Strange hands held him down as another set took his hidden blade him. Strange voices spoke in soothing tones, trying to say that they were not going to hurt him, and that they were taking the blade so he would not be hurt further.

Liars! If they wanted to help him, why did they take his sword and pistols from him? They were going to attack him, to try and kill him. He hurt everywhere and it was freezing.

They forced him to drink some foul-smelling and even worse tasting liquid. They said that it would help him feel better, to get better. He drank it only because his throat was so dry and hot it burned.

They were removing his bandages – while holding him down, so that he could not stop them. Where had his strength gone? He should be able to overcome two sets of strange hands… It was so, so cold.

More foul liquid, and they took the bandages away again. The pain was lessening, and the awful liquid helped to calm his throbbing head, and so Haytham quietly took the drink, submitting to the changing of the bandages.

But he watched them. He watched them very closely, and hissed a little, his second sight activating as their steady blue-grey forms were suddenly made of substantial smoke. He relaxed, knowing that he was with allies. Why he did not recognize their voices, or know their faces, Haytham could not understand.

Haytham groaned unhappily as he woke from a series of very strange and disjointed dreams, stretching and hissing just a little as his injuries all made themselves known to him all at once. He looked around the candle-lit room, trying to figure out which of the rooms of his mansion he was in. Haytham found (as he slowly lifted his hands and arms to figure out where he was injured there, despite the pain. His head pounded angrily when he tried to sit up, besides the wounds on his back and stomach flared with worrying amounts of pain when he tried to do that as well) to his distress that his hidden blades had been taken from him.

He activated his second sight, looking around the room and through the walls, trying to determine if there was anyone close enough so that if he called out, he would be heard. He was using his second sight to make certain that it was safe for him to call out. There was a possibility that one of the guests might hear him, rather than one of his Templars, or Connor. There was a steadily blue shining form in the other room, and there appeared to be no one else in the immediate area…

From what Haytham could tell, the place he was in was not his New York mansion – the dimensions of the room and what he could see of the house he was in were off. Still, he was incredibly thirsty and his stomach could not be rumbling any louder, complaining for food. Still, it would seem odd if he knew someone was there, since he had likely been found by a complete stranger "Hello? Is there anyone here?"

A voice called out to him "Yes, someone is here!" And hurried footsteps could be heard, moving closer to Haytham.

The Templar tried to get up, wanting to at least sit up to see the person coming closer, but his head swam terribly and his wounds burned with terrible pain, forcing a small hiss to escape Haytham's lips as he eased back down onto the cot, closing his eyes partially as the room gradually went back in focus. "Ah… What is your name? I have you to thank I suppose for putting me back together."

He could see a tall, bespectacled man entering the room. From what Haytham could see of the room behind the door, this person was a doctor, from the tools and tinctures the other was in the process of making. "I am doctor Lyle White, and I have been helping to keep the fever you have been suffering from taking your life… As well as tending to your injuries. May I have your name? During the past three days that my assistant and I have been tending to you, you speak with clarity for a few moments before the fever asserts itself once more. You have not yet given your name while asking for mine."

"Ah, I am Haytham, and I do know that I am… Not yet recovered from my injuries and from the way my head spins I fear I may still be ill. However I am in my right mind." Haytham answered, sighing softly at that, wondering just what nonsense he mumbled… Or what the other took to be nonsense? "I… Did have a few items with me that I do not have now… I suppose they were taken so I did not accidentally stab you or your assistant? Do… Do you know what happened to my horse? Where am I?"

Lyle listened carefully to the well-spoken man, making sure that the other did not suddenly begin to ramble strangely, or hiss mistrustful in one of what sounded like a half-dozen languages, while more or less hiding under the blanket, squinting at both of them and refusing to eat unless it was prepared in front of him from whole ingredients – medicines included. "Your weapons are beneath your bed, which if you would like, I shall retrieve for you, as I do not recommend you move for at least another three days, beyond stretching your limbs carefully. Your horse is in the stable in the mansion on the hill. You are in the room I use to monitor patients who need more careful watching, in Davenport Homestead."

Haytham blinked at the other, a mixture of confusion and concern as he tried to figure out how he had gotten here, rather to New York. "Ah… I was headed to New York when I was attacked by a couple of bandits. They fought like military deserters, and had the weapons for being such as well. Davenport… That would not be due to the fact that the land and the mansion belongs to one Achilles Davenport, does it?" If it was true… He could be in quite a bit of danger, should the bitter old man find out that he was here, recovering and half-dead. Haytham was quite certain that the old man did not approve of the truce between the two orders, and would probably like to pay him back in kind for the injury that crippled him to ensure that he would never be a full Assassin ever again.

"Yes it does. Do you know him?" White responded, eyebrows raising a little as he looked his injured patient over with renewed interest, wondering if he knew anything about Master Davenport's – or Connor's – mysterious and unknown past. He was willing to bet he knew some, given that Connor and Haytham had the same sort of short range weapon and bracer.

"We… Met briefly, and it did not end well. Do… Have you met… Connor? Tall, half Mohawk, far too kind and gentle for his own good? Clever, strong and good with his hands and words… Provided that he does not get flustered…" Haytham murmured, disconcerted that he was rambling about his beloved so much, but if this man knew Davenport, and he and a small town – for a doctor this far into the Frontier had to have a small town supporting him for him to stay – it was highly likely that they knew Connor. "It is likely that Connor himself found more than a couple of you, bringing you to this safe space so that you may flourish and live well…"

Lyle stared at Haytham in stunned disbelief, the sheer warmth and affection in this stranger's voice for Master Connor. The stern and guarded expression had completely melted away to a look of fondness and care. "You have met Connor, then. His kindness and good heart do him justice, but I was unaware that he was half-Mohawk." Then again, Connor was noticeably lighter than the natives that Lyle had occasionally spoken with and treated, but he had not thought anything of it until now.

Some of the wariness crept back into Haytham's face as the other seemed to try to pull himself together into some semblance of his usual countenance. "I see. If I recall the injuries I received correctly, it will take me… At least a week to heal enough to travel by horseback, two to heal fully. I am a rather active person and I apologize in advance if I snap at you. If there is anything I can do while confined to bed, I would be grateful. I do not have much currency on me currently, but I can read and write in English, French, Spanish and Latin. I… Would like to write a letter to a couple of friends of mine, as I should have been in New York at least three days ago." There was no reason to be curt with these people, and if Connor had brought them close to Davenport manor, it meant that the other trusted them. Haytham wanted very much to learn what he could about not only Dr. White but any others who were part of this little community. Not that he was going to tell them anything of how he and Connor knew one another – he would leave introductions (whatever they might be) – to Connor.

Dr. White nodded, knowing that the spoken languages that Haytham had named did track with what little he had been able to understand when the stranger had been suffering from fever. Haytham was being a little over-hopeful in terms of how quickly he was going to heal from his injuries. Then again it was unlikely that the other was fully aware of just how badly he had been injured and how sick he had gotten. Lyle had feared that the other had caught pneumonia at the start. "I will fetch you some parchment as well as ink and quill. I am uncertain as to how quickly you will heal. You were extremely ill when Terry and Godfrey had found you, in addition to suffering from blood loss. I will ask around to see if others have need of someone who can write or read."

"Thank you." Haytham responded, a small and thankful smile appearing on his face. He was being friendlier than he normally would, perhaps it was because of the blood loss? Then again, if the good Doctor was one of Connor's people there was no reason to be unfriendly, and a little curious.

Haytham was entirely unsurprised at the speed at which news traveled in what must be a small village. In the five or six days that he had been lucid, He had seen what must have been every one of the skilled artisans in the small town. Each of them were varying degrees of curious and concerned for him, which was touching given that he was a stranger. Each of them seemed to know that he had a connection with Connor, although how they knew one another, not a single one of them could guess.

"How did you meet Connor?" Ellen asked curiously, having spoken with Haytham before. He was a charming and handsome man. He spoke with more eloquence than anyone she had ever met, except for perhaps Connor.

"As I have said before, Connor and I work together when he leaves this charming village. If I would be allowed to move around, I would love to see more of it, than these walls." Haytham answered quietly, evading the question. None of them knew anything about Templars and Assassins – as they would have reacted to the Templar Cross he wore if they did.

"If Doctor White says that you can start to move around a bit, I would be happy to show you around." Ellen responded with a small smile. She pulled out Haytham's newly mended clothes. "I took the liberty of repairing your clothes, I hope that you do not mind."

"Thank you very much for your help. I wish I could repay you promptly, as it is clear that you make fine clothing." Haytham answered honestly, a soft sigh escaping him. Hopefully the messenger they assured him they sent to New York would come back soon. Then again, it was possible that the messenger had gotten killed, or was being held up by a group of soldiers out on patrol.

Maria came running in, a big grin appearing on her face. "Mama! Master Connor is here! He is looking for mysterious mister Haytham."