ZIIO

It was several minutes before anyone came to my aid. Needless to say I tried to stand myself up, but oh, how the pain rippled through my body each time. My arms were barley strong enough to sit myself up.

This is ridiculous.

Indeed, I did feel like a fool, spread-eagled on the floorboards like a fallen animal. My intentions were to kill. What had even come over me? I could never kill anyone in my condition. Anyhow, what if Johnson had spotted me trying to?

Johnson.

I froze in horror. What if he woke from the thump I made? I'd be done for. Discovered. I strained my ears...and heard not-too distant footsteps from the creaking corridor. I gasped. What if William was coming? I was in trouble now. My heart tightened to bursting point. I closed my eyes and clenched my fists...

Please, do not pass this room...do not look here...

A tall silhouette appeared at the open door, torch in hand. The flame just about lit up a face that I recognised...and sighed with relief. It was Haytham. He wore a loose white shirt (made of similar material to my gown). His most notable accessory was the frown on his face.

"Ziio?" he whispered, coming in and placing the torch on the table. "What are you doing on the floor?"

"I fell off the bed," I declared, embarrassed.

He offered his hand from where he stood. Before I took it, I braved a look into his candle-lit eyes. They were filled with trust. Understanding. Compassion. Never had I looked in another man's eyes and found so many virtues. Haytham was the only one, and even after all this time I could barely look into his eyes.

Eventually I grabbed his hand and allowed him to lift me back on the mattress. His movement was graceful; a true gentleman. But this surge of blind lust was short-lived. It was eclipsed by blind hostility.

"How did you fall?" he asked.

"I – er..." What could I say? I was going to kill William Johnson. "I lost my balance."

"Keep the noise down! You will wake William."

"Close the door, then."

Haytham turned, eyeing the open door suspiciously. "That's odd," he muttered, "I thought Rose closed that." The door clicked shut; he turned to face me.

"So...you tried to stand up?"

Contain your irritation, Ziio.

"Yes."

"Why?" he demanded. "For god's sake, look at you! You cannot possibly stand with those burns on your legs!"

"I figured that out for myself," I muttered through gritted teeth. Clearly after all this time Haytham still underestimated me.

That was when his eyes fell to the letter on the table. What was he thinking? Was he – like me – trapped in a reverie of earliest our days? When my razor-sharp attitude was constantly putting him down, like at that moment?

He looked up fleetingly, stating: "That isn't where I put the letter."

"I know."

"Have you been reading it?"

No reply. But the crimson flush in my face was enough.

"I thought you said you could not read."

"Maybe I was lying," I said bitterly, staring into my lap. This was becoming more irritating by the second. It felt like someone had lit a fuse on my anger...which was never a good thing when I was tired.

Eventually Haytham sighed. "Look. I'm here to help you. Not harm you."

I knew he was right. So why did every part of my body scream at me to protest? I regretted very much spitting: "Oh really? When it was your men who burned my village. Your men who killed my family. Your men who sent me in this state! Why should you be any different to those Templars?"

My words struck him like a punch; immediately I wanted to stroke it better. But I couldn't. Haytham's body quivered from how quickly this conversation escalated.

"Why should I be any different?" he repeated, in a powerful quietness, "Why? I'll tell you why, Ziio. I loved you. Because it wasn't on my orders that they burned your village to ash. They betrayed me, as much as they did you. Don't you see? We're in the same boat."

"You are wrong. If you had the faintest clue what life has been like for me for the past five years, you would never say that we are in the same boat." I allowed my face to soften; I leaned into the candlelight. "I've had to raise my child – our child – with him believing that he is the bastard child of a monster. A killer. It broke my heart."

The flame continued to flicker on the table. Inside it I saw the eye of a predator: corrupt, cruel and vicious like a wolf. I glanced into Haytham's eyes, and for a moment saw the complete opposite: gentleness. Soft, blue-grey flecks of kindness.

"I always feared that I might one day look into my son's eyes and see greed. That same greed I failed at first to detect in you."

Haytham stood back, slightly awed by my words of wisdom. He bit his lip. "Y-you were afraid? Of me?"

I nodded. "Well, not exactly of you, just...of what you could have passed on to Ratohnhaké:ton."

Ratohnhaké:ton. Speaking about him was harder than I thought. Every time I said his name or even thought of him, it was like a scoop of water was taken into my mind, making it heavier. It collected more and more like a pot...and eventually, when it overfilled, its contents would spill as water.

My heart ached with the weight of my son. But I could not let it spill in front of Haytham. It'd be humiliating. But oh, how I missed my boy; my beautiful son. What was he doing? Was he crying over my 'death'?

A tear developed in my misty eye; I fought desperately to collect it again. Do...not... I thought, do not cry. You cannot cry.

Why was I so emotional? Perhaps my head injury had brought it on: first I was terribly touched by the letter, then I was spiteful; filled with bottled rage and hatred. Suddenly I was a wild bear on the prowl, thirsty to kill. I was panic-stricken, impatient, bitter, angry and saddened.

The sadness was the worst of them all. It made my hollow shell of a soul collapse like my burning house. Weakened, I felt a hot tear stream down my cheek. Nothing could stop me.

I forgot about Haytham's presence. I sat with blistered hands rubbing my bandaged forehead. I hoped I could rub my memory clean. Make myself forget everything I'd done that evening...but it didn't work.

Haytham placed himself down on the bed. By this time I was stifling pitiful sniffs, but did not gasp. Strong women like me did not cry...but at the thought of my son...it was too terrible to take.

Now there was a different warmth on my cheek. It wasn't like the tears boiling my face. It wasn't like the scorching sting of the fierce flames. It wasn't like any burn I'd ever felt.

I looked up...to find Haytham's gentle hand stroking the tears away. I gasped quietly. Was I imagining? No; I glanced at him again. He sat rubbing my back soothingly with one hand, and wiping my tears – caressing my cheek – with the other.

"Ssh," he whispered.

I wanted to say something; to thank him...but I couldn't. The words were once again lodged inside my throat. My heart was beating faster and faster with every tender movement. Soothing me. Helping me. Touching me.

No. This is against nature.
It is how it used to be.
Is that wrong?
Yes. But it feels so...beautiful.

He was closer now. He could feel my shaking body by his. It was with grief: my muscles quivered in confusion. How could a man that I could be so angry with become the one who filled me with sweet euphoria? I should never have shouted at him.

"Your son loves you, Ziio. You are a wonderful mother."

Silence. Wiping my eyes I looked into his...and felt like falling through the floor. pure as starry lakes. I was drowning; being pulled by a tide towards him.

I blinked. We were closer now. How did that happen? My heart was hammering like a war drum. I couldn't control my heaving lungs.No. I could not handle this. I needed to close my eyes and think...but even as they were shut I felt his body heat blazing. I opened my eyes again. This time our noses were almost touching...and I could his allure no longer. I moved away.

"Thank you, Haytham," I sniffed. "I – I'm sorry. "

He rubbed my back in acknowledgement; I stumbled on my next words: "I'm sorry I keep being angry. I cannot control myself sometimes...I turn simple words into those of hatred, and...and..."

"Ssh," he said again. "It's alright. It will be alright."

I knew at that moment that if I let Haytham help me, it was true.

HAYTHAM

Breakfast the next morning was an interesting affair.

I promised William that he could at least stay and have something to eat before he rode home. When I walked – weary-eyed – into the dining room, he was already sat down.

"Good morning," he said spiritedly.

I returned his greeting with a similar phrase and sat down. Behind the door in the kitchen I could hear the chink of china plates and steel cutlery: I was just in time for Rose to walk in with a metal tray of various breakfast delicacies. As she placed it on the table, I thanked her.

"Wait – Rose, before you leave..."

She turned in surprise, as did my colleague.

"Could you do me a favour and...collect the tray from upstairs? I accidentally spilt some water on it last night."

Rose nodded, her eyes glinting with understanding. By 'collect the tray from upstairs', we both knew I meant: 'Give Ziio her breakfast'. Without a word my maid scurried (through the back door) into the kitchen.

William poured himself some milk from the jug. I followed suit, but wanted to see that Rose was safely out of sight. Soon it became apparent that I looked suspicious staring at the door. I looked away.

"Well, I must say: it was very kind of you to have me here, Haytham." Johnson's voice turned my attention away from Ziio.

"Not at all," I replied.

He sipped his milk and placed it on the tray. "Well, while we're alone...I was wondering if I could ask a favour of you."

"Oh?" What kind of favour?"

"A...um...rather large one," he said in mock sincerity. God, how I hated this man's acting.

"What could that be?"

"I was wondering," he murmured, biting his lip, "if you could come with me to the storehouse today, and possibly tomorrow. I want to show you something I've found there...and you may recognise it from elsewhere. Would that be a reasonable request of you? I'm dreadfully sorry to demand more of you."

I gulped. The storehouse? Elsewhere? What was he on about? I looked at my reflection in the polished table, then the white wall, and the cabinet behind, hoping that the objects would provide an answer for me. They didn't. There was no escape now. But would Rose and Henry manage Ziio on their own?

Of course. I doubt she'll be any more trouble after last night. The way she acted, anyone would think she was a fool in love.

In love. A white-hot ball of shock hit me squarely in the heart. Was that why she was suddenly more beautiful to me last night? I was...was it possible that there was still...?

No. No, no, no. It was never meant to be before, not now, and not ever.
But touching her; holding her...I thought I'd never let go. Why was it so unstoppable? So addictive?

"Haytham?"

"Yes, of course. I'm sure Rose and Henry can handle this house themselves for a few days."

"Excellent," said William, rubbing his hands together greedily. "We'll leave once you are ready."

OK so this must be, like, the cheesiest chapter ever, but I hope you liked it! :) Thanks for reading!