Chapter Text
As much as he tried, Desmond just couldn't get past this one memory. It wasn't that he couldn't fight, or that he couldn't synchronize with Connor. Just that every time he tried, he began flailing until Rebecca had to rescue her Animus from his wild punches, and he generally wound up falling on the floor and vomiting until the dizziness, double vision, and severe neck pain subsided. After the second day in a row he had ended up tucked into bed feeling like he'd suffered a concussion and a double handful of broken ribs, Rebecca had tentatively suggested that he revisit an older memory to get him back into the swing of being Connor. Desmond agreed fervently, and was more than relieved to open his eyes and see the sunlit ocean from the deck of the Aquila.
Desmond/Connor nudged the wheel of the ship to the left, eyed the compass, and turned a little more to port.
"Are you sure that this is the right heading?" came an all too familiar heckling voice. Desmond practically groaned.
"Yes, father, I have made sure of it."
"Tch. If you say so."
Desmond could feel Connor clenching his hands with frustration. But the Assassin bit his own tongue and confined himself to remarking coldly, "I do say so.... Did you sleep well last night, father?"
Haytham was idly eating an apple off his hidden blade. "Not really, actually."
There was silence for a moment. Sweet, sweet silence, apart from the creak of sails and the sound of chewing.
"There's no need to gloat in silence about my troubled sleep."
"Father, it is only what you deserve for your actions as a Templar. And for someone who is always criticizing my supposed lack of 'proper British table manners'--"
"I am not criticizing, I simply want you to have an easier time of it amongst the colonists, you deserve a place there as much as among your mother's people--"
"--I cannot help but think that spraying little bits of your breakfast all over someone is hardly the height of manners, not to mention using a murder weapon to eat with--"
"--when did you become so squeamish, son? Was it before or after you used YOUR blades to clean and skin those hares for dinner last week?"
"I did not notice you complaining about roast hare for dinner, nor about the pelts that kept your aged feet warm that night."
"Aged?!"
"Yes, old man, you are over fifty, are you not?"
Haytham scoffed and turned to make his way back to his cabin. Desmond breathed the sign of relief Connor would not allow himself to.
The day wore on without further incident, other than Connor seeing a pod of dolphins leaping through the choppy surf nearby. The wind had picked up, they were making good time, and best of all, Haytham was in his cabin, sulking or plotting evil or playing faro with himself or whatever it was that he did all alone in the cramped wooden room. Whatever he was up to, it was definitely good for his health. Connor had never keelhauled anyone nor forced them to walk the plank, but sometimes he wished he could be just a little crueler to his father.
Desmond was slipping into sleep and out of sync. His mind wandered--literally meandered below deck and into Haytham's cabin, where the older man had been writing in his journal, and was now dozing on the narrow bunk. In the dim light of late afternoon--Haytham's cabin faced the east and was now deep in shadow, and he had not yet lit the hurricane lamp hanging from the ceiling--the carefully sketched design in the open journal caught Desmond's eye.
"What the..." he whispered, moving closer. It was a perfect picture of the tattoo on his own arm. He squinted at the writing beside it, wishing he had a little more light for dealing with his ancestor's copperplate script.
For some Years I have had a Repeated Dream of a Boy, or rather young Man, who has been Restrained in something like an instrument of Torture. Yet where the Iron Maiden and others produce Pain of a chiefly Physical aspect, this Chair or bed seems to torture the Brain and Heart. I have seen it cause a Fit in him, and I am Suspicious that it is inducing him to Kill. I do not think he is a murderer at Heart, I do believe that its malign Influence is causing him to contradict his Nature.
I have not had many Dreams of his Plight in many Years; they were nearly Constant for a year while I was unwittingly courting Ziio, then stopped after she banished me from her Arms. Since then they have Returned only when I have been in the Presence of my Son, however briefly. I was Stunned to see Connor on the roof at the Boston massacre, because at First I thought him this young Man. And in Bridewell prison, although it was obvious to me that I beheld my own Son and not this other Child, I knew also that the facial Resemblance is Great.
And so I have many more Questions than Answers. I know not who this man is, nor if he is any relation to me. I know not where he is Imprisoned, nor the nature of the Tortures being inflicted on him. And I know not how to Help him.
Desmond's head reeled. Was this true? He stared minutely at the page. Yes, it was! Haytham really HAD dotted the i's in Ziio's name with teeny tiny hearts! What was he, 12 years old?!