Hello, my lovelies! These updates take so long nowadays, I know...but I'm trying my best! School is crazy, especially with so many outside duties :O but thank you for waiting so patiently. :)

I love you all, as ever! Every single one of you!

Please please pleeeease review!

Shoutout to lismrox, who is officially free ;)

HAYTHAM

With every pulse of cannons, with every wild flicker of the flame torches, Robert would flinch. Never mind the trembling walls, the rumbling floor or the dust falling from the ceiling. He was waiting to be called to battle...and he was afraid.

I looked at my son. Connor had retreated within the walls of his mind: the physical ones encasing us would not protect him, after all. I could read his self-inquiries: why were his fleet firing? Didn't they know there were Assassins inside? Where was his mother?

I knew Ziio was not lying dead on the battlefield. Not only was she too skilful, but Eva would most likely want her finding me, or the artefacts, or even Charles. I wondered how much she knew. Perhaps she had some additional insight on Charles' plan? Despite the meticulousness of the crash of the cannons, the whole of the fort was shrouded in mystery. It was like a circle which did not quite join. It made no sense.

What was I missing, and was it under my nose at present?

Crash.

When the distant sound of tumbling stone stopped, there were footsteps coming down the prison steps. A soldier appeared at the entrance to the cells, breathless and smothered in brick dust.

"Robert, why are you still here?" he demanded. "Master Lee has commanded every man to arms!"

The colour remained in my once-butler's face, but I saw it. I saw that flash of panic in his bruised eye. He swallowed the coward's clump in his throat, and replied: "But what of the prisoners? Are they not the reason we are executing —"

"Orders are orders. Load your musket and move! Unless you want —"

Crash.

This time the source was not a cannon or a musket, but a hand pistol. Not just any hand pistol; a familiar one. The moment the man's eyes glazed staring at his own blood was the moment many things happened at once.

Robert took a leap backwards, reaching for his sword on reflex. Connor jumped into life as the blood jumped from the man's smoking stomach. A well of blood soaked his uniform; his hands; his face, as he toppled forward and slumped on the ground.

All three of us still living stared in amazement. The figure with their gun still raised, arm straight, emerged from a veil of darkness and smoke. Their hands moved slowly to pull back their white hood, to reveal a face of the most intimidating calmness.

Despite myself, my heart gave a leap: Ziio. She was alright. I knew she would be, but by God, in an aura of black mist; in a fusion of light and shadow, she had never looked more powerful. It took my breath away at the worst of moments: when a dead man lay on the floor. I breathed her name into the falling dust; I couldn't help it.

"Ista..." Connor murmured soundlessly.

Robert tried to remain impassive, but could not. The veins in his hands twitched as he squeezed his sword. Despite the amber hue of the room, his face reddened on catching Ziio's blazing eyes. This was the woman he had indirectly ruined...and she was thirsty for revenge.

Or is she? Why isn't she shooting?
Savouring the moment, perhaps.
That is unlike Ziio.

Robert chose that moment to laugh. Nervous laughter which blocked even the cannons outside with its stupidity. He let go of his sword handle, raising his hands in false confidence. With another step back, he threatened: "Now, Ziio...let's be chivalrous about this. A sword for a sword, what? You at least owe me a fair fight."

"She owes you nothing!" Connor snapped from his cell.

I glared at him again: this was Ziio's battle, not his. I turned where I sat and scrutinised their faces. I could not quite see what it was, but there was a different shade of anger in her eyes. A new motive. I could sense it in her presence; her whole stance. I'd imagined her approaching him with denial, revenge...but there was nothing. When she scoffed, a harmless strand of silver hair wafted across. She raised an eyebrow slowly and – despite the urgency of what sounded like a war above us – threw the pistol aside. It cluttered dully along the stone floor.

"Very well," she replied flatly, reaching gracefully for her sword. "If you wish to die in pain."

Pause. While Connor couldn't look, I could not tear my eyes away. The two drew their swords; the sound was sharper than the blades in the well of noise around. Of course, Robert made the first lance. Of course, it missed. He struck upward; he struck downward. Clash. Clash. His legs retracted in surprise, though he pretended they had not. Ziio let him regain himself: she knew he was no match for her, but she was playing along.

"So that's it?" he panted. "No words of resentment? I expected more of a thrill from you."

"Actions are louder than words." With her immense strength, Ziio pushed Robert's sword back so that the two made an 'X' shape. Her snarl remained framed between, then she shoved him backwards towards Connor's cell.

Robert's temples were sweating with every meticulous move. I could tell Charles had trained him just from the cursory way he dodged Ziio's blows. He was good (he had to be, living a double life), but Charles had not taught him everything. The sword was his weapon of choice, while it was the one which Ziio felt least comfortable with. He knew that...but I could see he felt no advantage.

"Ngh..." Robert repressed a groan as he swung again.

Ziio was soundless, swift, unflustered. I caught her eye and noticed my jaw was locked tightly — so I unlocked it. I needn't fear. Like a ghost, she seemed to go straight through Robert and end up on the other side.

But the man's reflexes were quick. He blocked her and prevented a stab to the back. The sound of swords clashing accelerated; it became the short, sharp beat of a steel drum. All the while the battle could still be heard. The walls jolted so much that one of the flames spasmed, then extinguished. The shouts of men grew more intense, but less audible. My whole body stiffened with every strike of the steel.

Now Robert was truly thrashing his sword at Ziio, skill abandoned. I saw Ziio's cheeks set with a stony aggression. The majesty in her swipes with the sword seemed detached from the rest of her unfazed body. She had only been battling with Robert for two minutes; his energy was already ebbing. His face broken and furious, he took a vain swing of the sword at Ziio, which she dodged by very suddenly swooping to the floor.

I winced, knowing the glee in his face was short-lived. He thought he had her down. In an amateur, careless movement, he stood over Ziio (good as lying on the hard stone) and prepared to strike. That was it. That was the sound of slicing flesh. That was he sight of the traitor's back speared like a whale to a harpoon; the sight of blood trickling from him, like his mangled voice from his throat.

Through Ziio's omniscient eyes I saw it. The blade twisting in and out of his flesh, the sudden loss of his balance and the light — whatever good might have been left him in — oozing from him in the form of more blood.

And he fell to her feet, blue Templar coat spread and stained like an eagle's wings. It was then when I saw him for what he was: a young man; a coward corrupted by the promise of power. Under different circumstances he might have been an Assassin...and with a terrible sting I realised the futility of this war.

Ziio bent, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and turned him over onto his back. He gargled and groaned as she snatched the prison keys efficiently from his belt. Then she stood over him like a hawk...and I was more than happy to watch the life spurt from him, Ziio victorious.

"How could a savage...stand worthier than me?"

"Spare me from your thoughts," Ziio sneered, grabbing hold of his collar once again. "Where has Charles concealed the artefacts?"

I could not hear clearly, but it sounded like a mangled: "Go to hell."

"I will meet you there," Ziio hissed. "No working your way out of this one, Robert. No-one is paying you to die. You can be no more of a coward than you already are, so I ask again: where are the artefacts?"

Either my butler attempted uncontrollable laughter, or he drew in too much fickle air; he spluttered madly: "You think I am the coward. Wait until you see it...all a trap. Lucky you came...at the right time."

"Right time?" Ziio grabbed him by the bloodstained collar; he guttered a little more. "What do you mean, right time?"

"We've waited years...to be close enough. You all played into our hands..." His own fingers twitched at the sight of his blood. "Waiting for you to stay in one place long enough...weak enough...to blow you to pieces."

Blow you to pieces? Why did that strike a bell?

"You shameful bastards," Ziio snapped, "I expected better of you! The odds were always against you."

Blow you to pieces, blow you to pieces...come on, Haytham!

"Then...our plan...is only as fickle as yours..."

He was leaving. I could hear him releasing the last of his life, from his lungs and his wound.

Gunpowder. Gunpowder!

"Wait!" I sprang to my feet, already knelt on the tension of a spring. "Wait! What about the barrels? Why gunpowder? Surely the fort would destroy itself if —"

Just as I looked down upon him, the last of his breath had gone. His jaw became slack; his head lolled lazily over to one side. And then he was dead. At the only time when I needed some truth; the only time when Ziio could deal the same pain to him as he had to her. Gone.

The anger swarmed in my stomach. With an outcry I pounded the cell bars with my fist, listening to the spring of sound down the cellar. That was when everything I had been alienated from (Connor, Ziio, the battle, reality, reason) came back to me. The falling dust was no longer just an effect, it was an actual: the battle was shaking the foundations of the fort.

Ziio thrust the keys into the lock on my door. With a moan it swung open, and there she was. Despite the miserable scene in the background, the effects all around and the stare of my son, I could not hide my relief to see her alive.

Uncaring of the blood dripping from her robes, I threw my arms around her; felt the comfort of her lips. It was only for a fleeting moment: there were other things to attend to...but my God, she never failed to exhilarate me. Not even in times such as this.

"Haytham," she breathed into me, "thank goodness...you're alive."

"Of course I am," I replied. "I was worried about you, not me."

Remembering Connor was yet to be freed, she hastily released him. Stripped of his Assassin robes he seemed smaller than usual, but still had his mother completely encased in a bear-like hug.

Together we regarded Robert's lifeless body. Trapped in his unseeing eyes was the image of the family he had betrayed; of the Kenways united notwithstanding. He had seen his life's work brought to ruin...and that brought me a morbid helping of joy.

"You should have used a pistol, Mother," Connor despaired. "It would have been more merciful. A stab to the stomach is to die in agony."

"Connor, have you lost your wits?" I spluttered. "That swine deserved no mercy. You heard him! He was the reason Ziio spent five years enslaved!"

At this, Ziio froze. Her head turned perceptively, surprisedly, like an owl. "He was the reason...what?" she said in a low tone.

Crash.

Yet another cannon, colliding with what must've been proximity. All at once, five of the flames vanished like genies as the torches cluttered to the floor. Our heads were coated in a new layer of dust; the bricks made a painful grinding noise.

"Hurry," Ziio barked, stooping to snatch her pistol from the floor.

She began heading (in the dark) for the cellar steps, with a stiff-limbed son and husband behind her. I waited for my heart to race for any reason other than Ziio. I waited for common sense, for battle strategy and for energy to seep into my veins...but it would not. What were we to do now?

"Haytham, where did they take the amulet and the box?" Ziio called from in front of me.

"I don't know."

"What? You must remember this place!" she urged. "Where was the Grandmaster's study?"

"Ziio, Charles almost certainly won't be in there..."

"I have no interest in him."

The impact and absurdity of her words made me stop dead. She turned to face me on the step, hood up, face serious. I sidled an incredulous glance at my son.

"I do not care if he lives or dies now," she yelled over the boom of the battle outside. "the amulet and the box are what are important. We have already failed to assassinate Charles this time; I can feel it. But there will be a next time."

I was torn between rage and disbelief. Ziio was good as giving in to the man who kidnapped, beat, starved, tortured, raped her. This was her golden chance to strike him. This was her best chance to see him bleed at her feet. "He will return and kill you!" I spluttered angrily.

"Then I will fight him."

"Have you lost your mind?" I yelled, dust scattering her image. "What about all the others he might strike down? All the information he has? Does that mean nothing to you?"

This seemed to stick in Ziio's conscience: her hands (on her hips) retracted, reaching for the weapons on her belt.

"Fine," she snapped, "I will search for the artefacts. Ratohnhaké:ton, you return to the water." She reached in her belt for her tomahawk and pistol, thrusting them into Connor's non-armoured hand. She turned to give me her sword. "Here. You can find Lee."

"What? After all those years of wanting revenge, you change your mind now?"

"Don't. Don't argue with me now Haytham — tell me where the artefacts would be!"

Any more stichomythic spits and we'd be crushed. I knew I'd never win over her willpower; I let out an irate groan. "I saw the soldiers take them to the North Tower."

Every muscle in Ziio's face relaxed. The colour of her eyes died into a vibrant, contradictory coldness. Without warning she whipped around and raced up the stairs away from us.

"Mother, wait!" Connor called, but in vain.

"I'll go after her." I clutched the sword she gave me, still stained with Robert's treacherous blood.

"No — let her go. Father, you need to retrieve your own weapons. Where did Charles take them?"

"I'm not certain...but I have a fairly clear idea."

Connor spun the pistol on his finger, before advancing up the rest of the stairs. "Hurry," he shouted, "or the whole fort will be destroyed!"

Crash.

No time to think. I dashed up the rest of the stairs, into the light, into the noise, into the pandemonium I knew awaited. Connor followed close behind; when he halted beside me, it was to see the extent of the damage.

The courtyard had become a slaughter house. A slurry of flesh, of blue and white robes were splayed messily in every corner. Bricks and black balls were lined like skittles along the edges. This was a twisted game of hailstones.

No time. I whipped around to Connor, ignoring the fighting of which we were out of sight. "Be careful," I warned. "You've no armour on you...do you know what Flood looks like?"

"No," he admitted.

I scanned the battlefield: I spotted Eva (wrestling two guards at once), Aveline (ditto), François, Hamish...ah. Flood, in his splendid rich coat, was working away at one of the barrels by a secret hatch. He couldn't see us, but I observed his fingers, fiddle-like, untying one stack of barrels. With one movement he released them; they rolled onto the courtyard.

But why?

He was moving. I slapped Connor on the back, pointing: "There! Round that corner! Go, son!"

"What about you?" he said urgently.

"I'll see you when Lee is dead," I assured him, patting both his fairly bare shoulders. "Now, what are you waiting for? Chase that bastard to hell!"

Connor blinked his bright, understanding eyes. He nodded dutifully — crouched — and sprang from behind the wall. I dared not stare after him; the fight was all that rang in my ears now.

Charles. Where would he be? I'd have to cut corners on the battlefield.

By now I was unsure whether I was safer under the wall or out in the open. I clutched Ziio's sword tighter, as if it'd give me a source of resilience.

And I ran. I sprinted through the splints and screams and steel around me. I plunged like a crow for the South Tower, where Charles was doubtless nested comfortably. The ravenous bastard wanted to have his cake and eat it. He thought he could watch his men fight and die for him, while claiming all the glory and use of the artefacts.

A shot crumbled a nearby wall, like a ball sinking into white sand. I barely flinched as the brick spewed a trail behind me. I had to run now. The tower was in sight; my blurred, blood-shod sight...

Another roll of barrels was released. Who was doing this? I dodged them skilfully, but had no time to question what I'd seen. Already I was lunging up the wall. I grabbed at the bricks, swung my stiff muscles and hoisted my body up. Up again. And again. I may have been fifty-odd, but I could still glide walls like a spider.

Just as well. Once I was on the first floor — my heart squeezing into every muscle — I rolled through the open arch.

I picked myself off a low cobbled floor, dusting off my coat by instinct. Another winding staircase: I knew it well. Upstairs was Charles' study. But why was it so quiet? So unguarded?

Not that I was complaining, for the time being. I dashed up another flight of stairs and was faced with three things: a closed glass window, an enormous stack of barrels and the study door. Against its wooden frames propped two steel poles, but I did not question. I took a breath. I took a moment to gather my anger. I knew it would take more than a moment: in fact, it'd take years.

So much anger. I listed his crimes like charges in my head:

He beat Connor.
He threatened Ziio.
He kidnapped her.
He enslaved her.
He tortured her.
He raped her.
He chased her for years.
He turned Robert into a Templar.
He forced Shay to kill me.
He attacked the village.
He killed Jack.
He killed Prudence.
He killed Soyala.
He brought our Brotherhood to anarchy.

And now, he was going to pay. With tension in every possible way, I prepared for the greatest gratification of hate. I braced every muscle for this sweet, nefarious act. And I advanced.

Charles Lee, these are your charges. I hereby sentence you to death.