drown again. The ropes cut into my flesh and leave angry red marks on it, but I don't care because it doesn't kill me like the water will.
There's a loud bang and suddenly there are people around me, holding me down, pressing my sweat drenched body back into the sheets, ignoring my screams and tears and pitiful attempts to get them off me.
They all seem to talk at once. "Where's the Laudanum?"
"Forget the goddamn Laudanum! I have a small vile of tears left, it's over there, on the shelf, next to..."
Another one of my screams interrupts the voice mid-sentence and her accomplice has to find the vile on his own.
It doesn't take long.
"Keep her still."
A small sting and my body's limp while my mind drifts away. The last thing I hear is one of the voices talking again, which I'm too tired to understand.
The next time I awake, I'm prepared.
No dreams haunted me this time, just blissfully deep unconsciousness.
I wait for some time before only slightly opening my eyes, awaiting the glaring whiteness. There's nothing. Encouraged, I fully open them and wait for the blurry dark spots around me to form shapes. The first thing I see is the flaming sky of a setting sun outside, sending its fiery glow through a small window opposite my bed.
The sun itself isn't within the window so that at first I don't know whether it's rising or setting, but after a while I realise that it's getting darker by the minute.
My eyes have slowly adjusted themselves to the low light and I let my gaze wander over my newest prison.
A small room, wooden walls and a few simple pieces of furniture, a chair and a cabinet on the wall next to the door.
There's a small candle on a bedside table beside me, casting a faint circle of light over the room, the flame flickers and hisses at the draught emerging from the slightly open door.
The pain is still there, but the beast appears almost tamed, only a shadow of its former magnitude, peaceful in its drugged sleep.
I'm still tired but fight the urge to close my eyes again. Even in my current situation, weak and bound, I have at least some sort of control over myself, which vanishes every time I enter the surreal world of my opium-soaked subconsciousness.
The sound of creaking wood cuts through the silent room like a knife, there are steps on an old staircase, laboured and slow, until the noise suddenly ends and someone carefully opens the door inch by inch, as if first wanting to check if I was still asleep.
I lie still as a mouse, trying to peer through my closed lids.
A shadow shuffles through the room, the rattled, uneven breathing somehow reassuring me to open my eyes a bit more.
There's a small, humped figure standing next to the cabinet, their back turned towards me. They stand on their toes, shakingly open one of the doors and reach for something.
"Finally awake I see.", they say in a voice sounding as old as time itself.
Knowing that there is no use in pretending to be unconscious any longer, I now fully open my eyes and examine the mysterious figure in detail. As they turn around, the candle next to me and the additional one they're carrying finally reveal their features. A raddled face, marked with lines and wrinkles, deep-seated striking blue eyes, a large nose, a mouth without lips, its corners drawn downwards in an everlasting frown and a crown of silver hair.
The old woman stares back at me, her gaze piercing right through mine. I immediately look away.
She mumbles something and places the tray she's carrying on my bedside table, while I keep my eyes fixed on the now dark window.
"I'll have to change your bandages, I sincerely recommend you not to put up such a fuss again, or I'll kick you out myself, understood?"
She takes my silence as consent and starts untying me, uncovering me to my hips. I shiver as the cold air meets my overheated skin.
The old woman removes the bandages on my back not too gently, commanding me to lift myself from the sheets for a minute, which I manage after a few attempts, stuffs some cushions under my torso and then quickly examines the wound, her only comment consisting of a short "Mm."
She picks up a small bowl from the tray and places a handful of fresh snow onto my back. My body recoils and I moan in protest, trying to shake it off, but with a surprising force, she presses me back into the sheets.
"Pull yourself together, or I'll bind you again."
She hasn't raised her voice in the slightest, but I immediately grit my teeth and hold still. Rather the cold than the slavery of memories.
We wait until every last snowflake has melted and run down my side until she reaches for the tray again and applies some sort of ointment to my skin before she finally bandages the wound again.
The same procedure is repeated with the wound in my side, only that she seems more satisfied this time.
I don't realise I've closed my eyes until I feel her hand on my leg.
"Whoever treated you in there did a fairly good job with this.", she says. "I did not have to rebreak it, would've been a mess."
She adjusts the splint and then walks over to the bed's head again.
"Turn around."
I stare at her in fear, trying to blend out the last voice who commanded those exact same words. Tears blur my vision, I angrily blink them away.
It's different. He's dead now. You saw it. You saw it with your own eyes.
Her blue eyes scrutinise me without giving away any of her thoughts.
I hate the weakness that I feel, that I've felt for too long now, the weakness that overcame me the moment my dagger missed its target a lifetime ago.
As some sort of proof to her and overall myself as well, I again lift myself from the bed and slowly do as she asked, grimacing as my weight now shifts to my back. I close my eyes for a split second and try to calm the alert beast.
When I open them again, she's still there, watching me.
A single tear runs down my cheek, but I can't find the courage to wipe it off.
One of her fingers gently trails along the line where my ribcage almost pierces through my skin.
"It's a miracle you're alive, girl.", she mutters. "Don't let the past ruin the future you so fiercely fought for."
The moment is over before it can really begin and she abruptly turns to the table again.
With almost stoic patience, she feeds me soup from a wooden spoon and some bits of a mixture of mashed vegetables and herbs. The soup tastes awful, the mixture is worse, but I eat everything with a vile hunger I haven't felt in months.
My caretaker seems satisfied, her mood a bit brighter than before.
"I don't think anyone has devoured my soup this enthusiastically in years.", she tells me after bringing me back to my original position. "You're still too weak for something to actually help hide those bones of yours, but it's a start."
Too exhausted to answer, I simply close my eyes and press my face into the rough material of the pillow.
I'm already asleep when she blows out the candle and closes the door behind her.
The old lady wakes me up the next day. She's not as talkative as the evening before, not even after I obediently eat everything she brings me without the hint of a complaint, and each of her grips is rougher than the last.
Every time I nearly open my mouth to say something my throat tightens and I feel as if I haven't had a drop of water in years. So I stay silent, which she counters with a silence of her own. We eye each other carefully, not unlike two animals in the wild, trying to decide whether the other was trustworthy enough for words. Her piercing gaze and crooked nose often remind me of a vulture and a predator, waiting in everlasting patience for his prey to die and feast. But then again, I remind myself that she is the one keeping me alive and that my life solely depends on her right now. If she wanted me dead, I'd pose no great opponent to her. Refusing me food, overdosing my medicine, smothering me with a pillow. There are so many ways she could do it, and yet she keeps feeding me, tends to my wounds and cleans me. Why does she do it? What is my life to her, a complete stranger? Those questions I may ask myself, but never aloud. She still holds too much power over me to take any risks.
On the eve of the third night after I first saw her, I hear her talking to someone downstairs. A muttered conversation behind closed doors, then silence for a while, until I hear a sound I can't fully pin down. Some sort of wailing, sobbing or muffled screaming, a young female voice howls something. After some time, the sobbing grows silent again, a door opens and closes and then there's nothing distinguishable but the cries of the nocturnal animals outside.
I don't ask her about it and she never explains. Never ask a question you don't want to know the answer to.
The trees outside are still loaded with snow, which the sun transforms into a million shining diamonds, like the surface of the ocean on a sunny day. Icicles frame the window and I spend hours watching the small drops of water freeze on their ends until they cover half of the glass.
On the sixth day, I finally open my mouth.
"How long have I been here?"
My voice sounds strange and unfamiliar, hoarse and scratchy, more resembling a bird's caw than a human one.
After days of silence, that takes her by surprise.
"Oh, it speaks.", she says with her eyebrows slightly raised. "Must be almost a month now, former mute girl."
"Julie."
The sound of my own name feels odd after having grown accustomed to the melodic ring of Aurelie Garceau. My mother had been the only one to pronounce it the French way and even then it sounded wrong to me.
And in the prison, as in the palace, I had no name.
"What?"
"Julie. My name."
Juh-lee. The tongue gently tips the roof of the mouth.
And yet so rough.
"Ah."
I consider telling her my last name as well, but it seems to laugh in my face. Martin, but you couldn't fly away when you should have, no?
She decides to end the conversation right there by leaving me to myself again.
I sigh and close my eyes, listening to my own heartbeat for a few moments. A month of which I only fully remember a small fraction. One answer which opens the doors to a million other questions. The strong feeling of being caught in an endless loop has left the world of my fever-stricken dreams and taken over of what I assume to be reality.
For the first time in weeks, I can't fall asleep again, however hard I try to keep my mind clear from any unwanted thoughts.
I'm still awake when she returns hours later, carrying her usual tray to commence with our evening routine.
"Your fever broke after about fifteen or sixteen days.", she then unexpectedly says while examining the cut in my side. "I thought you'd wake up afterwards but you didn't. Was halfway convinced you were one of those fellows who'd fall asleep once and never wake up again. Not physically dead, but their minds long gone.. This one's healing well, but it'll certainly leave a nasty scar. Won't be as bad as the one on your back, though."
I press my face into the pillow and close my eyes, listening to her voice to blend out the pain. It has gotten worse ever since the last drop off opium has left my system, but isn't even comparable to what I experienced in the cell. Her gnarled fingers brush my skin, yet I'm not overtaken by fear or panic. It almost feels like leather or the bark of a tree touching me. For whatever reason, I'm starting to trust her.
"A four-armed cross. Now you'll never forget to be careful when dealing with Haytham Kenway."
My eyes immediately shoot open and I yank my head around, staring at her fully aghast.
"What do you know of Haytham?", I snap without thinking.
She observes my reaction with an alarming calmness, almost as if she had waited for me to lose my nerves.
"More than you, apparently. As I'm not the one lying on the bed right now."
"It's different," I answer through gritted teeth. "I brought this upon myself."
She chuckles humourlessly. "Have you now."
My heart races. Was it Haytham who brought me here? How else would she know him! Did he tell her his name to let me know that he's there? But where is he then? And why did she tell me to beware of him? Nothing makes sense anymore and there is no one I can fully trust to give me the answers I so desperately seek.
"Don't we all know a Haytham of a sort?" She pauses midway of rebandaging my leg and eyes me absentmindedly. "Hmm. I'll tell you this, girl, for now you have experienced the cold reality of life and perhaps even start to see it as it is. It's a man's world in which we live in. A world of Haytham Kenways. You might think he is special for making you feel special, but they're all just the same in the end. For them, we're pawns. Mostly replaceable. We're fine as long as we do our duty, but will never even get close to them. They're superior in their thinking and they're superior in their acting. We are their lesser. So think carefully from now on, observe without the blinding nativity of a child's eyes. It is mankind's burden to always disappoint, those knives cut deep and their wounds don't heal as fast as those of the flesh. And the scars they leave are a hundred times worse."
Something stirs in the back of my mind, a memory as far away as the sun, so similar and yet under entirely different circumstances.
Those knives cut deep, the old woman said. Kill or be killed, Miranda's cold voice echoes through my mind, on that sunny day when September faded into November and I learned the truth about Jane.
I know no answer to her words, so I just stare at her. She seems so old standing there now that I almost fear her to suddenly collapse into a cloud of dust and ashes.
The sincere sadness in her voice, mixed with the sharp flavour of unspoken anger, it makes me wonder what might have happened to her that she chose a life like this, alone in her cabin, secluded from civilisation.
"Why do I trust you?", I whisper almost inaudibly.
She turns around on the doorstep, an unknown pain in her eyes and a faint smile on her lips.
"Because I am a woman, love. You expect no harm from me."
"Just cut it off!", I wince as she yanks the brush through the remnants of my wet hair.
"You'd regret that."
She disentangles another strand, while I rather unenthusiastically continue to scrub my left knee with the rough cloth she'd given me.
Almost fifteen days have passed since she revealed to at least somehow know Haytham, and not a single word about the subject has left her lips ever since. All my questions fell on deaf ears until I finally accepted her unwillingness to further discuss any of it. Five days ago, I climbed out of bed for the first time and, with the old woman's help, even managed the few steps to the window, where I sat for an hour and watched the beautiful snowy landscape outside. Two months ago, I couldn't have imagined ever seeing such raw beauty again, and now I try to absorb every little detail of it so that I might return to it anytime I'd close my eyes. Fifteen days of waking up screaming only to later discover that it was only in my mind, as Val assures me that I've been quiet all night after I try to apologise for keeping her awake. My brain struggles to accept both realities as equally existent, the peaceful one I'm experiencing right now and the brutal, blurry months of incarceration, though the latter still haunts my dreams.
The cabin stands on a hill in what seems to be a small forest, the wilderness seemingly untouched by any form of civilisation. It's a peaceful place, but desperately lonely.
It's March and some nights, not even my two fur blankets manage to keep off the cold. My caretaker, not without complaining about this never-ending winter, then sometimes brings me an ancient-looking bed warmer, filled with hot river stones to warm my bed.
Eight months ago I set sail in New York, only a bit over half a year has passed since then, but it feels like a lifetime. There is no way I could've anticipated what awaited me in the following months and what those months would do to me.
This very morning, the old woman decided it was beyond time for me to take a proper bath since she was definitely done with having to clean me with a wet cloth, which had been rather poor attempts anyway.
I didn't complain much, the prospect of cleanliness and the touch of warm water being rather pleasant. What I didn't expect was her to actually try and brush out my hair. As months of incarceration left it a wild, matted mess, the process of getting it back into its original state is a rather painful one.
"You still haven't told me your name.", I say to distract myself.
"Why's that so important.. Don't move your head!"
I shrug. "Told you mine weeks ago."
"Val.", she says in between two strokes.
This takes me by surprise, I didn't expect her to answer.
"Val.", I repeat, savouring the taste of the new name on the tip of my tongue. "Is it short for something?"
"No."
"Valentina, perhaps. Or something more unique, like Valley.", I continue, ignoring her answer.
She scoffs.
"It's short for 'be quiet and mind your own bloody business'."
And after a moment: "Who would name their child Valley anyways."
"Oh.", I say, wincing a bit as she untangles the rest of my hair. "Some of the Native tribes traditionally give their children names connected to nature. I think it quite symbolic."
"Do I look Native to you?"
I shrug. She has a point there.
Val wraps me in a blanket and helps me sit down on my spot next to the window. I watch as she hauls the tub next to me, opens the window and empties the water outside. Cold air flows into the room and I immediately start shivering uncontrollably.
Val gestures for me to wait a moment and carries the tub downstairs. My teeth are chattering loudly and I'm almost certain she forgot me there when she finally returns, each of her steps joined by a third, short thud. I watch her from the window, surprised not to find the expected bedpan in her hand, but an old and uneven wooden cane.
"It's time for you to finally get out of this room. There's a fire downstairs.", she says and leans the cane against the wall. I eye it suspiciously. "It's late.", I answer warily, not fully certain what exactly she wants me to do.
"Hurry, then."
She helps me stand and I clench my teeth, trying to ignore the usual pain that comes with the act. The provisional walking cane, I suspect it to be nothing more than an old branch from one of the trees surrounding the house, feels rough in my hand, but I manage to successfully lean on it and stand more or less on my own for the first time in months. Val doesn't move so I carefully place one foot forward and then, rather clumsily, the cane next to it, nearly losing my balance. My injured leg, though mostly healed, still hurts when I shift my full weight to it. The wounds and imprisonment have cost me all my former strength; it feels as if someone has taken control over my body so that it doesn't respond to my will anymore. Sometimes, when the full realisation of my current weakness threatens to overcome me, I bury my face in my pillow to prevent myself from yet again bursting into tears. But no, I've decided that I've shed enough of those for a lifetime and that they won't do me any favours anyway. It's like being caught in an endless merry-go-round of weakness and the resulting frustrating. One missed target cost me most of what I've had. My body and my soul crippled and disfigured, the little respect I held within the Order gone with my membership in it, only dead-ends left, right and in front of me.
The stairs turn out to be a greater obstacle than expected, I only managed them very slowly and with Val's assistance, having to pause a couple of times.
Downstairs, she guides me into an old, stuffed armchair standing beside the promised fireplace. It's scattered with holes and its faded fabric only hints at the former splendour of its purple colour, but all that vanishes before its wonderful softness. It's big enough for me to draw my knees to my chest and pull the blanket tighter around me, my eyes fixed on the flickering flames. My back aches with the memory of the last fireplace I've seen, where Canterbury burned the cross into my flesh. Fire and water, both have marked me for life, though I always thought air was my element, high up in the crow's nest, but apparently I had been wrong. And then there's earth, which will be the last and final one, closing the circle when it reclaims my body.
How fitting.
I let my gaze wander around, examining the room. It has one door, which I assume to be the front door, a few dirty windows and the same wooden walls as upstairs, only these are decorated with ink sketches of certain flowers and animals. Bundles of dried herbs and meat hang from a ceiling beam in the kitchen area, there's a large empty table on the opposite wall and an ancient looking rocking chair next to a small bookshelf.
A kitchen cabinet and a chest in which I assume Val keeps her clothes. Most of the floor is covered by an old, dusty carpet. I keep searching for another bed, but can't find any.
"Where do you sleep?", I call over to Val, who's busy cutting slices of meat and vegetables into a cauldron.
"In that armchair you're currently occupying."
"Oh.", I answer, suddenly ashamed that it hasn't occurred to me that the bed upstairs might be the only one she has.
She throws another log into the fire and then hangs the cauldron over it.
We eat in silence, the fire's occasional crackle the only sound disturbing it.
The stew is better than anything she's cooked since I first awoke and I eat two full bowls of it.
She seems satisfied. "You need the meat."
I stare at my entwined fingers for a second. "Val?"
"Hm?"
"I just remembered something. The very first time I woke up, I was still bound and not thinking straight, there were people in the room and someone said something about Laudanum and tears and then... I must've lost consciousness again."
She looks at me for a moment and then gets up, opens the kitchen board, then sits down again with a wooden box in her hand.
In it are a pipe and a small tobacco pouch, with which she stuffs the pipe.
Only after she has lit it and taken the first, deep puff, she replies.
"There were no other people. You woke up screaming like a maniac and I injected you a dose of tears of the poppy, highly dosed opium, to calm you down again. Laudanum would've been too weak for that sort of hysteria."
This takes me by surprise. "I could've sworn there were others."
"You were so heavily drugged, you could've seen Father Christmas for all I know."
I watch as she blows the smoke into the air, while the smell of tobacco spreads throughout the room.
Isn't the point where one cannot tell their hallucinations from reality anymore the beginning of madness?
"Please take the bed today.", I then say after a moment's reflection. "I feel terrible about you sleeping here all this time."
Val shrugs and rises to her feet. "If you insist, I surely won't say no to this."
She places the box back into the cabinet and then goes upstairs, leaving me to myself.
"Good night!", I call after her, but receive no response.
Something catches my eye, some sort of a plate in the back of the room, its surface reflecting the fire's glow.
I grab my cane and slowly rise to my feet; the short walk across the room already takes me to my limit and I nearly fall twice, but I'm proud of myself when I reach it. It's a thin sheet of polished steel, probably functioning as a mirror for Val. While all other pieces of furniture in the house are old and worn-out, this one has been well taken care of.
I stare at my own reflection, looking for the face I know, but hardly recognise myself. Hollow cheeks and eyes, a skin as pale that it almost appears transparent and in contrast to it, my dark, dull and lifeless hair falling to my shoulders. My skin is tightly strung over protruding bones with hardly any flesh in between. I look like a living corpse.
My hand is shaking as I reach out and touch the cold surface, the unwanted tears filling my eyes again. How could this happen? I ask myself over and over again. How could this happen to me?
The shock of this discovery has one good outcome: it further encourages me to take back control over myself. The weeks pass by, and while the temperatures slowly rise and the snow melts away, I fight to regain power over myself. My makeshift cane and I, both malfunctioning and discarded, soon become inseparable, exploring every inch of the house. I start by walking from one wall to the next, having to rest often; then advance into the kitchen and back; manage the stairs after a few attempts; and lastly, with Val's permission and supervision, who until that point chose to distance herself from my training, even walk the short distance to the small barn located a couple of feet away from the main building. In my enthusiasm, I try to open its door, only to find it locked.
"None of your business.", Val growls and wordlessly guides me back to the house.
She doesn't comment on my efforts, but silently acknowledges them by adding more dried meat to my diet; sometimes, when the weather allows her to, she even takes a long walk to the next village and buys some fresh one, together with some eggs and cheese. It's a mystery to me where she gets the money from, and it remains unsolved. I know that she sometimes sells some of the vegetables from her garden and occasionally the herbal infusions she brews against all kinds of sicknesses, but her garden is dead and meat expensive during the winter and the equally cold and fruitless spring.
"Good thing I don't believe in witches." I jest one day while sipping one of her awfully bitter teas. "Because you'd surely qualify as one."
"Perhaps you should start, then.", she only answers, a mysterious smile on her lips.
Every night before I go to sleep, I sit down in front of the mirror and observe my reflection. Not out of vanity, but for the mere wish to see any change in it. It takes some time, but I find it. My general condition rapidly improves over the weeks, I soon manage short-distance walks without the cane and don't have to rest as often as before when walking around the cabin and its close surroundings. The edges of my bones soon aren't as sharp and defined anymore, as the thin sheet of mere skin covering them is increasingly supported by a stronger layer of meat and, though still ghostly pale, my skin slowly regains some of its former glow.
I start to assist Val with the easier chores, dust off the shelves and help her prepare the meals. Later, when the cold has finally left, we replant her garden and sometimes even eat outside. My nights are still restless and haunted by nightmares and twisted memories, but I usually manage to ban the unwanted thoughts to the back of my mind during the day.
One evening in May, when I'm stowing away some of Val's old bottles, I hear a very soft and quiet knock on the door. I freeze, not sure whether I imagined the sound or not and listen anxiously. No one ever comes out here. Val and I are both outcasts, there is absolutely nothing anyone could ever want of us, especially at such a late hour.
There, this time the sound is louder, more resolute and demanding. I start sweating, my heart pounding against my chest like a caged bird fighting to break free. Flee, my senses scream at me.
"Val?"
My voice is higher than usual, I fail to conceal the fear that's building up inside of me. "Val, there's someone at the door."
"Let them in."
She sounds calm and indifferent, the complete opposite of me.
I turn around to face her, my stomach churning and I suddenly feel very sick.
"But..." I whisper quietly, fighting the urge to run away and hide. If I could run. "What if it's them?"
She blows another billow of smoke into the air and watches me with a slightly amused expression.
"Who are you more afraid of, Templar girl? The ones who burned the cross into your flesh or the ones who burned it into your mind? Open the door."
I hesitate for another second or two, refusing to even ask myself that question, let alone give her the satisfaction of answering it, then turn back towards the door and reach for its knob, my hand shaking.
The cabin, until that moment, seemed like a fortress to me, impenetrable and safe, but its walls are beginning to crumble.
For some reason, I'm suddenly painfully aware of my appearance, of how the person on the other side of the door will see me. What if it's really a member of the Order? He'll see me in my worn out dress, the frayed rope around my waist functioning as a belt, my bare feet and messily tied back hair and the petty chance of me ever being allowed to talk to Haytham for just one last time would instantly vanish.
My hand touches the cold wood and I close my eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. Then I tear open the door in one swift, determined movement.
The girl before me flinches so hard, she nearly drops the small bag she's carrying, her puzzled expression mirroring my own baffled look.
"Oh." she says, seemingly surprised to see anyone but Val open the door. She quickly gathers her wits and forces a smile, which can't fully hide the tension in her body language and the fear in her eyes.
"I... Didn't know Val had another... Patient today. My apologies, I probably should've announced myself... But it's no bother, I don't mind waiting for my turn, really."
"Come in.", Val calls somewhere being me, her voice unusually soft.
I step aside and let her in, casting a questioning look in Val's direction. She rises from her armchair and comes over to greet our late visitor.
The girl lowers her hood and the light cast by the fire falls on delicate features and golden hair, which seems to glow by itself. She's evidently from a wealthy household, well-fed and dressed in fine materials. What is someone like her doing here, in the middle of the forest at the end of the world and miles away from any civilisation?
"Sit," Val ushers her to the nearest chair and then takes the one opposite. "Tell me what it is."
Our visitor looks at her for a second, and then back to me, still standing next to the door, uncertainty flaring up in her dark eyes.
"That's Julie. She's another kind of patient to me, you needn't worry about her.", Val explains calmly.
She nods hesitantly, her eyes still fixed on my emaciated features, and then slowly turns back to the old woman beside her.
"My friend Lizzie.", she begins, staring at her folded hands in her lap. "She was here a few months ago and told me about you. That you're good at..."
The girl seems to struggle for words, nervously kneading her fingers.
"I understand. How long has it been?"
Val's tone of voice hasn't changed in the slightest, but her eyebrows are slightly furrowed now.
"About ten or twelve weeks now, I realised it too late.", the girl responds, her voice barely a whisper. "I considered going to our local doctor, but-"
"Doctor!", the old woman scoffs with such sudden anger, that both the girl and I flinch at the harshness of her voice. "Fine doctors they are! Bunglers, all of them. They're just like their beloved leeches, they suck the life out of everyone they touch and the patient returns home in a worse state than before. I piss on those so-called healers!"
We both gape at her, completely puzzled by her outburst.
"Have you felt the quickening yet?", she continues as of nothing happened, now back in her professional calm voice.
"I... I'm not...I don't...think so."
The old woman's blue eyes narrow a bit, piercing the poor girl with her gaze.
"You don't think so?"
"I'm...I'm...", she continues stuttering, desperately looking in my direction for help. "I don't know, I might have."
Val heaves herself out of her chair and waves her hand in my direction, indicating me to follow her.
"I'll need your help with this.", she tells me while heading for the other end of the room.
"Help with what?"
She doesn't answer. With joint efforts, we heave the wooden table closer to the fire, where there's more light and Val spreads a tablecloth over it while sending me to fetch some water.
I struggle a bit with the heavy bucket and it takes me a few minutes to return to the living room, where Val is cleaning something that vaguely reminds me of the torture instruments they first tried in the dungeon, before discovering that drowning me was far more effective. She's not using water or soap to clean them like anyone would expect, but something from a bottle with a clear substance in it, strongly smelling like some spirit of a kind.
The girl watches her with terror, her hands clutching at her dress' fabric as if seeking shelter in it. There's an empty glass and a bottle of Brandy in front of her.
"Lizzie... Lizzie said that you only gave her a potion of a sort and... and..."
A loud snort escapes the old woman's mouth, almost rolling her eyes at that.
"Your friend Lizzie was in her fifth week and I'm not a witch. This potion was a mere mix of herbs to help bring down her flower, for which it's too late in your case. I'd risk your death with it."
I'm very slowly beginning to understand what it is she intends to do.
"Val!", I gasp in shock. "You can't be serious about this!"
Even Benjamin Church, who by far isn't a prime example for a good surgeon, would consider this madness. And the little knowledge of medicine I have comes from him.
"Why?", she snaps. "Because it's illegal? What other option does she have besides being publicly shamed for carrying a bastard child?"
Our visitor, who hasn't spoken a word since beginning to realise that she can't escape her situation, buries her face in her hands, her whole body shaking.
"Crying won't do you any good, child. Should've been more careful who you let into your bed."
I shoot an angry look at her, which she ignores. The girl herself doesn't seem to have heard her, or at least doesn't show any reaction to her words, now completely slumped in her chair.
Carefully, not to further disturb her, I lean over to Val and hiss: "You don't have the right to jump to conclusions when you have no idea what exactly happened!"
She casts me one of her half scornful, half amused glances she always puts on when she thinks I'm being stupid or naïve.
The words stick in my throat, heavy as lead. "Hasn't it crossed your mind that she might have been..."
I can't finish the sentence. It's such a simple word, yet impossible for me to pronounce. Saying it would mean to somehow acknowledge it, allow it back into my mind and life and accept the shame and humiliation and pain that comes with it.
To my surprise, she does not reply at all, not even with one of her usual snappy comments, just gives me a sharp look and then turns back to her patient.
"Now's the time to decide.", she calls over to her earnestly.
The girl really doesn't have much of a choice, so she reluctantly stands and walks over to the table. I can't help but admire her strength, there's fear in her eyes and her porcelain skin has turned ashen at the prospect of what she'll have to endure in the following hours, but she maintains a straight posture and I don't detect any tears on her cheeks.
Val commands her to take off most of her clothing and lie down on the table, where she begins to examine the girl's body, gently pressing her fingers into her belly and breasts, takes a look at her most visible veins and turns her head to the side to check her eyes. She does it all in silence while I stand next to her and wait for orders.
Each of her movements is experienced and resolute, she doesn't hesitate even for a second, as if she has done this a thousand times before.
Then come the fetters and my stomach immediately turns upside down at the sight of them. They're ropes, not the rusty chains they used on me, but I still press my teeth together at the sight of Val tying the girl to the table, legs and arms spread and without a chance of fighting or running away.
The water bucket in my hand suddenly feels incredibly heavy and I feel my throat tighten, a pair of invisible hands choking me.
I close my eyes, trying to blend out the memories that threaten to tear down the protective walls behind which I have locked them, flood back into my mind and sweep away what little sanity I still have left.
For a split second, I see myself there on the table, naked and scared and with my wet hair sticking to my skin and the tears mixing with the cold water.
In this instant, I'm both tormenter and victim at the same time.
I open my eyes again, taking a deep breath. This isn't the right time, I won't let it back into my mind, it's the only way I can prevent it from causing me any further harm.
Val has her instrument in hand, up close it looks somewhat like an iron skewer with a rather sharp end. The girl whimpers, staring at the ceiling with widened eyes, not able to hide her terror any longer.
I gently put my hands on her shoulders, ready to hold her down with what little strength I can muster.
Another deep breath.
Let her be strong, I beg, though I'm not sure who it is I'm asking.
Be strong.