He felt Edward shudder against him and scowled. It was not Edward who inspired
such anger, but Reginald, and Reginald was dead. Raging against a grave was
unhealthy, he knew from experience, but here he was, wishing that he could dig
up Birch’s bones and set them ablaze, watch them crumble to ashes. For a moment,
he felt nothing but that white hot rage in his throat, searing hard enough for his eyes
to water ( they weren’t tears; Haytham had never cried in his life, to the best of his
memory, and he certainly wouldn’t weep for his fallen master ), and he considered
the harm that he could do. With all of his learning, all of his influence as Birch’s
foster child, he could rip the British Rite apart. He could send it to the bottom of the
sea if he so desired. He could do to it all that had been done to his father and more.
That is not rational, Haytham, nor is it fair. Reginald’s voice – not the groan of the
older man impaled on the end of his blade, but the Reginald of old, of Queen Anne’s
Square, of the opera house and evenings at White’s accompanied by failed attempts
at wooing Jenny – ripped through his mind with as much pain as though someone
had abruptly shoved a spike into his skull. He swallowed a keen and bowed to the
truth as the headache leveled out into steady throbbing: he was as devoted to the
cause as ever, reassured, now, that he could remove all imperfections from the
world. After all, Edward ( his sun, his stars ! ) was alive, and Reginald, the cancer on
the Templar Order, obsessed only with his own gain and those damned Precursor
Sites, was dead. All was right, justice had been done by his hand. Who better than
he, then, to lead this Rite to greater heights? With his father by his side, he could
do it. They could make a better world – a New World Order. Eyes sparkling with
eagerness, he adjusted his hold on Edward, keeping him upright and beaming at
him in turn. He could see every one of the Englishman’s ribs, and it chilled him to
the bone even in the warm sunlight, but he forced himself to hold the smile and
caught Edward as he stumbled, pulling him along. “If you would like it to be. Come,
we shall return to England and see you well again. There is a carriage waiting in
town. You only have to walk that far. I will help you.”
There was no more chipper smile folded between his lips, nor a mischievous glint in his dull eyes. His face no longer sparked from the fires of warmth at Haytham’s touch--for this touch was not like it had been when tiny arms would wrap around the old man’s neck countless times through both day and night. Edward no longer leaned against his son; rather the shell of Edward James Kenway hung off the Templar. If only the man who had done this to him was on his mind, he would be able to focus on the flames of hatred and feed them ‘til the fires burned bright. Instead, Edward fought for survival, clutching onto his life by hairs. He was a skeleton, not a man--a bleached, brittle, disfigured creature that he was sure Haytham merely had the heart to help. Having been dragged from hell, it only made sense that the older man looked as though he had spawned from such an evil place.
Edward did not want to budge any further. Those few steps on legs that had not been used for so long made them ache, causing them to buckle beneath him, nearly sending both Kenways into the dirt. Silent, even as Haytham spoke, it occured to Edward that this was not how he wanted his son to see him. The boy was the one he was meant to set an example for--to be an idol to. This was no footstep to follow. Feebly, the blonde--who’s hair had grown silvery and blackened with dirt-- attempted to pull out of Haytham’s grasp, to try and stumble his way away where the younger man could not see him in such a state. He was shattered, and the last thing he wanted was to have his son; his own flesh, blood, and beloved, pierce himself on his shards. Had he known the turmoil this sent Haytham’s mind through, Edward would not have focused on his own selfish woes.Mirroring his son’s smile on a far more damaged and indented visage, Edward picked himself up with the help he was given, looking longingly to the carriage in the distance. “People will see me like this,” he slurred, “may... I rest? Once we are in there? How far from... home are we?”
