We sit by the fireplace later on, Val yet again with her pipe, the second time this night, and I with a cold cup of tea, in complete silence, with her staring at the ceiling and me into the flames, both lost in thought.
The mystery of the barn has been lifted, it functions as a private chamber for her patients to recover from the procedure.
"Why not let her sleep upstairs?", I asked the old woman after putting the girl to bed. The poor creature was white as a sheet and refused to speak a word. She didn't really seem to be aware of our presence or what was happening to her, enduring it all without protest, her mind too occupied to even acknowledge the situation.
"I don't usually let patients sleep in my bed. It creates a healthy distance between me and them", she answered earnestly. "Losing a child is never easy, they need a bit of time to accustom themselves with the pain of their decision."
Didn't seem like much of a choice to me, but I know too little of the situation to hold the right to judge.
I tilted my head sideways, slightly raising my eyebrows. "Except me."
Val only shrugged. "Never had a situation like this before, where someone needed intensive care for such a long period of time."
To my shame, the surgical intervention isn't what keeps me occupied that late night, but a much more self-centred thought that leaves me no peace ever since it took root in my mind.
While I know it's the girl in the barn I should be thinking about, probably mourning the loss she suffered, I can't find the strength to focus on her, not with the unyielding question mark in my head.
It's unclear to me which moment of the indisputably eventful evening functioned as the exact trigger, only realising it's full impact when the feeling started gnawing at me, the doubt and the fear that unfurled earlier and immediately ate its way through my mind like a rapidly spreading disease.
It's the uncertainty, the what if, the fear of being proven right.
Val disappears behind another billow of smoke and I nearly open my mouth to ask her the question she knows the answer to and I don't, but it feels like I've lost my ability to speak.
She must've sensed my discomfort, because now, in her usual straightforward way, she bluntly says "If you keep struggling for words but never voice whatever it is that bothers you this much, you'll choke on them."
She's right. I take a deep breath, knowing that it's either now or never.
"You... Can you detect symptoms of pregnancy on any woman?"
That catches her off guard, her eyes widen in surprise and there's a glimpse of shock in them when she realises what my question might imply.
"I don't want your pity!", I hasten to add before she can say anything. "Just clarification."
She pinches her brows and narrows her eyes at me, seemingly having forgotten the pipe in her hand.
"You're not pregnant."
Relief, but not yet certainty.
"How can you be sure?"
Val very nearly rolls her eyes, but then decides against it and purses her lips instead. "Because you came here half-dead, wounded and malnourished, which is no state in which a woman can become pregnant. And because you have been here for months without showing a single sign of carrying a child."
The feeling still remains and my voice grows more and more desperate with each word.
"But what if the process was only paused? What if..."
"That's not how pregnancy works, child."
I don't care about her patronising behaviour anymore, it's nowhere near as important as the certainty I long for. "Please Val, can you have a look? Just a quick one?"
She sighs deeply and then nods.
"When was the last time you've bled?"
Her voice has changed back into the calm and professional tone of when she examined the girl earlier.
I reflect upon that carefully, going back in time step by step. When was the last time? The cell? Could very well be, the blood and pain would have just been another minor addition to the whirlpool of agony, probably swallowed by the dragon as well and thus going unnoticed by me.
"I'm not sure.", I confess to her. "It's all blurred."
She nods and sets the pipe aside. "Clothes off."
The examination takes much less time than the last, it seems safe from the start and she just does the rest for my sake.
But it helps. She explains the signs she's looking for and why it's absolutely impossible for me to share the girl's fate.
"It's not good that you haven't started bleeding again."
There's genuine concern on her face as she helps me back into my clothes.
"Why?", I respond, too occupied with my own relief to give her statement much thought.
"Because if it doesn't return..."
For the first time since I met her, she seems to be struggling for words. "It might be that you won't ever be able to bear children."
I nod mechanically, unsure what else to do. Some part of me must've expected it. Having children of my own was never something I much thought about, but there was always the possibility, the option of a family if I chose to. And now, I might even have lost that alternative. It's a hard blow, but it's something so unfamiliar that I don't know how to react to it, so I feign that I don't care and ban it from my mind, safe behind yet another wall. Val sees right through my pretence, but doesn't comment on it any further.
We sit there in a now uncomfortable silence for some time, before she unexpectedly changes the subject.
It seems to have been occupying her for some time, but apparently she never found the right time to address it.
"You have asked me many questions, but I'm still waiting for you to voice the one you've been asking yourself ever since you realised my face was the only one you could expect next to your bedside."
Haytham again, another unanswered question I don't want to talk about, not even with her. I turn my head away, not wanting her to see how painfully right she is. Even if I asked, to this she can't know the answer, however hard I might wish she did so I wouldn't have to face him personally to finally understand.
"I already know the answer to that one."
It's an outright lie, I don't know anything, I only suspect. The Order doesn't tolerate failures and I'll still have to wait for what future they have chosen for me, if they'll allow me to leave in peace or will need to make an example of me as a warning to all the other potential failures to be careful.
Where I was certain they just decided to let me die a few months ago, when I had traded all hope of forgiveness for despair, I'm completely in the dark now. Haytham sent Shay to retrieve me from the prison and bring me here, so he didn't want me to die just yet. Why he did it is still a mystery to me, but something tells me I'll find out sooner rather than later, because he never does anything without ulterior motives, and the fact that I'm still alive, sitting here right now staring at my cold cup of tea can only mean that he's not done with me just yet.
The letter arrives roughly a month later, a plain white envelope, which probably wouldn't raise any suspicion if it weren't for the unmistakable cross emblazoned on its red wax seal. It's delivered by an equally ordinary looking bearer, a scruffy, bearded frontiersman watching Val mistrustfully and only reluctantly handing over the letter after she reaches out her hand and gives him one of her best contemptuous looks. I feared and awaited it in equal measure, sitting opposite of Val now and watching her as she unseals and reads it, careful to maintain both a stony expression and straight posture to hide my inner turmoil. Conceal what you're truly thinking, she never misses a chance to advise me and I intend to listen to her.
The broken cross reminds me of my own cross, another seal of a kind affixed to my back, carrying Canterbury's message, a reminder to me and a warning to Haytham. He needs to know and he needs to understand. Because this message I cannot throw away or forget, I'll carry it with me until my last day on this earth, it will only fade when they finally bury it with my mortal remains. If someone bothers to bury me at all.
I resist the urge to snatch the paper from her fingers, or demand of her to hand it to me. She knows it's mine, but I don't have the privilege of privacy in this house.
There are two possible outcomes it can bring with it, either this is my official expulsion - if it were a death sentence they wouldn't send a letter but an executioner -, or an offer of a sort, which - since they not only bothered to free me from imprisonment, but also ensured my survival by bringing me here - I consider more likely. Not that I cherish any false hopes about my membership, I know the little reputation in the Order I possessed is damaged beyond repair, but at least they have the decency to offer me a chance to say my piece.
Val folds the letter, lifts her gaze and watches me with a thoughtful look on her face.
"They'll be here in a bit over a week."
She observes my reaction, looking for any clues about what emotions the news might provoke in me.
I can't help but lower my eyes, not daring to hold her gaze for too long. Truthfully, I don't know how I to respond to it myself. It's certainly sooner than expected, yet I feel neither excitement nor anxiety. Just a lump in my throat.
"Good that I have no bags to pack.", I answer dryly.
"You know you don't have to go.", she answers with an earnest expression on her face. "You're still young enough to go your own way, find a good ship and leave all of it behind."
It's a concept I also briefly considered when I realised they weren't finished with me yet. But however far I run, it's the memories and unanswered questions that will haunt me, not the Templar themselves.
"There's no point in escaping it."
Val leans back in her chair, shrugging but casting me a rather disapproving glance.
I know what she's thinking, that I'm weak for returning to the person she thinks responsible for all my misery, that I'm digging my own grave, a naive little girl running straight back into the lion's den. What she doesn't know is what agony having spent all those months asking silent questions and never getting an answer brought me, that this letter is the only way I might finally make my peace with what happened. And she doesn't know that it wasn't him who brought this upon me.
Ten days.
Such a short amount of time compared to the previous months of waiting, yet I suddenly wish they could've waited for a bit longer.
Nine days.
I lie awake every night with a pounding heart and an occupied mind, when there's enough time and silence around me for my thoughts to wander back to the approaching day of my departure, looming over the house like a gathering storm on the horizon.
Eight days.
Rain dances on the roof, pattering on the wood like fingers against a door.
The anxiety brings back the nightmares.
Five days.
The fast passing of time both scares and irritates me as it's usually the opposite case when you wait for something.
I spend more time in front of the mirror, trying to see past the months and mentally recreate how I looked like before my imprisonment, just to identify how drastic the changes must look like to someone who hasn't seen me since.
Three days.
Val is even more taciturn and on edge than usual and seems to be in a constant surly mood whenever I say something to her. I fear she's mad at me for returning to the Order after having spent so much time and effort with nursing me back to health after I've only just gotten away with my life, or hurt that I leave her all of a sudden, completely disregarding the months we lived together, that she might consider my choice as having been made too easily and swiftly for it to be well-conceived.
But she's never been one to talk if she doesn't feel like it, so I leave her be.
One day.
"I don't know how to thank you.", I tell her the evening before, drawing my knees to my chest in my usual spot next to the fireplace.
"You know I was paid.", she replies blankly, leaned back in her armchair, her face betraying neither emotion, nor a particular interest in making conversation, but this time I don't relent as easily as usual.
Not with this being my last chance to make her realise that I owe her much more than just my life.
"You were only paid to keep me alive."
I expect no answer and I don't receive one, she only casts me a sideways glance, her blue eyes appearing almost black in the fire's dim glow. Maybe there's some sort of recognition in them, or maybe just the usual indifference.
Either way, I've said all I wanted to say and by doing that, cut the last bond still tying me to this place, so I rise from the chair and go to bed without another word of farewell, spending another sleepless night with trying to sort out the thoughts ceaselessly racing through my brain.
Not that I'd find anything suitable to say to her anyway.
I'm not surprised it's Shay who comes to pick me up early in the next morning, in an inconspicuous wooden carriage pulled by two brown mares.
Another minor disappointment, but not unexpected.
The coachman turns out to be the same man who brought me the letter, presumably the only one of our agents familiar with this remote area.
Val is also already awake and eyeing the two men with her usual unfriendliness, lingering in the doorframe.
Shay seems strangely relieved when he sees me waiting there, as if he expected to find a corpse rather than a living being upon his arrival.
"You look much better."
It's more a statement than a compliment. I must look much better than the day he found me, filthy and half-dead, wearing nothing but the equally filthy, torn rags, hardly covering my emaciated body, my hair a wild, matted mess. Barely even human.
"I've been in good hands."
He looks like he sincerely doubts that, but doesn't comment on it any further.
The old woman clears her throat behind me and wordlessly stretches out a hand. Shay reaches into his pocket and produces a small pouch, handing it to her.
She immediately opens it and drops a few coins into her palm, scrutinising them before nodding and putting them away again, completely ignoring Shay and turning to me instead.
"You can tell your Grand Master our debt is settled, payment or no."
I don't bother asking her what debt she's talking about, just nod.
"I won't forget this.", I tell her, following a need to give my last words to her some sort of significance.
"Of course you will, on your way now."
It might just be a figment of my imagination, but her tone doesn't seem as harsh as usual, a soft note in it that she doesn't quite manage to hide.
In this fraction of a second when our eyes meet, I'm sure she wants to say something, a few words of appreciation or farewell, but she just blinks and quickly turns away, locking the door behind her.
Shay casts me a quick, questioning look, his eyebrows slightly raised, but fortunately doesn't say anything.
"Let's go.", I murmur, tightening my grip on the cane until my knuckles turn white and walk over to the coach.
The single step leading into its interior turns out to be too high for my feeble and shaky legs and even after the weeks of walking exercise, I don't manage it on my own.
Shay quietly offers me a hand and I hesitantly take it, immediately noticing how careful he is to maintain a certain distance to me, his grip gentle and loose enough for me to easily withdraw my hand should I want to.
He waits until I'm seated and then climbs in and sits down opposite of me, each of his movements keen on avoiding skin contact, or even coming too close to me.
What does he think will happen if he does? What do I think will happen?
It's not hard to figure out why he might behave this way. The familiar sense of shame and humiliation sweeps through me and I quickly avert my eyes, turning my head away and staring out of the window instead, for fear that he might see the chaos behind my controlled facade if I dare meet his gaze for too long.
Does he know?
How could he? No one but me and Val know and I'm not even sure she figured out the whole truth, just the parts obvious to her. But she wasn't in the cell, she didn't see me there. So I should rather ask myself how much he might know.
The water still remains my most well-kept secret, mine and the dragon's. And no one else can know of it. I close my eyes and search for him, the sleeping beast inside of me, the ever-present guardian, but I fail, however hard I try to wake him. The pain would be an acceptable price to pay if it only took away the anxiety.
But it doesn't so I clench my jaws and continue to stubbornly keep my eyes fixed on the passing landscape, watching the woods slowly turn into hills and smaller villages, as the rising sun slowly dispels the cold morning fog.
To my relief, Shay doesn't force any conversation, pretending to sleep instead. Considering how much we're shaken by even the smallest bump in the rocky, uneven road the coach furiously rattles over, I don't think it very likely for him to actually manage to get some rest on this trip, but am beyond grateful that he found a way of granting me at least some bit of comfort despite being locked in a rather confined space with him.
We cross a bridge over a torrential river, after which the narrow, rocky road merges into to a much larger and more passable one, on which we stay for some time until the coachman stops at a small station to replace the exhausted horses with new ones.
I doze off a few times, but immediately feel the shadows grasp for me, so I force myself to stay awake, pull up my knees to my chest and lean my head against the hard wood in an attempt to find some comfort. My thoughts wander off to the last times I travelled in such a vehicle, a long time ago. Having been unconscious the whole journey, I don't remember how I was brought to Val, so that doesn't really count. I'll have go back even further, past the blurry weeks of locked-up darkness. There's a brief flicker of a memory, shrouded in pain and blindness, the rattle of hooves and unfamiliar voices dragging me through the dark. The arrival. And before that? Another arrival, when I was still blinded by childish dreams of acknowledgement and praise.
Thinking about it, each arrival also goes hand-in-hand with a departure, so your view on the journey therefore solely depends on how much you're looking forward to what awaits you on the end of it. A struggle between excitement and sorrow, whichever outweighs ultimately influencing your overall state of mind.
And which of the two is it now?
I ponder that question for a while, before reaching the conclusion that it's either the perfect balance between the two, or neither excitement nor sorrow that I feel. I don't know what I should grieve, not having lost anything by getting on this coach, but don't have much to particularly look forward to either. Except maybe finally coming to an end with all of what's happened and perhaps even managing to fight off the demons haunting me at night.
We pass a few other coaches and riders on horseback and I immediately duck my head away. The months of secludedness with only the old woman as company have created such a strong feeling of disconnection in me that the world around us could just as well have stopped existing, and the sight of so many strangers at once makes me almost shy away from it, like the ever-present instinct of distancing yourself when you're in a group of people you know you'll never belong with. It feels utterly strange to see these ordinary people on their ways, oblivious to what life might have in store for them and content in going about their everyday business. The sight scratches and itches like an uncomfortable garment, everything in me resists the insight that while my life was completely shattered, the world just kept spinning for everyone else.
And yes, if I travelled back in time to that fateful day I first laid eyes on the Canterbury estate, it could just as well be me in one of those coaches, unknowing of the storm looming on the horizon.
What a wonderful day it had been, warm and friendly, full of hopes and expectations.
I had wondered about my task and how long it might take me to accomplish it, what might await me at my destination and what people I would have to deal with. Not a single thought was wasted on the possibility of failure.
If it hadn't been for Gus, I probably would've gotten impatient and ruined the mission even earlier than I did, out of boredom or ignorance.
My eyes shoot open and the air in my lungs suddenly feels incredibly thick and heavy. Shame constricts my throat and I struggle to breathe.
How could I forget about him?
How didn't I, after all this time, spend a single thought to what might have happened to him? Was I really so completely wrapped up in the layers of my own self-pity, that I not once considered his fate?
"Gus!", I all but yell, abruptly snapping Shay out of his slumberous state of contemplation.
Ignoring his bewildered expression, I lean forward, nearly going as far as grabbing his lapels in my urge for an answer.
"Augustus Livingstone, the other agent I worked with, the one I gave the letters to!"
He pinches his eyebrows in confusion, still completely in the dark about what exactly I expect him to say.
"Aye?"
"Do you know what happened to him? Did he manage to get out of there in time?"
Please let him be alive.
Shay doesn't say anything for a moment, looking for words, but not quite finding them. In the end, he just quietly says. "I don't know, lass. Never heard that name before."
I slump back into my seat and suddenly wish I never opened my mouth in the first place.
"I'm sorry.", he says and I believe him, though I don't know what exactly he's sorry for. With the Rite's increasing number of members, the likelihood of someone of his rank knowing every single one of the minor agents is more than improbable.
"Shouldn't have asked. Not your fault.", I mumble under my breath, keeping my eyes fixed on the dirt covering my shoes.
"Ain't yours either."
I chuckle humourlessly. "How can you know?"
As expected, he remains silent and I return to staring out of the window.
They didn't catch Gus after Canterbury sent his guards after him, perhaps he somehow managed to flee. Or they found him afterwards, when I had already been taken care of.
I don't dare to be optimistic anymore, it's easier this way than to embrace the possibility of yet another disappointment.
Maybe I should get used to losing people, I think bitterly, but know that this won't make the guilt gnawing at me disappear. That it won't vanish just because some part of me wants it to, no matter how hard I try to ban it from my thoughts or convince myself not to care, and that this, however often I might experience it, won't ever change.
We reach the port of Edenton by nightfall and I only now realise how far away they had brought me from the Canterbury estate after I fell from favour.
The Morrigan is gently bobbing on the relatively calm water, the whole port and sea stretching to the horizon bathed in the warm light of a breathtaking sunset, painting the sky and water in hues of orange and yellow. Far above our heads, where the sun's fiery glow yields to the night's dark blue sky and the clouds wear a deep shade of red, the first stars have appeared, silently taking their predecessor's place in the sky.
I stand there for a moment, comfortably leaning on my cane and drinking in every detail of the stunning sight. A year ago, I probably wouldn't have spared much of a thought about it, there would always be other sunsets following, other times to simply enjoy the things I took for granted. But now, after barely having escaped death's cold embrace, everything is a gift to me, a privilege I might never be able to enjoy again.
The thought of once again entering a ship and exposing myself to the temperament of the endless floods earned me some sleepless nights in the past week and I'm growing more nervous by the minute, while I slowly follow Shay through the clutter of market stalls, taverns and a few dilapidated barracks. There aren't many people left on the streets, only the last few traders, still busy with packing away their goods and closing their stalls, not paying us much attention. One of them reaches for my hand to offer me a bracelet, but quickly lets go after he notices my panic-stricken look and feeble attempts to free myself from his grip.
I quickly turn away and almost run to catch up with Shay, my heart drumming in my chest and only my cane preventing my knees from buckling under my weight.
The short distance from where the coach dropped us off to the docks is the longest I walked in months and something I didn't consider beforehand.
However much I force my aching legs and burning lungs to hurry, it feels as if he's running and impossible for me to close the distance between us, though in reality it's more of a stroll for him. He doesn't seem to realise, not looking back once to check if I'm still there, his thoughts probably somewhere else.
Too slow.
I grit my teeth and quicken my pace a bit more, mentally thanking Val for the cane functioning as my third and most reliable leg.
The small shacks and empty stalls give way to the piers connecting land to water at last and I can suddenly feel the slightly swinging wooden planks beneath my feet and the rhythmical sound of the waves underneath them, softly breaking on the shore.
The world around me starts swaying.
I take a deep breath and concentrate on setting one foot in front of the other, the cane's short tap always in between, assuring me, reminding me that it's time for another step forward.
There's still too many differences for my walls to completely collapse, but I feel them crumble and groan as the memories inside them try to escape with increasing force.
It's different, Julie.
No bonds restrict me save my own weakness and there's still too much light to really fit the raven-black darkness Angus threw me into when he tied me to his chair, yet I feel dizzier with each step, my head starts spinning and I nearly lose my footing.
The taste of blood and musty smell of the cell replaced by a fresh, salty breeze, caressing my cheek.
Step. Tap. Next step.
The pier is at least sixteen feet wide and the rational part of my brain keeps reassuring my shaking legs that there is no possibility to fall off of it as long as I keep walking in the middle, but the irrational part insists that I'm walking on a rope over a gaping abyss, and that one misstep will immediately lead to my death.
Keep your breathing under control.
I wonder who's voice it is I hear in my head.
Each step more cautions than the previous one.
Tap.
One foot's heel follow the other's toes in a perfect line.
Breathe.
Tap.
Pause.
I lift my head and see her magnificent red sails, the sun's dying light setting them on fire.
Exhale.
"Everything alright?", Shay asks in a distracted voice, waiting for me to walk over the plank connecting the docks to the Morrigan's deck.
I manage a nod and peer over the edge at the waves, completely entranced by the sensation seizing me at the sight of them.
It feels like standing on a bridge and leaning over the railing, when you stare into the gaping chasm and suddenly begin to hallucinate how it would be like to jump, a small part of you craving it.
A sort of vertiginous excitement rolling over you as you stare and imagine, but never really dare to take that final step forward.
This is what the sight of the deep, dark water beneath my feet causes me to feel, a fierce curiosity of what would happen if I jumped. Would it be like the prison, or maybe even somehow liberating or peaceful? Not that I'm brave enough to find out.
Shay must've warned the crew what to expect beforehand, they all go to great efforts to be as nice and considerative as possible, but I still see the shocked and pitiful glances they exchange when they think I'm not looking. Even Gist's usual carefree and playful attitude seems forced, his smile not quite reaching his eyes, the "Love the new haircut!" insincere.
I hate the way they look at me, like a badly injured animal one can only shoot dead to free of its pain.
There's a comfortable spot on the rear deck, far away from the others, where I sit down and watch the sun descend into its watery grave. The reflection in the water makes it look like there are two suns moving towards each other, until they merge into one when it reaches the horizon. For a brief moment, the two halves form one whole again, then it disappears and the night takes full control. The soft breeze from before has transformed into a chilly gust and I feel gooseflesh crawling up my skin like a thousand insects.
I'm not yet ready to retire below deck, where there's little to no light and the air stuffy. Out here I have the moon and stars, the fresh air and the rhythmical sound of the waves around me. And I'm practically alone, most of the sailors having retired to their hammocks by now.
The crow's nest thrones on its mast, calling for me to climb up into its arms, so close but impossible to reach.
What if I'll never climb a mast again?
I consider getting myself a blanket and sleeping outside, but quickly decide against it. The weather on the high seas can be treacherous and I can't risk falling ill in my momentary weak state, for a little cold could very well be the end of me now. Though I'd probably appreciate the irony of it, having survived months of pain and suffering only to succumb to a simple cough.
In the end, my stubbornness quickly yields to the cold and I hesitantly make my way below deck, my feet growing heavier with every step downwards and an iron fist choking me.
Was the air down here always so stuffy?
I weave my way through the cramped rows of hammocks, softly so I wouldn't wake any of the sleeping sailors, their silhouettes hardly visible in the dark.
The smell of salt mixes with the odour of the unwashed men and wet wood, the air so thick that I only take shallow, hasty breaths.
Even my sleeping spot seems more narrow and unfriendly than before.
It takes me four attempts until I manage to climb into it and then I lie there, panting and with my hair and clothing sticking to my sweaty skin, staring into the dying light of a small oil lamp a couple of feet away, which casts flickering shadows on the walls.
Nausea crawls up my throat.
Pull yourself together. Breathe. Take control.
I close my eyes, the loud snoring around me is almost like a soothing lullaby after the months and months of deafening silence.
It's worse than expected, I'm dead tired, but it takes me hours to finally fall asleep, my dreams haunted by the clicking of belts and Newt's sardonic laughter.
And the bonds again. Twisting my limbs into unnatural positions, pressing me back in the chair, tightening with my efforts to escape them while the beast roars and engulfs me in pain.
Restraining me while a thousand hands crawl over my body like spiders, holding me down and searing my skin with their touches.
I scream and scream to blend out his voice, telling me the same thing over and over again.
Turn around.
Turn around.
Turn around.
I'm awake and I know I'm back in the cell, that everything was just a foolish dream, another creation of a mind irredeemably infected with a rapidly spreading madness.
But I don't want to see it, want to believe my own lies, turn my head away from the truth of the torchlight on the wall and fight the hands holding me down.
I kick and scream and try to see them clearly, but my vision's too blurry and my mind too churned up, my ears ringing with the sound of tearing fabric and I kick harder until my leg is suddenly free and some of the spiders vanish and I twist and turn my body and I fall, free of the the ties and the chair gone and I'm flying, nothing but air around me, nothing but air touching me, nothing but air holding me.
I hit the ground hard, a sharp pain in my shoulder, but I ignore it because I know that if stop, the spiders will come back, their sweaty, warm bodies on my skin, their legs tearing into my flesh and that this time I won't escape them, they will be prepared and they'll finish what they started.
My legs won't carry me and my eyes won't let me see, so I blindly crawl into the darkness, away from the torch and the cell and the agony waiting there for me, until my searching fingers meet a solid wall and I know that I have lost, that there is no way to for me to escape this everlasting hell and that only death's gentle grace will free me of it.
So I curl up against the wall, hide my face behind my legs and wait for my tears to dry and the pain to end. And I listen. Muffled voices in the dark, steps. A light illuminating my closed eyelids in red.
They're coming for me.
My own sobs not succeeding in blending out the other noises.
At least you've stopped screaming, maybe they won't find you for a time.
Time is worthless.
They're still there, lingering, waiting, neither stepping forward, nor backing away.
Spiders on a leash.
But who's on the other end of it?
Get the Cap'n.
I only now realise that I'm shaking.
The red intensifies, shining through my fingers, too bright for me to block it.
Closer.
As long as I keep my eyes closed, there's still a chance that none of it is true. Hearing is less reliable than seeing, blindness makes it less real.
Step away.
I try to press my arms onto my ears without having to move my hands away from my eyes, it's getting harder and harder to breathe. Sharp, desperate inhales followed by unrhythmical, broken exhales.
Something is blocking the light, it's suddenly dark again.
Julie.
Pause.
The word is tugging at the sleeves of my mind, trying to pull me back and brutally reveal the truth I'm so eager to avoid.
Julie, look at me.
I open my eyes and peer through my fingers.
They're the only bars in the room.
My face is wet and sticky, the scene before me strangely blurry and unfocused.
I blink a few times.
A dark silhouette crouching on the floor, more of them huddled in the back, dust dancing in the warm light of the oil lamp.
A lamp, not a torch.
Something is wrong.
I stare down at the torn linen in my lap.
Everything is wrong.
Look at me.
I lower my hands and look at him.
"Do you know where you are?"
A short nod is all I can muster, keeping my gaze fixed on my lap.
"Good. Can you stand?"
My fingers dig into the wood behind me as I pull myself onto my feet, shaking.
"Make way."
The sailors all step aside, maintaining a safe distance to me while I slowly follow him, head still lowered so that my hair can hide my face.
I try to blend out their voices, yet it's not hard to guess what it is they're whispering to each other.
The cold of the night cuts into my wet face like a knife, intensified by the thin film of sweat covering my body.
Blood, sweat and tears.
I suck it in as if having been under water for too long. It tastes too good after the stuffy uncomfortableness below deck.
"Sit."
The last time I stood here and looked up to the stars was almost a year ago.
I lean my back against the railing and focus on breathing, banning everything else from my mind.
Inhale, exhale, inhale.
My hands still firmly clutch the torn covers, my knuckles showing white.
Exhale.
"Here."
A blanket and a mug, placed before me.
"What is it?"
My voice sounds so fragile that it might break if I speak too loudly. Splinter into a million pieces and leave me forever mute. Would I still be expected to answer to him?
"Rum. It'll do you good."
Inhale.
I take a sip. It tastes awful, burns my mouth and throat. I take another.
Exhale.
"I think I'm going mad.", I say, louder now, testing.
He shrugs nonchalantly. "Madness is just another way of dealing with the world as it is."
Not the answer I expected.
My belly feels warm.
Inhale.
I have nothing to lose.
"If Haytham asked you to kill rather than rescue me, would you have done it?"
He gives me a strange look, probably asking himself what's gotten into me.
"Not without question."
"Why?"
"Why?", he repeats, his voice slightly raised. "Because I was never a great advocate of senseless violence and killing. Where are all those questions coming from?"
That's interesting. Haytham's best and most efficient agent is opposed to killing, maybe not in general but of those he deems weak or not deserving of his blade.
Silence again.
Exhale.
"I don't know what to expect."
"What are you scared of?"
"Yet another disappointment."
I can hardly see his face, he's leaning against the mast, standing in its shadow.
Another sip. The alcohol burns its way down my throat, but my tense limbs slowly begin to ease again.
"Why expect anything then?"
No wonder Haytham likes him so much.
His answers follow a pattern, a schooled exchange of questions serving as answers,
concealing his real thoughts from me and therefore not exposing himself in any way, however hard I try to read him. An excellent choice for the Order.
I find myself wondering what might really be going on behind the mask of his face and the strange look in his eyes. It always brings me back to the same questions. Why is he here again? And of course, why isn't the person I yearn for and fear to see at the same time. Shay's presence only further emphasises Haytham's absence.
But what if the answers to them aren't as satisfactory as I wish them to be? Maybe Haytham simply had business of his own and Shay was the best choice because of his ship and experience, both at sea and in combat? Are my expectations just wishful thinking?
Another sip, so I don't have to look at him.
"You can take my cabin until we reach New York."
Why do you care?
"That won't be necessary, thank you."
"Oh come on, Julie, "
His voice now spiced with a pinch of impatience. "We both know just how necessary it is."
After the incident tonight, my cards are stacked against me.
"Where will you sleep?"
That earns me an amused snort. "Now don't you worry about me, lassie."
I don't know how else to tell him, but it has been gnawing at me all the time, so I just blurt it out.
"I'm sorry."
He sighs.
"You really need to stop apologising for things you're not responsible for."
Oh, that again.
"I'm serious, if you hadn't-"
"No."
Is there anger in his voice?
"This is nothing you should have to thank me for, or anyone else for the matter."
Why is he so edgy every time this comes up? Is he hiding something from me?
I know it's useless to ask him these questions, so I remain silent and enjoy the feeling of the night breeze caressing my face.
Shay patiently waits for me to finish my drink and then gets up. He hesitates for a second or two, but then offers me his hand to help me on my feet.
I take it.
"I'll get you your cane."
Shaking my head, I take a step towards the cabin located below the quarter deck. "I can manage short-distance walks without it."
It's surprisingly cosy in there, though some of the Templar-centred decoration seems to laugh in my face. The primary colours are shades of dark red, which fit in well with the wooden furniture, with only a few golden spatters here and there, just enough to compliment the room without degenerating into the extravagant.
Maps and other rolls of parchment are scattered across the tables, books piled up against the walls and a few pieces of clothing are showing from the open drawers they were mindlessly stuffed into, but the room is still pleasantly clean and orderly compared to the mess below deck.
Tidy, but not uncomfortably so.
"Make yourself at home!"
He jokingly gestures as if we just entered the lounge of some rich mansion and subtly kicks one of the open drawers shut.
"You don't have to hide your socks from me.", I tell him in a flat voice, but not without a silent smile.
That earns me a grin and a pair of raised eyebrows and the atmosphere suddenly seems to have eased a bit.
"Do you need anything else?"
"No, tha-", I start, but then swiftly turn it into. "No, I've everything I need."
"Quick learner, eh? Get some sleep, lass. See you tomorrow."
He's almost out the door when I call out after him. "Shay?"
His head reappears in the doorframe. "Aye?"
The heavy words are hard to voice, but I force myself to do it anyway. "It... Means a lot to me that you haven't asked about what happened in the cell and-."
I struggle to look at him, anxious about what I might find there. Why have I never realised how hard it is to look someone in the eye before?
The sound of the waves outside fill our silence and when I finally dare to lift my gaze there's not contempt or pity in his eyes, but sadness.
"You might not believe me right now,", he all but whispers. "But you'll learn to live with it after a while, and then it'll get better."
And then he's gone.
He's sitting on the chair behind the desk, legs crossed, with an open book in his lap and the ever-present tricorne on his head.
The same boots, coat, neatly tied-back hair and blank expression as always.
Not a single thing about him different than the last time I saw him.
I stare at him in confusion, both wishing and fearing for him to speak, uncertain how to approach the situation myself.
This whole scene is so strikingly familiar that it threatens my grip on reality. Somehow, my brain fails to comprehend how he, after all of what's happened, remains so unchanged. How it is possible that he still looks and behaves the exact same way as before, as if the past year was only a long and vivid dream from which I'll wake up unscarred and light-hearted.
Of course, I'm completely aware of how ridiculous I'm being. Because for him, this probably has been a more or less ordinary year and he has absolutely no reason to change anything from his outward appearance to his behaviour, yet I can't help but feel a little left out by how casually he sits there, reading his book as if it were just another rainy Friday afternoon at the Green Dragon.
Haytham finally lifts his eyes from the page, meeting mine with his usual, calm and thoughtful look in them.
He's not surprised, I've no doubt he knew I was awake the second I opened my eyes, but seems to have left me some time to gather myself and make the first move.
Which I don't.
I've probably imagined this scenario about a thousand times during my months of imprisonment and recovery, always screaming and yelling and accusing him of just about everything I could think of and it made me feel a bit better then, as if I'd gotten a little justice for what I went through, but now that I'm finally alone with him, it all feels wrong. It's not anger that consumes me, but sadness. Seeing him like this, in person before me, only intensifies my grief for the life that I've lost and the one that I could've had.
I'm not mourning my status as a Templar, but the piece of me I left behind in the cell.
He closes his book, carefully puts it on the desk and leans back in his chair, all without breaking eye contact. After another minute of silence in which it becomes adequately clear that I won't be the one to open my mouth first, Haytham heaves a deep sigh, raises his chin a bit and says: "You look terrible."
It's a cheap way of starting a conversation, an unnecessary statement which doesn't require any answer from me and he knows it. Perhaps he doesn't know what else to say or perhaps he just doesn't care.
I don't bother responding, just lift myself from the mattress into a sitting position and return his gaze, trying to read his face.
"Where were you, Haytham?", I ask him in a quiet, apathetic voice. Not giving him the satisfaction of seeing my weakness is the least I can do.
"Where was I when?"
He's playing games. I probably shouldn't be surprised.
"Three months. I was in that dungeon for three months. Can you even begin to imagine how much time that is? How long it feels like?"
The awaited anger is finally flaring up in my chest, it raises my voice and narrows my eyes.
Haytham still hides behind his mask of indifference, maintaining his calm and collected tone.
"Do you expect me to personally remedy every mission gone awry, Julie? You should know better than blame me for things I took no responsibility in."
There's an underlying accusation, a drop of sourness in his reply and I know exactly what he's implying.
I clench my teeth and look away, because he's right, in the end, I've got no one else but myself to blame for what happened. But the disappointment keeps gnawing at me however hard I try to convince myself that he had no obligation to rescue me at all.
I did it because of you, I want to scream at him. And the fact that you're sitting here right now means it wasn't all in vain.
"To answer your question.", he continues. "I mostly spent those months chasing down our misguided brothers."
I look up in surprise.
"How did you-"
It dawns upon me before I finish the sentence. "Augustus."
Haytham nods, seemingly pleased. "It's not his real name, of course, but yes, he was the initiator."
"So he's alive."
A weight I long carried finally lifts from my mind, relief flooding my veins and warmth spreading in my chest.
"He escaped and stayed hidden for a while before returning to New York to report what had happened. Didn't know the details of course, but figured out enough on his own to, together with your letters, give enough cause for an investigation."
Something still doesn't add up.
"How did you find out about the conspiracy though? He wasn't there when..."
When I failed.
"...found out."
His grey eyes still fixed on my face, he stays silent for a while, as if carefully considering if I am trustworthy enough for this information.
"Through questioning Alexander himself."
My eyes widen in shock. "You found Canterbury?"
"He's been taken care of, together with most of his co-conspirators. Some have fled the country but I doubt any of them will pose a great danger to our Rite anytime soon, now that their puppet master has been put out of commission."
Haytham pauses for a second, observing my reaction to the news, then continues. "It took us almost two months to find him, but he, fortunately, possessed a rather low tolerance for pain and ended up rather cooperative soon after his capture."
I should've expected them to torture him, but the thought still leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
"This seems to bother you."
It shouldn't. If they hadn't, I wouldn't be here right now but rotting in that cell, but it doesn't feel like justice at all, just another corpse to add to the heap.
"I've lost the right to judge.", I reply, leaning my back against the wood behind me.
The privilege of an opinion someone would bother to listen to.
He doesn't answer, just stands and starts pacing the room, hands clasped behind his back.
I narrow my eyes, watching him in silence as he halts in front of the door, leans forward, - I'm almost certain he's about to leave - reaches out a hand and picks up my wooden cane from where I left it and turns it in his hands, examining it like some exotic animal.
"I trust Val treated you well?"
A swift change of topic, as if we were only talking about the weather and he grew bored of it.
Another loose end.
"How do you know her?"
"She wouldn't tell, would she?"
There's a slight smirk on his face, he seems to have expected the old woman to keep her secrets. I consider telling him to leave her be, but then, in a moment of bitter self-satisfaction, I remember how she never granted me any privacy.
"She says she considers your debt to be settled, no matter the payment."
He chuckles, turning back to me with the cane still in hand. "Does she? How interesting."
"What debt, Haytham?"
"I once inadvertently saved her life, and condemned it at the same time."
He starts pacing the room again. "She used to work as a midwife in a village buried in the heart of Pennsylvania, where she owned a small apothecary of a sort, having gathered excessive knowledge of medicinal herbs, also due to her encounters with the local Natives. I met her by accident when I was there during the campaign on Fort Duquesne. She had a quarrel with a soldier, one of Edward Braddock's men and somehow managed to stab out one of his eyes when he attacked her, but couldn't bring herself to finish what she started. As it happens, I needed to borrow a uniform. So I helped her out."
He makes it sounds as if he politely asked the soldier to leave her be, while everyone who knows him can say with certainty what 'help out' usually means.
"Unfortunately, but predictably.", he continues his tale. "Val was the one accused and tried of his murder, although I made sure his body wouldn't be found. They still found her guilty and sentenced her to death."
This takes me aback, it's rather uncommon for Haytham to bother about such insignificances if there's nothing to be gained from it. The trick is to find out, what the advantage was.
If I asked, he wouldn't answer me anyway.
"She was brought to the cabin in the woods to recover from her time in prison, a safe distance away from her hometown and any prying eyes. For whatever reason, she chose to remain there rather than return to a more civilised life."
He's pretending not to care or understand, but both he and I can very well assume why the old woman chose to stay in her lonely chalet, cut off from any remainder of the life she had led, except continuing a grotesque version of her previous work. I remember the look on her face when she mentioned the intense grief of losing a child, was it because she spoke from experience?
She couldn't let go of what she had lost and she couldn't move away out of fear of forging new experiences which might cover the old. And she felt indebted to Haytham, the man who saved her life and took it from her at the same time. So she stayed, stuck in the frontier in between a past she never stopped mourning and a future she feared too much to accept.
I still suspect there to be more, the issue seemed to be far more personal judging from Val's reaction, but I don't even attempt to ask him about it, knowing he'll either deny it or ignore the question like he always does when he doesn't want to give straight answers.
During the last few months, where I replayed this scenario over and over again in my head, I probably came up with at least a thousand other questions I had for him, but now that I finally have the opportunity to ask them, my head is empty like a blank sheet of paper and the further I reach for them, the more they slip away from me.
I frantically search for another topic, because I fear that if I do not keep the conversation going, he will leave and I probably won't ever have the opportunity to ask all of the questions I don't remember or dare saying out loud just yet.
In the end, I ask him the only thing I can think of.
"Why send Shay of all people?"
It's neither important, nor relevant, but something I briefly thought about during my time with Val and on the way back.
Haytham seems utterly unimpressed by that question, he immediately answers with a spark of impatience flaring up in his voice.
"Because he's my best field agent and, considering of how fast some loyalties in our Order seem to change as of late, one of the few people I can still trust not to betray me. Why are you asking?"
"I just assumed he'd have business of greater importance than escorting me from one place to the next."
Now he's really annoyed, he doesn't really show, but there are little signs of it I can only recognise because I've seen them on him countless times during meetings with various other members or informants, or caused by myself when I was being childish or stubborn or made a dumb mistake during our training sessions.
"Drowning yourself in self-pity neither helps, nor suits you."
Checkmate, I've lost. There's no point in denying it.
I avoid his gaze and concentrate on fiddling with a loose thread in the blanket, intent on keeping my eyes fixed on my fingers rather than him.
Haytham sighs deeply, massaging his temples. After a while in stubborn silence, he says: "Were that all of your questions?"
I only nod in response.
"Then I have one for you too."
No. I know exactly what he wants me to tell him. He knows all of what happened that evening, so there's only one thing left to ask.
"What happened to you?"
He won't tolerate no as an answer, but I'd rather risk his anger than tear down the wall. I'm too scared of what's behind it and what that will do to me. Not just breaking down in front of him, my composed facade crumbling and revealing the ugly truth beneath it, not even appearing weak, but the shame and humiliation I know will come with it, the disgust and the strangeness of my own body and not being able to look at myself in the mirror again.
I bury my face in my hands, violently shaking my head, my body trembling.
"I can't tell you.", I whisper soundlessly. "Please... Please don't ask me to."
He's silent and I can only imagine the condescending look he's certainly wearing on his face at the sorry sight I must be right now, but I don't dare look at him the risk of seeing my suspicions confirmed.
I press my fingers against my eyes until sparks dance in front of them, a marvellous display of exploding fireworks reserved only for me alone.
And I wait for him to leave, listen for steps and the creaking wood, the door being opened and shut again and the deafening silence of loneliness.
But I don't hear any of those things, just his quiet, steady breathing.
In the end, it's me who breaks the silence, deciding to quit delaying the inevitable.
"Will you allow me to collect my things before I leave?"
After I receive no answer, I reluctantly add. "Only a few, of course. I won't take the weapons."
He turns around, head held high and his hands clasped behind his back. Everything about him radiates the usual authority he seems to naturally carry, that often causes other people to at the very least respectfully lower their gaze as they pass by, even if they're not associated with the Templars and therefore don't know him or his importance within the Rite.
His stern, distanced collectedness, always so carefully clear of any emotion, never really bothered me until this point, it simply belonged to him, was what accentuated and characterised him, was what he was from the beginning. I never even thought about what he might hide behind the mask of his blank expression before, never wondered if he might have walls of his own and if there are times where those crumble as well.
Haytham reaches into the inside pocket of his coat and takes a few steps forward until he's standing right in front of the bed and I have to raise my head to meet his gaze.
He stretches out his hand. At first, I think he offers it to me to help me get up, but quickly realise that his hand is closed, holding out a small object. I hesitate for a small second, then open my palm and allow him to drop something into it.
"Your choice.", he says quietly.
I trail my finger along the smooth edges of the ring and the engraved cross in it, so painfully familiar and yet so strange to hold again. It's clear what the gesture means and what this little object carries with itself, almost whispering to me, as if it waited for my return to remind me of my immutable allegiance.
Val insisted that I could find my own path, build my own future outside the Order, live my own life. That there were alternatives for me, options and choices, but I don't see them. All of them would eventually lead to me needing to find a husband, another caretaker I'd depend on, another prison of a kind. Not that this would come easy anyway, considering my age and shape, there'd be enough more appealing women at every decent man's disposal than me. And even the thought of marriage scratches at doors I don't want to open, responsibilities I can't bear.
However unexpected it might be, it's not a hard choice. There's no doubt gnawing at me when I slip the ring onto my finger. It didn't perfectly fit me before, having belonged to a man with a bigger hand than mine, but now my finger looks like a child's in it and I quickly put it onto my thumb instead, where it at least doesn't immediately fall off when I lower my hand. I'll have to wear it on a chain around my neck from now on if I don't want to risk losing it.
"How did you find it?", I ask him out of interest, observing how the metal reflects the light when I turn my hand from one side to the other. "I hid it in my room."
Haytham scoffs, picking up the cane from the desk again. "Sometimes the most obvious hiding places are the hardest to find, and sometimes they are simply obvious."
He leans it against the bed and gives it a last pitiful look. "You'll have a proper replacement for this.", he adds and turns away, taking the few steps towards the door, where he turns around again, eyes dark and slightly narrowed.
"Welcome back, Julie."
The door falls shut behind him and even after he's gone I don't dare to move for a long while, scared that I might still somehow ruin the moment and make him reconsider his decision, searching for the satisfaction I longed for, but only find myself more confused than before, with the questions and unspoken words and a ring that no longer fits me.