ZIIO

No more tears.

I have cried every last drop. But the flames won't extinguish. What is left of the roof drips onto my bleeding skin, intensifying the agony. The flames cackle like gaseous devils; they roll and lurch like the stomach of death. That is what is coming for me.

I can barely breathe, watching the fire devour my bubbling flesh. The guise of thick smoke is such that I can barely open my eyes. The pain strengthens; it is like childbirth and one hundred blades put together. It throbs through my veins; pulses like my flickering heart; destroys my courage.

When will this end? How much longer can I endure this? My lungs manage a feeble cough, clearing the smoke from my chest. I am too weak to moan, or cry. Why will I not die now? Please, let this torture end. Please.

"Ista?"

Ratohnhaké:ton? It has to be. My heart – barely beating – does a leap taller than any flame in the melting building. My son! He is safe! Where is the voice? I clench my skin-stripped fists and bear the pain (despite my trembling body).

"Ista? Ista?"

I close my eyes. Is this all part of death? Does one hear voices of their loved ones? My smoke-corrupted body endures one last breath...and my throat unlocks.

"R-Ratohnhaké:ton?"

The dream changed...

I am back in my senseless body. Suspended in a silence which screams. Screams at me to wake up. Wake up. My son needs me. My son is in danger.

"Ziio?"

The voice...there it is again. But this time, I recognise its owner. So why can I not picture their face? How do they pierce this blank oblivion before me?

"Ziio?"

The word echoes around the walls; the boundaries of this dream. They remind me that this can end. I can rise. I can remember...who is the owner of this voice? The single word: I think it is my name. It brings back a surge of colourless emotions: trust, mistrust, passion, anguish, joy, hatred...and love. I can shed light on these emotions. I just need to hear him. One more time.

"I love you."

My body is falling, falling through the outstretch of darkness. Nothing will cushion my sudden surge of memory. Somehow – somehow – those three words are enough to bring sense to my body and blood to my limbs. Because of those words, I feel. I see a distant light and I hear gentle breaths. My breaths? That can only mean one thing.

I am alive.

I blinked my eyes open. At first the ceiling was a foreign sight, and took my sluggish brain several seconds to recognise. Of course. I was here, in Haytham's home. I lay half-sunk into the soft bed, recalling my dream. Was it really Haytham's voice that gave me strength? Was it really him who awoke my frozen limbs?

No. He is a figure of my past.
He cannot be a figure of the past, if he is in the same building as you.

As I sat up slowly, the pain in my limbs suddenly returned. I let out an unstoppable gasp – before sighing. I was utterly foolish to think that the pain would disappear so quickly. It was fate's golden odds that my heart was even beating.

And you have Haytham to thank.

Haytham. The ringleader of the cruelest organisation formed in history. The man whose cool-headed logic and honeyed words had dissolved my hard outer crust. The man who used me like an animal; a thing, and left me with his mistake. And I had him to thank. To thank for burning my village to ash. To thank for breaking my little boy's heart. To thank for robbing him of his innocence, seeing his mother dying.

Yes, thank you, Haytham, for ruining my life.

I watched my wall shadow in the flickering candlelight. It was then when I saw just how large the bandage on my head was: a distinct bulge in the silhouette's head spoke for itself. Was my head injury really that grave? The most painful parts were my legs. I supposed I was lucky that falling roof didn't deliver its final blow.

But I didn't want to recall the fire. It brought too much pain – not physical, materialistic pain – but the thought of my son. Even the flapping flame of the candle distracted me. I reached across and pinched it out. It was already evening by that time; I'd had several visits from Haytham's staff and the man himself in the day. One more visit, and I'd surely spit venom.

I had better fall asleep, then.

HAYTHAM

That evening, I decided to pay one last visit to Ziio before I welcomed the Templars to the meeting. It was a very, very unwise decision, considering the outcomes of last time. But I needed to remind her to keep quiet.

I could hardly imagine her capable of stirring up any trouble in her condition. Why was I even bothering to remind her? I'd only receive a snide remark about the Order. Well, I'd have to endure it.

I knocked on the door quietly. For all I knew, Ziio could've been asleep. She wasn't; a muffled 'Yes?' was just about audible. I opened the door.

The room was almost in pitch darkness. For some reason Ziio had blown out the candle on the table; the only light came from the window to the left. The soft gleams of moonlight streaked through the glass and illumined her face as pure as I'd known it before. It was a tender, caring face, which was capable of affection. Ziio lay with her eyes closed on the pillow. Perhaps I'd interrupted her peaceful sleep. Never mind. She opened her eyes...and the illusion of her gentleness was gone.

"Why did you blow out the candle?" I asked.

"I wanted some sleep," she murmured. "Besides, I think I have seen enough fire for one life."

I tiptoed over to the table and picked up a small matchbox. "Well, I'm afraid you will have to bear with the candle for a few minutes. I only wish to speak."

Ziio huffed as if, given her way, she'd have this conversation in the dark, just to be difficult. Excellent, I thought, lighting the candle with a matchstick, I knew this would be a chore.

"Listen, I came to remind you to keep quiet tonight."

She grunted in disgust. Her eyes even seemed to darken at the mention of the meeting.

"Remember, it is for your sake as well as mine."

"That neither of us perish, I know. That would be terrible." The sharp sarcasm fired like the sting of a wasp. But I was used to its bitterness; I was immune.

"Good. Shall I mention the subject of...of the past few days' events to them?"

"No," she replied after a pensive moment, "too obvious. They will know that you were there."

"Fair point. Well made."

"You make it sound as if every idea I come up with is an unwise one," she snapped dramatically.

"Do I? Well, I do apologise."

"You do not mean that."

"Ziio," I sighed, "you are probably tired."

"No." Her voice rose; her shaky elbows just about supported her as she leant up. "I know you do not mean any of it. You never meant anything."

"What the hell are you talking about?" I fumed.

"I mean that you didn't mean even that apology. What about all the other times you were 'sorry'? When you lied about your affiliations? When I told you to leave and never return? Did you mean that, Haytham?"

So far I hadn't been affected by her words. So far Ziio's melodramatic conclusions weren't boiling my blood. So far I'd never assumed that Ziio would explode like a spiteful I was wrong.

"How dare you!" I exclaimed, leaping to my full height. My shadow towered over hers like the anger I unleashed. "How dare you say such irrelevant, disrespectful things!"

"Well?" she challenged. "Were you sorry? Have you ever regretted your actions? Did you ever look back and think: 'I wish I had told the truth. I wish I'd cared.'? No. You never did. And here is proof." She indicated her bandage crossly.

"Care?" Even my head was quivering with fury. "Of course I did! I always did! And – if you ever thought otherwise – why would I have spent so much time with you all those years ago if I never loved you?"

"I have no proof of that."

Proof. Suddenly I remembered something with a rush of sharp nostalgia: the letter.

Just days after Ziio and I cut our ties, I wrote her a letter. I put my heart and soul into that thing; truly I did. I never delivered it, though: when Ziio told me never to return, she sure as hell meant it. So I'd kept it in my breast pocket for five years now. I'd looked at it once or twice, but tucked it away again.

"Yes, I have proof. I wrote you a letter of apology, honestly I did. I never gave it to you. I have it here."

"You were wasting your time," she hissed, "I can't read."

As much as I thought she was lying, I pulled it out of my coat pocket and said: "Fine. I will read it to you. Just hear me out. Please."

"No! I don't want to hear–"

"Ziio," I'd already interrupted: the very first word on the crumpled parchment was her name. My heart was hammering with determination. I straightened it out and read:

Ziio,

I know you may never come read this. I know that when you discover who this letter is from, you will feed it to the wolves. That shan't stop me from trying.

I wish you well. Whether I have made my point clear, I will probably never know. I am truly sorry for the bad note on which we parted. It was agonising enough for me walking away from you – the woman I loved – while tears spilled from your eyes, your chin quivering with shock and silent fury, knowing that I had broken your heart. I fail even now to comprehend how you must be feeling. Understand that I'm not trying to be sympathetic; to right all that I have done wrong. Well and truly I pray that you might recover the personality I knew and adored without me there.

I shall make sure you never come to any harm. I owe you that, at the very least. My men are not to approach your village (nor any Mohawk) again. That includes me, as much as I resent it. I was given a choice between you and the Templars. I pondered on it for months. It crushed me with pressure and led me into the confusing depths of my busy mind. If anything it frightened me to see myself so emotional. But I came to a decision: there are too many barriers between us, Ziio. There are – as I once told you – no happy endings. Put quite simply, our lives are two polar opposites. Mine, one driven by order, purpose and (yes, I admit it) greed. Yours, a life of freedom and community, filled with satisfaction.

And of course, William Johnson. As I have sworn not to harm your people, I plead you to return this vow. A harsh exchange it seems. But neither words nor actions can right what has been wrong...especially in your case.

I dare not even wish for your forgiveness. I have shattered your heart into a thousand sharp pieces. I don't want to cut myself trying to pick them up again. But know this, Ziio. No matter what you may think of me now, no matter how many years roll past, no matter if you end up killing me for what damage I've caused, I will always be in love with you. Always.

Yours,

Haytham Kenway.

Hehehehe, and there it is, folks...I'd written the letter part even before I was halfway through You Have My Word, desperate to get ahead much... :P hope you liked it! Wait til you see Ziio's awestruck face (spoilers! Kinda!)

Thanks for reading! :D