☩ – ❝Wisdom comes with experience.❞
You’re being impractical. The Grand Master thinks. Nearly says. Had Shay danced with the Devil years from now, Haytham would lose his peace of mind & SPEAK those dreadful, cursed words. Politeness compels him to refrain. He knows what it means to wage a war with yourself, dwelling on past regrets that manifest itself as a disease that infiltrates your marrow, your bones, your pores, your cells & makes you into a hollow being that reinvents itself as a marionette, playing to the Templar party. He nods & the bob mimics the steady rise & fall of the Morrigan combating the sea’s waves. She’s a mistress that wills them to endure. Wayward sons to carry on aboard this path that leads to– what? Glory? Betrayal? Corruption?
Kenways do not beg. Haytham will not grovel, but it’s the closest he will come with the sharp coldness that cuts into his voice & there’s something else – a fresh pain that T-T-TWISTS itself into something sinister. This is how he protects himself.
‘ NEED YOU WHOLE. ’ i. --- station your soles amongst unsteady faultlines that tremble with the clatter of memory & SILENCE the chattering teeth. ii. -- - - - shed littoral repose. iii. -- -- - rive the earth with your falchion & sea - bearing war cry until you are cemented in minds as BRANDISH’D ACROLITH. ( right now i am a tumbleweed of lines struggling to straighten themselves , the whistling / naked psithurism of winter & the bad habit of chainsmoking tragedy. how can i be whole when pieces of myself are stored in the cicatrized hearts of those too heavy to be buried? ) he moves like he is full of rainwater , a banished wolf , commissures crack’d by rusting brigandine that’s seen too many bruising / incarnadined midnights. he just wants to sink into another whiskey’d morass.
there should be an apology , netted in the in betweens of this moment , in the froth of sea foam & nubivagant ether , in the rugose edges of fables - cut - too - short , but it is unable to be exhumed , & drowns in memory’s basins long fossilized.
he is cut from the sapwood of rebellion, of ugly paroxysms, & knows not silence’s covenant / the monotonous footfall & somnolence of FRORE / BOREAL PALADIN. “AYE. so i can be your puppet. that it?”
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