Charles opened his eyes, annoyed at the disturbance. He rolled over when he realised Haytham wasn't with him. The scratching continued. In the darkest, furthermost corner Charles spotted his master, crouched, a bucket in front of him. Haytham was rubbing something over his hands. A damp cloth, maybe. It was hard to tell.
Rising with only the slowest movements - Haytham was occasionally still jumpy - Charles slipped from the bed and padded across the room. Something wet his foot. Haytham's body jerked, twisted away. Continued to scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
"He was innocent," said Connor.
Lee realised that Connor's hands were glistening with blood and water, the scraping was a flat stone, wriggled loose from the cabin wall and rubbed over his hands and arms. The wetness under his foot was a smudge of blood.
"He betrayed us," said Lee.
"He betrayed you. He was innocent."
Connor scraped at his arms. Leaning forward, Lee snatched at the rock, growling when Connor yanked it away.
"Sir, give it to me."
"No."
There was a brief scuffle, Connor trying to sweep Lee's legs from underneath him, but missing, and Lee carefully grabbing his upper arms and dragging him out of the corner. Blood smeared across the floor, and hands covered in scratches and abrasions clutched at Lee's nightshirt, petals of red blossoming across it. He ducked the hand attempting to bring the stone down on his head.
"The tailor did not have to die!" screamed Connor.
"Neither did the Inner Circle," replied Charles.
"They were dishonest and disloyal men. They only thought of their own greed."
"William Johnson would have saved your village," said Lee quietly.
With a scream, Connor smashed one hand to the side of Lee's face. Lee recoiled, touching his face briefly, before finally forcing the stone from Connor's hand. Then he twisted Connor's arms to fold over his chest and shouted to the guards to fetch the doctor.
***
The smell of toasted bread and butter woke Duncan. Stephane was already up, crunching his way through a thick slice with cheese. A tray of food was on his bed, including apples, porridge and more toast. The domesticity of it all almost made Duncan forget the horrors of the week he had been through.
"I do not want you to talk," said Stephane. "But I will need you to talk. Eat, and tell me what happened."
Duncan poured himself some milk and took the porridge. He didn't want to talk, true. If he could, he would box it away forever, but there was more than his life on the line. For the greater good.
The porridge was gluggy and it stuck to the roof of his mouth, but Duncan supposed it was his churning stomach that made it difficult to eat. He didn't think he could swallow it but he did, eventually. The last of the porridge was washed away with a swig of milk. With a rattling sigh, Duncan put his mug down.
"Haytham Kenway is alive," he said slowly.
"What? But we saw his body, he is dead! This was -"
"Haytham is alive in Connor. I don't know how he managed it but Lee has manipulated Connor into believing that he is Haytham. I tried to find Connor - someone had spread the information that a Captain Davenport was being held in an encampment a few days ride from New York, so I followed the trail. They caught me as I managed to break the lock on the cabin he was supposed to be in."
Duncan took another mouthful of milk, feeling quite ill. Stephane watched him and reached to pat his comrade's knee. It jerked away. Duncan wasn't ready to be touched.
"And then they put me in a cell. Then he - he came with Connor. Lee came with Connor and he sounded exactly like Haytham but his eyes were wrong, they were Connor's eyes in Haytham's body. But it was Haytham that spoke to me, stared me down. And I was a child again, waiting for him to leave so I could scream for help."
He lowered his head.
"I begged like a child for Connor to take hold of his senses. They linked their arm with Lee and walked away. Connor is dead, Stephane."
"Nothing is written," said Stephane. "We can unpick the threads of deceit."
Numbly, Duncan nodded, and he tried to eat some more before they left the inn for another full day of riding. It tasted like sawdust.
*** Haytham inspected his bandaged arms with detached interest. He picked at a loose thread and sighed. Books were scattered around the room, half-read. The guards shifted as he stood, under strict instructions not to allow Connor to rise to the surface.
But he was bored. Especially so after his first kill in months. He hadn't liked doing it, but what sort of example would he be setting if he'd let the man go free? No, it was for the greater good of the Templar Order that he had executed Babbington. But he had enjoyed being in action, chasing down the Assassins. They had escaped this time, but Haytham doubted they would come back soon.
Grief's Madness 9/? (TW: self harm)
Scratch.
A moan.
Charles opened his eyes, annoyed at the disturbance. He rolled over when he realised Haytham wasn't with him. The scratching continued. In the darkest, furthermost corner Charles spotted his master, crouched, a bucket in front of him. Haytham was rubbing something over his hands. A damp cloth, maybe. It was hard to tell.
Rising with only the slowest movements - Haytham was occasionally still jumpy - Charles slipped from the bed and padded across the room. Something wet his foot. Haytham's body jerked, twisted away. Continued to scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
"He was innocent," said Connor.
Lee realised that Connor's hands were glistening with blood and water, the scraping was a flat stone, wriggled loose from the cabin wall and rubbed over his hands and arms. The wetness under his foot was a smudge of blood.
"He betrayed us," said Lee.
"He betrayed you. He was innocent."
Connor scraped at his arms. Leaning forward, Lee snatched at the rock, growling when Connor yanked it away.
"Sir, give it to me."
"No."
There was a brief scuffle, Connor trying to sweep Lee's legs from underneath him, but missing, and Lee carefully grabbing his upper arms and dragging him out of the corner. Blood smeared across the floor, and hands covered in scratches and abrasions clutched at Lee's nightshirt, petals of red blossoming across it. He ducked the hand attempting to bring the stone down on his head.
"The tailor did not have to die!" screamed Connor.
"Neither did the Inner Circle," replied Charles.
"They were dishonest and disloyal men. They only thought of their own greed."
"William Johnson would have saved your village," said Lee quietly.
With a scream, Connor smashed one hand to the side of Lee's face. Lee recoiled, touching his face briefly, before finally forcing the stone from Connor's hand. Then he twisted Connor's arms to fold over his chest and shouted to the guards to fetch the doctor.
***
The smell of toasted bread and butter woke Duncan. Stephane was already up, crunching his way through a thick slice with cheese. A tray of food was on his bed, including apples, porridge and more toast. The domesticity of it all almost made Duncan forget the horrors of the week he had been through.
"I do not want you to talk," said Stephane. "But I will need you to talk. Eat, and tell me what happened."
Duncan poured himself some milk and took the porridge. He didn't want to talk, true. If he could, he would box it away forever, but there was more than his life on the line. For the greater good.
The porridge was gluggy and it stuck to the roof of his mouth, but Duncan supposed it was his churning stomach that made it difficult to eat. He didn't think he could swallow it but he did, eventually. The last of the porridge was washed away with a swig of milk. With a rattling sigh, Duncan put his mug down.
"Haytham Kenway is alive," he said slowly.
"What? But we saw his body, he is dead! This was -"
"Haytham is alive in Connor. I don't know how he managed it but Lee has manipulated Connor into believing that he is Haytham. I tried to find Connor - someone had spread the information that a Captain Davenport was being held in an encampment a few days ride from New York, so I followed the trail. They caught me as I managed to break the lock on the cabin he was supposed to be in."
Duncan took another mouthful of milk, feeling quite ill. Stephane watched him and reached to pat his comrade's knee. It jerked away. Duncan wasn't ready to be touched.
"And then they put me in a cell. Then he - he came with Connor. Lee came with Connor and he sounded exactly like Haytham but his eyes were wrong, they were Connor's eyes in Haytham's body. But it was Haytham that spoke to me, stared me down. And I was a child again, waiting for him to leave so I could scream for help."
He lowered his head.
"I begged like a child for Connor to take hold of his senses. They linked their arm with Lee and walked away. Connor is dead, Stephane."
"Nothing is written," said Stephane. "We can unpick the threads of deceit."
Numbly, Duncan nodded, and he tried to eat some more before they left the inn for another full day of riding. It tasted like sawdust.
***
Haytham inspected his bandaged arms with detached interest. He picked at a loose thread and sighed. Books were scattered around the room, half-read. The guards shifted as he stood, under strict instructions not to allow Connor to rise to the surface.
But he was bored. Especially so after his first kill in months. He hadn't liked doing it, but what sort of example would he be setting if he'd let the man go free? No, it was for the greater good of the Templar Order that he had executed Babbington. But he had enjoyed being in action, chasing down the Assassins. They had escaped this time, but Haytham doubted they would come back soon.