UPDATE: For some reason, this was all in bold when I published this. Fixed now!
Psst!
Hey, reader: I know you probably hate me by now. This is the twenty-sixth chapter and — if you hadn't noticed — each of the three parts of Everbound consist of twenty-six chapters.
There will be a finemezzo and an epilogue, so don't think this is the very last instalment!
I suppose this is the perfect opportunity to thank everyone for making this the 44th most-reviewed fic of the 7,000 in the Assassin's Creed fandom :O (I know right?! I couldn't believe it either!) I value every single follow, favourite, review and PM I have received writing this fic over the last two years (three, if you count You Have My Word as well). I'm so lucky to have landed myself in one of the most supportive fandom networks and being able to make this many friends through writing and doing what I love.
I can't thank you enough.
Are you emotionally ready? Good. Are you sitting comfortably? Good. Here goes...
ONE MINUTE
At Ziio's words, a new kind of calm fills their entrapment. No longer the dull din of death; no longer the agony of their horrific injuries.
Acceptance.
The flames create a now softening warmth: a paradox, about to scorch their skins but soothe their souls. The smoke shields them in a mystical haze; the blood gushes from Haytham's spleen, splashing his hands and neck with the colour they've lost...and he knows he is complete.
How could this be? Ziio wonders. Head spinning, foot throbbing, she looks into his eyes. No longer does she mourn the light he's lost: she sees how angelic he can be even without it.
She reaches for his blood-soaked hand, slipping it into hers. "I lost you once, Haytham. I found you again. I lost you again, found you...and I will not lose you again. I am meant to die with you."
The weight of her words forces a tear from her cheek. It splashes on Haytham's heaving chest; connects with the heartbeat it weeps for. All the anger, all the panic and all the grief has vanished from both of their faces. Finally, there is nothing between them. Finally, no allegiance or wicked man or long period of time can threaten them. They have come so far — built a love so strong — that even in death, it is beautiful.
Because it is only Haytham and Ziio. Nothing else.
Haytham lifts his head to cradle it in her lap. He wonders if Ziio was right all these years about fate and destiny, but is in far too much pain to consider it. Simply, he murmurs: "Sounds like fate...I don't believe in fate."
Ziio's eyes divert to the flame: it has already spread around half the wall, fatally close to the barrels of gunpowder in the corner. If the worst comes to it, she devises a quick plan...but returns to the thoughtful, inky eyes she fell in love with. Her silver hair forms a frame around his face. "Do you believe in me?"
"Of course."
"Then, you do believe in fate. You always have." The woman shifts onto her less painful side to lie down next to him. Placing a hand over his open wound, she breathes: "I am your fate."
As the pieces slowly click into place in Haytham Kenway's head, they lie in silence. He knows not how many breaths he has left; how many words he has left...but he does not want to waste a single one. He closes his eyes and — as the pain stabs and weakens him — forgets that it was Charles to cause their deaths. He remembers what he and this courageous, goodhearted, pure woman have achieved together. Stability. Morality. Connor. Aaron and Alexa...
Suddenly Haytham jerks — and Ziio gasps in surprise. "What? Are you alright? What is it?" she demands worriedly.
Made feeble by this sharp movement, he struggles: "Children. Connor...he'll come looking..."
The same image flashes through Ziio's mind: the blaze that kills them burning horrors into Ratohnhaké:ton's skull. The trauma unfolding in Imala and Ohitekah's faces, as they are told they will never again see their parents. She closes her eyes, trying not to let the heaviness of it all add to her physical wreck...and knows she will stay with them. She and Haytham will forever be there to guide them; to protect them.
They have the hearts of warriors.
And as for Ratohnhaké:ton: would he come looking? If he does, she knows that he will add to the casualties. He will be among the number who die.
"No," she sighs, "he won't."
Ziio knows what she must do: it is the only way to end their suffering now. She pulls herself to sitting with her elbows, inhaling lungs full of smoke in the process. Through pungent coughs and chokes, she limps her way to the corner of their tiny entrapment. Her fingers grace the barrel like a coy flirt with death. Her heart begins to race in the knowledge: there will be no pain now. No pain for either of them.
She may be weak, but her muscles remain. Ziio rolls the wooden barrel onto its side; she places it beside Haytham. The flame is now towering; overwhelming, like the thick cloud of dark smoke.
She has to be quick, else they will begin to suffer.
"Are you afraid?" Haytham asks.
"No," she replies. "Death is our oldest friend."
Something must have moved from above, for the violent fire spews a sudden jet of smoke. Haytham's lungs immediately fight back; they force him to cough and splutter and take off yet another minute of what would be his life. Ziio is quick to his aid: cooing and holding him upright in her arms. When he is finally still, she sits him further up to hear his frail voice.
"Ziio? Th-thank you."
"For what?"
"Giving me...everything. Never thought I'd have...devotion...children...salvation..."
"Salvation?" A shiver runs through Ziio's body as Haytham strokes her cheek. It is the same way he did when they kissed for the first time...and now, the last. She holds her lover's face up to her own, and the sincerity shines like a thousand lakes. She kisses his soft lips for the final time, holding him in her arms for what seems like a lifetime. "You have done the unthinkable for me."
"I...love you..." And his lips hardly move: the breaths in his body are dying away.
"I love you, too..." Ziio takes a deep breath, blinks, and tears herself away from the depths of his eyes. "Are you ready?"
She needs no answer. Refusing to let Haytham go, she reaches for the barrel with her trembling foot. It shakes only with effort, not with fear: this is how she hoped she would die. Not in fire, but in love.
One...
In vain, she curls her entire body around Haytham to protect him from the blast.
Two...
Her very last thought as she closes her eyes — prepares to kick into the fire — is of fulfilment. Of family. Of fate.
My greatest source of strength —
Three.
— was not my downfall.
Tumblr: nothing-lesss (three 's'es)