(Warning: this chapter contains graphic images that may be disturbing to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.)
"When there's nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire." –Douglas Campbell
-o-
When the rag was finally ripped from her eyes, Jacqueline's wrists were already sore from being bound. The room she was in seemed to be some kind of interrogation chamber. It was chill and dank, and especially dark. In fact, she wasn't sure she had ever experienced darkness quite as absolute as the kind she now sat in. The smell of coals and smoke permeated the air, chokingly concentrated. She seemed to be tied to the chair she was sitting in, her arms behind her. Even as she sat, her shoulders started to ache from the awkward position. Little scuffs and breathing told her she was far from alone.
A candle flared to life, illuminating the face of Charles Lee. "Hello, Assassin."
She didn't respond.
"Well, now you know why we so generously paid your bail. That savage boy can stay in prison and face the consequences for what he's done. You, however, are going to prove of much use." He started circling around her, and it was only then that she realised they still were not alone. The light of the candle cast shadows over the figure of a huge, hulking brute of a man.
"I hope you're in the loop with your lot," Lee continued. "Because information is going to be your saving grace. Without information, well, I'm afraid we have less than no use for rubbish. And you know what happens to rubbish." He leaned in close to her face so she could smell his foul breath. "It is disposed of."
Jacqueline leaned away, curled her lip, and spat in his face. She had a long running habit of spitting in faces. Lee drew back in surprise and wiped his face off.
"Such loyalty!" He chuckled, undeterred. "We'll see how far loyalty gets you, in the end." He turned to the Brute, who was shifting coals in a large kettle. "Let's start with the basics, shall we?"
The beginning was the worst, in retrospect. It was the first time she had ever been tortured for information, and she had been wholly unprepared for the no-nonsense brutality. For instance, she learned that "the basics" was some code for punching her in the face until she could feel her nose break and her cheeks went numb from pain.
Every blow was like getting struck with a hammer; the Brute was a solid wall of reeking, hairy Templar muscle. He never tired, either. How long her face was abused, she wasn't sure. It felt like hours. Each strike, she felt his knuckles ripple angrily along her orbital socket or cheekbone, bruising with every one. There was some self-inflicted pain that played a role as well, for she bit the inside of her cheek almost constantly. They would not break her.
The next fifteen minutes were blows to her abdomen and stomach. It was worse, much worse. Jacqueline could distinctly feel ribs cracking. Through all of this, Lee was watching. Always watching. He asked questions every few minutes, but it became useless. Even if she wanted to talk, it was an effort just to breathe.
"Enough." Lee declared suddenly, stopping the Brute mid-punch. "That's enough for now. I suggest you get your rest, Assassin. It's a busy day tomorrow."
The door opened, revealing a flash of hall not much brighter than her room. Lee extinguished the candle and slammed the door shut behind them. The clicks as each lock slid into place secured a deeper pit of dread in her heart. When the noises had stopped, and she was alone with her darkness, she wriggled her fingers to try and get some leverage in her bondage. It was no use, really. Those were some tight ropes. After finding that it was essentially pointless, she yelled in frustration. That really hurt, though, and the yell lost all bravado when it ended in a whimper.
-o-
The next day, or what she assumed to be the next day—it was hard to tell—things were about the same. Lee and the Brute came in, beat her nearly senseless while interrogating about plans and allies and locations all the while. "This would be much easier on you if you cooperated." Lee smoothed back the greasy black tendrils of hair from his balding head.
To this she did not respond but for a small shaking of her head. "Pity." He sighed, with no hint of remorse at all.
-o-
Rats were a common sound while she was alone, and that by itself put her at unease. The scuttling, scurrying, chittering little bastards must have a labyrinthe under her feet, because every time any food was dropped, they flocked in what sounded like the dozens. It was disgusting.
Speaking of the food, that was the most humiliating part. The first couple days, she simply refused to eat. For Lee would not untie her hands, and rather let the Brute feed her tough bread and water from a tin cup like a child. It was barely enough to keep her alive, and the bread hurt to chew.
Eventually, the darkness became comfort. It was a sign that for the moment, she was safe. She treasured that darkness, that utter oblivion away from the light and the pain.
-o-
Things only got worse. Time lost all meaning in her little room. It could have been days, or even hours. Though, she suspected she'd been there an average of ten days, maybe a fortnight. Lee and the Brute had a schedule: they would arrive in what she felt was the mid-morning, stayed for several hours, and left disappointed with no new information.
Her thoughts drifted while they left her alone to starve for hours. For some reason that she found embarrassing, she often thought of Connor. The reason that it was embarrassing was because these thoughts weren't always so honourable.
Now it is worthwhile to note, in Jacqueline's opinion, that not only were things a blur of agony, but also boring. Once she adjusted to the new waves of pain inflicted by the Brute, it was nothing but hours and hours of black nothing. Worse than sleep, worse than death. Her mind was like a ball of string that was unraveling and fraying from pain and exhaustion.
-o-
The last words she had said to him had been, "See you on the other side." And she had kissed his cheek. Jacqueline was coming to realise that they could very well be the last thing she had said to him. Perhaps "the other side" was something else.
That little kiss stood out in her mind. His cheek had been a little rough after several days of not shaving. She wasn't sure she ever recalled his face being rough. Did he shave with the hidden blade? If and when she ever got out, she would have to ask. Then she wondered what his hair felt like. Would it be dry? It looked very soft.
A tiny snort, painful and giddy, wiggled its way from her bleeding nose. For the first time in three days, she lost consciousness.
-o-
Jacqueline was woken by the door opening. There was hardly enough…starch left in her to even lift her head to look. The coals, always burning in the cauldron, were stirred by the Brute while Lee lit the candle as normal. The Brute cracked his knuckles, and Jacqueline took a deep breath.
"Oh, I don't think that will be necessary." A familiar voice commanded. "Look up, Assassin. At me."
Jacqueline obeyed. It wasn't the kind of voice you ignored. When she saw him now, up close, she knew he could only be his father. The jaw, the nose. A steely glint in his eye. The way he held his hands, even. Even if she hadn't known who he was, it was obvious in that instant. There was so much of Connor in him.
In greeting, she nodded once to him, the only gesture even moderately close to respect she'd shown to anyone in the past few weeks.
"I understand you haven't been very cooperative." Haytham went on.
She sneered and raised a shoulder in a shrug. The blood on her upper lip and chin flaked at the movement.
"Now, torture isn't my forte. I'm here not to inflict punishment, but rather to, perhaps, cut a deal with you. It will be very fair, I assure you."
Jacqueline couldn't gesture for him to continue, so remained silent.
"All we want is a little bit of information. A few names or locations would suffice. And then we'll set you free. I will personally escort you to Boston and you can do what you will there." He was circling her now, hands clasped behind his back as he laid out his deal like normal business. "This is very much in your favour."
The parched desert of her throat burned when she took in a breath that tasted of smoke. Her lips were chapped and split open when she spoke. "Never." That word alone threw her back into a coughing fit, making her broken and fractured ribs stab pain through her body.
Haytham was looking at the wall, which was apparently much more interesting. The stern profile of his face tightened briefly in impatience, but vanished as quickly. "I don't believe we've caught your name yet. You're French, that much is obvious. Could you at least give us that?"
"No." It was becoming slightly easier to force words out, because it was hardly considered talking.
"This is useless, sir." Lee spat, and turned to her. "What do you hope to accomplish, hm? You're not being brave, or courageous. Just tell us what we want!"
"I think it's far from useless. Has she spoken yet, Charles?"
Lee grumbled. "No, sir."
"Then we've made progress." Haytham looked back to Jacqueline. She had a hard time meeting his eye. "I'll visit again tomorrow. Let's hope you've changed your mind by then. Charles?"
Lee nodded, and Haytham swept out of the cramped room. The Brute stirred a fire poker in the cauldron of red-hot coals. When he held it up, the point was a burning vermilion flecked with ash. Jacqueline felt the heat like a fire when he neared. She closed her eyes, and thought of Connor.
-o-
There was no way she could have slept that night. The way she slept was to either lean back or hunch forward, and she could no longer do either of those. All she could do was remain still and breathe as little as possible. The rats were furry and noisy as they scuttled over her bare feet and around her chair, sniffing for scraps of stale bread.
Haytham again visited, but now she refused to talk. The torture became horrendous, indescribable. Medieval. Barbaric. Slivers of wood under her nails. Steam in her face, under her chair. Needles on her fingertips and hot coals down her shirt. The burning fire poker on her arms and legs. The knives across her skin so deep as to scar and the vinegar that was then rubbed into the wounds. Even if she wanted to talk to Haytham to cut that deal—which she didn't—it was impossible for her to make any sound. Even her screaming had stopped after a while. Now she sat in her chair, and endured their pain with her mouth gaping open in a silent cry louder and more powerful than anything vocal.